“Let’s take the broom,” cried Joel, running over to get it where it hung on its nail behind the door; “that’ll shoo her good.”
“No, no, Joel,” said Polly, shaking her head in disapproval, while Phronsie screamed at the mere thought of the broom touching her little white cat, “that would be the worst thing in the world. It would make her cross and hateful, and then Mamsie would have to send her away and Phronsie couldn’t keep her at all.”
“Well, then, how are you going to get her down?” asked Joel, standing still to regard her impatiently.
“You must let me think,” said Polly, wrinkling up her brows. “Now, Phronsie, if you cry so, I can’t ever get your kitty down. Oh, you bad, naughty little thing, you!” this to the small white cat sitting stiffly up on the cupboard.
“She isn’t a bad, naughty little thing, Polly,” sobbed Phronsie. “She’s my little white cat, and I love her.”
“Well, I don’t mean really she’s bad and naughty,” said Polly, with a sigh, “but I do wish she’d come down, Phronsie.”
And then the very strangest thing in all the world happened. “Mee—ow!” said the small white cat, but it was in a soft little voice, and she unlashed her tail from her legs and there she actually was digging her sharp claws into the side of the old cupboard to assist her descent to the floor!
“Hush—sh!” whispered Polly, her brown eyes very wide, and seizing Joel’s blue cotton blouse; “keep still, all of you. Oh, Phronsie, don’t stir—she’s coming—she’s coming!”
“Mee—ow!” said the little white cat, stepping gingerly along into the middle of the floor, and beginning to believe that the children hadn’t wanted her before so very much after all, and she came up to rub herself against Polly’s brown calico gown.
“Oh, keep still—don’t touch her!” warned Polly, holding her breath. Joel twisted his brown fingers together tightly, and little Davie and Phronsie, not thinking of disobeying Polly, didn’t stir.