“I’ll find it,” said the boy, and he gave a twitch to the dirty calico gown, and picked up the end of a corn-cob, where it had fallen down in the folds of the old quilt. “There.” And he crammed it into the roaring mouth, when the two little hands, wildly pawing the air, seized it again. “I put some molasses on to it,” he explained, as the baby began to suck it in great content. But she didn’t take her big eyes from Phronsie’s face.
“Oh, Polly!” cried Phronsie, rapturously, “I want her, I do, for my very own baby—”
“Well, you can have her,” said the small boy; “I’ll give her to you.”
“Oh, will you—will you?” cried Phronsie, hopping up from the dirty floor, in a transport. Then she clapped her hands. “Polly, he’ll give her to me,” she cried, her cheeks very pink.
“Oh, Phronsie,” cried Polly, “he can’t give her to you.”
“Yes, I can, too. You don’t know anything about it, you girl, you!” retorted the boy. “She’s my sister, an’ I guess I can give her away if I want to. You may have her,” turning to Phronsie.
“He did say so, Polly, he did.” Phronsie, now quite overcome with delight, began to hop up and down, singing, “She’s my baby—she’s my baby!”
“You’re a bad boy,” said Polly, severely, “to want to give away your sister.”
“No, I ain’t bad either,” said the boy, sturdily. “I’m goin’ fishin’, an’ I don’t like that baby, an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to stay home an’ take care of her, so there.” And without another word, he sprang out of the old shed, seized a snarl of fishing-tackle on the ground just beside the door, and although Polly called with all her might, he jumped over the broken fence, and raced off.
“Now, whatever shall we do!” cried Polly, in great vexation. Phronsie neither heard nor saw anything but the baby, who was giving unmistakable signs of the most complete enjoyment in her old corn-cob.