“You’ve given it to me!” repeated Polly, in amazement, and her hands trembled so that the old shawl shook dreadfully.
“You’ve given it to Polly!” screamed Joel, huddling up to Grandma. “O my jiminy!”
Ben was not less excited, and the delighted babel that they all now set up pleased Grandma very much. She beamed at them all under the nodding frills of her cap border. “Yes, I’ve give it to Polly,” she said. “It’s got moth holes, and I sh’d be ashamed to wear it with them in; Ma never did. So Polly shall keep it to dress up in.” And despite all the pressing invitations to stay and be part of the company to receive, Grandma waddled off down the lane to see to her hens and other necessary work left undone.
It was about a half-hour after this. The old kitchen presented a very dignified aspect, suited for such a ceremonious occasion as it was presently to be the scene of. There on the table was spread the feast, two plates of little brown biscuits baked as nice as any one could ever want, and on Mother Pepper’s best blue willow saucer was half of the blackberry jelly. It had lopped down one side a bit, to be sure, as Polly turned it out of the glass, which was a great grief to her, but as Ben wisely suggested, “It will taste just as good, Polly,” she tried to be comforted. And next to it was the row of mugs and cups of the blackberry juice, nice and pink where it had been pieced out with plentiful additions of water. Could anything be more magnificent!
And in front of the table spread with this feast was the row of entertainers, all obliged to turn their backs, because Joel would stare at the refreshments, and Polly said that was not polite, for he ought to look at the company.
Phronsie sat on her little stool in the middle, or as near as she could get to it, being between Ben and Joel, and little Davie was at the very end, and each head was graced with the most remarkable structure of hat or bonnet, from which floated, or stuck straight upright, as the case might be, some feather or a chicken wing drawn from their treasured box.
Polly was to be company first, and she now stood before the row, perfectly resplendent in a tall newspaper hat, from which perked out a rooster feather, and the yellow old embroidered shawl that Grandma Bascom’s Pa had brought from the Indies, drawn across her shoulders. It had required all Ben’s best skill to persuade the sprig of flowers to run where it should, and he tried several times to get it right, as Polly couldn’t see her own back.
“It isn’t exactly straight,” he confessed at last, and pausing with a very red face, “but it doesn’t matter, Polly.”
“Oh, it must be straight,” said Polly, feeling that it would be an awful thing if Grandma Bascom’s shawl didn’t look the same as when Ma wore it. “Do try again, Ben.”