Polly and David pulled the wood about with frantic hands, Davie saying all the while, “She was here. Oh, Polly, she was.”
“Now, David,” Polly seized his arm, “you must stop saying that for she can’t be under here. See,” she pointed to the sticks of wood sprawling about.
“But she was here,” declared David, pawing wildly in and out among the sticks.
Polly darted off into the shed and hunted in each corner, calling Phronsie at every step. Then she ran out to comfort David, and to keep up the search.
“I declare to goodness, John, ef here ain’t a little girl on th’ road!”
A woman in an old high farm wagon twitched her husband’s arm. “Do stop an’ take her in. My sakes! ain’t she a mite, though!” pushing back her big sunbonnet in order to see the better.
But before the old white horse lumbered up to the mite, down went Phronsie in a small heap in the middle of the dusty road.
“John—John!” screamed his wife. “Stop! You’re a-runnin’ over her!”
“Land o’ Goshen! ain’t I stoppin’?” roared her husband at her. The old horse almost sat down on his tired haunches at the sudden twitch on the reins. Then the farmer leaned forward and stared ahead down the road.