The box of feathers was out in the woodshed, and carefully guarded as a great treasure, ready for just such a grand dressing-up as this company would require.
There were several beautiful ones that the roosters in neighboring barn-yards had discarded, to be eagerly seized by Joel and David. And one or two whole chicken wings, given by the parson’s wife for the collection. And oh, best of all! two long, soft, flying ones, from Grandma Bascom’s old feather duster that she was throwing away, and that Polly had run home with.
“Aren’t these splendid,” she had cried, waving them triumphantly, as she dashed into the kitchen.
“Whickets!” screamed Joel, “oh, give them to me. I want them, Polly,” making a dash for them.
“No, you won’t, Joe,” declared Polly, holding them high, “they must go into our feather box.” And Ben, who happened to be on hand at that moment, seized them and carried them off to put them in safety. For, once in the “Feather Box,” no marauding fingers ever disturbed them, the three smallest little Peppers being in duty bound never to raise the lid until Polly or Ben said so.
“I know,” said Polly, when Ben said, “There’s the feathers,” “but we can’t dress up much in them.” And her face, by this time, looked gloomy enough.
“Polly,” said Ben, who couldn’t bear to see her look so, “see here, don’t you know how you pinched up a hat for Joel to play soldier with? Why can’t you do some more?”
“But we don’t want to be soldiers for company,” said Polly, turning a surprised look on him that didn’t lighten the gloom a bit.
“But, don’t you see,” Ben whirled on her eagerly, “you can pinch up the paper into ever so many different shapes and stick the feathers in, and they’ll be beautiful hats, Polly.”
Polly stared at him out of her brown eyes. Then she seized his hands. “Oh, Ben, so I can,” she cried, dreadfully excited. “I never thought of that, and we can have as many hats and bonnets as we want.”