“Look at Joel,” cried Davie, pointing a finger over where the rooster still sat, absorbed in the delightful memory of swallowing that cake-bit. Then the old gray hen flapped over there followed with very uneven plunges by the little yellow chicken who tried desperately to keep up. “We’re going to have some corn,” he shouted. “Hurry up, Joe, Mrs. Henderson’s coming with our breakfast.”
Joel at that was brought to. “Huh!” he sniffed, “I’ve had cake,” just as Phronsie came tumbling up, a very sorry looking, hot little chicken. She heard the word “cake.” “Oh, Joel,” she cried in a pleased little voice, and, trying to sit straight, only succeeded in rolling over in a heap. Both boys hopped over to her and pulled her up.
“Oh, where is it, Joey?” she cried, holding out both hands.
“Where’s what?” cried Joel, “—oh, the corn. Come on, Dave, Mrs. Henderson’s calling us. Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Away he hopped, and David, supposing Phronsie in the merry chase, hopped after, flapping his wings and calling to his chickens in just that motherly way he had admired so often in the parsonage old gray hens. Phronsie left alone, sat quite straight for a moment, then, despairing of being heard in the babel, began to search diligently for the precious cake-bit, that had been slowly saved till the last, because of that very corner of frosting and that half a raisin.
“Where’s Phronsie?” cried David, missing her from the corn breakfast. Joel whirled around, sending keen glances over the old kitchen. “There she is,” spying her pink apron back of Mamsie’s big calico-covered rocking-chair. “Come on, Phron,” he called.
Phronsie put out a worried little face around the calico valance. “I can’t find it,” she said.
“She’s lost something,” said Davie. With that he forgot he was an old gray hen, and sprang to his feet and ran over. Joel preferred to still be a rooster, so he hopped after, reaching the spot to hear David say, “She says she’s lost some cake.”
“Cake?” cried Joel, tumbling back to sit on his heels, and his black eyes stuck out.
“Yes,” said Davie, but he looked puzzled enough. “Oh, Phronsie, when did you have any cake?” he demanded incredulously. “We never have cake, you know. You’re playing.”
“No,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head very positively; “I did have some, really and truly. Polly gave it to me, and I lost it.” With that she began to feel carefully along the depths of the chair valance.