“Dear me, yes, of course, you can be like the little yellow chicken, Phronsie,” promised Polly, bursting into a merry laugh, and throwing her arms around her again, quite in dismay at the tear. “Now, then, just think, Phronsie, how cunning he was when he hopped all around after his mother, and—”
“Just like this,” laughed Phronsie, her tears all gone; and tumbling to all fours, she began to bob over the kitchen floor as a very fat, yellow chicken would be supposed to get along on its quite new little legs.
“Hah—hah!” scud,—scud, scamper,—and two boys came bounding in. “See Phronsie!” screamed Joel to little David, who came plunging after.
“I’m Mrs. Henderson’s little yellow chicken,” announced Phronsie, lifting a flushed face, and having very hard work to keep her pink apron from tripping her up.
“Hoh,—hoh, come on, Dave,” screamed Joel, flinging himself flat on the floor; “we’ll be the old hens. No, I’m going to be the rooster. Cock-a-doodle-doo!” With that he gave a terrible crow, and sprawled after Phronsie.
Little David, who very much wished to be the rooster, smothered a sigh, and immediately became one of Mrs. Henderson’s old gray hens. And being perfectly familiar with their proceedings from the many visits the children had been allowed to make to the parsonage hen-coop, he was soon clucking at a great rate, and following Joel and Phronsie about till the old kitchen rang with the noise of a farm-yard.
“Goodness me!” cried Polly, turning away from the dish-pan where she was trying to believe the water was hot enough to make the dishes as nice as usual. “Oh, what fun!” She rested her hands for a moment on the rim. Dear me, didn’t she just long to be down on the floor, and be an old hen with the others rampaging around the kitchen! But Mamsie was coming soon, and there were those basting-threads,—and beside, the dish-water would then be cold as a stone. It would never do to even think of it. So she flew back again, and made a great bustle with the cups and bowls and spoons trying to shut out the delightful noise. This was the reason she didn’t hear what followed.
“Oh, whickets!” Joel couldn’t help saying what Mamsie had reproved him for. Here was what looked like a piece of cake. It couldn’t be, really, for cake didn’t come to the Pepper household often enough to be found on the floor. But it surely looked like it; and Joel lost sight of the fact that he was a rooster, and rubbed his eyes. Yes, it surely was, and white cake, too, with even a bit of sugar frosting clinging to it. And yes, really and truly, there was half a raisin hiding in the corner. And Joel forgot still more that he was Mrs. Henderson’s rooster, and he sat down and gobbled up the bit, wishing that his farm-yard would always yield such rich pickings. If it would, he’d be willing to be a rooster forever.
“Let’s play Mrs. Henderson is going to feed us now,” David was saying, over in the other corner, to the little yellow chicken.
“Yes,” gurgled Phronsie, in delight; forgetting how tired she was, if only Mrs. Henderson was going to give them all their breakfast, and beginning to hop again.