“I want to play ‘Ring around—a—rosy,’” cried Joel, in a loud voice.
“Ring a—round—a rosy,” sang Polly, skipping off bravely. “Take care, Phronsie;” for Phronsie’s gaze was fastened on the little white cat, who sat up stiffly on the top of the old cupboard, with her tail lashed around her legs, and staring down at them. “You almost tumbled on your nose, then, child.”
“I want to play ‘Ring a—round—a—rosy,’ I say,” screamed Joel, as the little circle swept by in the middle of the floor as fast as they could go, and singing at the top of their voices.
“Joel wants to come—Polly, stop,” begged little Davie, breathlessly, as they whirled around.
“O dear me!” panted Polly, and stopping suddenly—“do you really want to play, Joel?” she asked, “really and truly?”
“Yes, I do,” said Joel. “Oh, Polly, let me,” and he rushed up to crowd into the ring.
“Then you may, if you really and truly want to, Joel,” said Polly; “there, now, says I, take hold of Davie’s hand.”
Little Davie, only too glad to have Joel in the ring, joyfully tried to seize his brown little hand.
“I want to take hold of Phronsie’s,” said Joel, pulling away, “and yours, Polly,” running over to get into that part of the little ring.
“No, no,” protested Phronsie, hanging to Polly’s hand for dear life.