“You sweet lamb, you!” cried the farmer’s wife, quite overcome. And she unbuttoned the little calico sack, and getting up, she laid it neatly on the bed by the side of Mrs. Pepper’s bonnet and shawl.
“I’ve baked a little pie for you,” she leaned over and whispered, when that was done, taking Phronsie’s hand as she did so. “Come, and I’ll show it to you.”
“For me?” cried Phronsie, showing her little white teeth in her delight.
“Sure, all for you. And I curlicued th’ edge, all round.”
Phronsie gave a little gurgle at that, although she didn’t know in the least what “curlicued” meant. It must be something to make her little pie very splendid. And she gave a sigh of great satisfaction, and smoothed down her pink calico gown.
“An’ then, says I, you shall see th’ chickies.” By this time Mrs. Brown, holding Phronsie’s hand, was well on the way to the big kitchen where certain smells proclaimed very unusual things going on in preparation for the company dinner, Mrs. Pepper following, a happy smile lighting her face.
Meanwhile Davie, lost to everything but the bliss of being allowed to help take off Jingo’s heavy harness, was on his tiptoes and working with all his might to do as much with the buckles and straps as the farmer on the other side of the old white horse.
“I declare ef you ain’t as smart as th’ next one,” declared Mr. Brown admiringly over Jingo’s back. “You’ve helped me a whole lot.”
“Have I?” cried Davie in delight. The streams of perspiration were running down his hot little face, and his fingers trembled over their struggles with a refractory strap.
“I should jest say you have!” cried the farmer. “Well now,” and he slouched around Jingo. “There, that’s an’ awful plaguy strap—it bothers me somethin’ dretful.”