“Now that’s a good child,” said Ben, with an approving pat on her pink apron.
“And when they are done,” said Polly, waving the bread-pan on her way to the oven, “we’ll—”
“Take care, Polly,” warned Ben, “or you’ll spill them—”
“Why, we’ll spread them all out and have our party, and eat them all up,” sang Polly, gayly; “but first we must clean all our baking things away.”
VI
THE LITTLE WHITE CAT
PHRONSIE was crying bitterly. Everything had gone wrong in the Little Brown House that morning. In the first place, it was snowing,—not a cheery, white fluffy shower, but a sour, comfortless downpour just on the edge of becoming a drizzling rain, that sent the chill in between the clapboards and under the old door-sill, and made Polly run every few minutes to put more wood in the stove. And as luck would have it, this was the very morning when the stock in the wood-box ran low. Ben, just before he hurried off to work, told Joel to be sure and fill it up, but Joel, frantic with delight at the approach of what he persisted in calling a snow-storm, had rushed off with little Davie, dragging their home-made sled of rough boards merrily after them, and forgot all about it.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Polly, in vexation, as she poked the fire up and put on a fresh stick; “there are only two more left,” with an anxious glance into the big box back of the stove.
“I’m so cold,” said Phronsie, laying Seraphina down on the floor and coming up to Polly, and she held up her fat little hands.
“Goodness me, so you are, Pet,” said Polly, feeling of them in great concern; “well, you must have on Mamsie’s shawl.”
So Polly ran into the bedroom, Phronsie following quickly, and humming: “I must have on Mamsie’s shawl. Yes, I am, Polly, so cold”—in great glee at the mere mention of Mamsie’s shawl.