And Polly spun along to the little old cupboard in the corner, the whole troop at her heels, to inspect the precious materials. The flour had been measured out certainly a week or more, and there it stood in the bag in the old yellow pudding-dish. Everything was in readiness. There was the lard near by in a cracked bowl, and to the five pairs of happy, expectant eyes directed to these festive preparations, no sight could have been more delightful.
“Well, children,” said Polly, as she shut the cupboard door fast with an important air, “we must get up early in the morning, there’ll be so much to do. Now, Phronsie, it’s time for you to go to bed.”
“Oh, no, I’m not one bit tired,” protested Phronsie, in an injured tone. But while Polly went to bring the little flannel nightgown to undress her by the kitchen fire, Phronsie’s little yellow head bobbed ominously, and she nearly fell off her stool, so that Ben had to carry her in his arms into the bedroom, after all.
All this while, in the thick dreary November twilight, the old gray goose and the black chicken were talking busily. The old goose was so jealous and determined to make the last hours of the chicken very miserable, that she dilated at length and with great exactness on the dreadful fate that awaited him on the morrow; and painted in fearful words the awful ending of being baked in pieces in a pie!
“I’ve seen ’em!” she declared, with the air of one who knew what she was talking about. “Year after year, hens and chickens, yes, and geese, too, stepping around in the morning, oh, so happy and smart, and then at evening they would go past here to market all stiff and stark, with their heads off, and Mr. Brown’s boy holding ’em by their legs! All for pies, and so that people may eat themselves sick. And they call that a Thanksgiving!”
How the chicken shook! It almost fell from its perch; but it was very dark, so the old goose couldn’t see very well. Shanghai wouldn’t, for all the world, have had her jealousy rewarded by a sight of the terror she had inspired, so he controlled himself like a brave little fellow, and although his heart was beating dreadfully, he commanded his voice enough to ask, “Well, why weren’t you, then, baked in a pie along with the others?”
“What,—why—well,” stammered the goose, “they were going to kill me time and again, but, well, the fact is, they thought so much of me they couldn’t bear to.”
In spite of its fright, the black chicken couldn’t help laughing softly to himself as he sat there on the rail.
“Well, come, you’d better go to bed,” snapped the old goose; “they’ll come for you bright and early in the morning. I heard ’em saying so.”
“In that case,” declared the black chicken, drawing himself up on his long legs, “they won’t find me here; that’s all I’ve got to say.”