“And, oh, Ben, you can’t think how perfectly elegant the crust is going to be! Mamsie, now, don’t I know?” and Polly began a rapid jargon of the directions her mother had given her of the way they made chicken pies when she was a girl.
Poor woman! Very few had come in her way during her married life. Thankful enough was she when bread and milk were plentiful; and of late years mush and brown bread took the place of more elaborate fare.
“Oh, and I say,” broke in Joel, “I’m going to have the wishbone—so there!”
“No, you mustn’t, Joel; Davie’s younger,” said Polly, decisively.
“Well, Phronsie’s youngest,” retorted Joel.
“Yes, you’re right there,” declared Ben. “Phronsie, you’re the girl for the wishbone. Do you hear, Puss, and you must wish with me,” tossing her up in the air.
“No, no, I spoke for you, Phronsie,” screamed Joel. “Say you’ll wish with me.”
“What is it, Ben?” said little Phronsie; “what is a wissbone?”
“Oh, you little goose,” began Joel, but Polly gave him a pinch to make him stop.
“Let her alone, Joel,” said she. “Phronsie, you’ll see when Thanksgiving comes, and that’s next week. Come and see, now, if the flour is all right.”