“Well, that’s what we’ve come for,” said the farmer’s wife, pushing up the hasp of the big gate.
“We’re going in!” cried Phronsie, clapping her hands and hopping up and down. This made the little fluffy chicks tumble over each other worse than ever, till they looked just like one big yellow ball.
“Can I take one—can I?” begged Phronsie, running after the big ball as Mrs. Brown pulled to the gate.
“You wait, little girl,” said the farmer’s wife, “an’ by’n’by, you’ll have your lap full.”
Phronsie stopped and regarded her pink calico gown. To have her lap full of chickens was something that had to be thought out carefully. And she was standing there quite still when Mrs. Brown, who had hurried into the shed, came out with a tin pan in her hand.
“There now, says I,” she took Phronsie’s hand. “You come along of me,” and she led her to the other end of the long chicken yard. “Now we can set, an’ I’m sure I’m glad to,” and down she went heavily on a low bench under some currant-bushes.
“Chick—chick,” called the farmer’s wife. “Set down, Phronsie. There, don’t you see ’em runnin’ fit to break their necks,” as she put her hand in the tin pan and brought it forth full of corn and fine grain to fling it far and wide.
“Oh, don’t let them break their necks—please,” begged Phronsie. She had sat down by Mrs. Brown’s side, but now hopped to her feet in distress.
Mrs. Brown gave a comfortable laugh. “They hain’t got any necks hardly to break—only a bunch o’ feathers. Set down, an’ you may fling some corn.”
So Phronsie, seeing that the chickens’ necks were to be perfectly safe, sat down on the bench and filled both small hands with the corn and grain.