“Ef you ain’t goin’ to git out an’ pick up that child, I am, John Brown. Sech a mortal slow man I never see,” snorted his wife scornfully.
“An’ sech a flutter-budget as you be, no man ever saw,” Mr. Brown found time to say as he got slowly down over the wheel.
“Somebody’s got to flutter-budget in this world,” said his wife after him, as he walked slowly over to the small pink heap, “or everybody’d go to sleep. Bring her to me, John.— Oh, do hurry! Bring her to me!”
“I want Mamsie,” said Phronsie, as Mr. Brown leaned over her.
“Hey?” said the farmer, bringing his rough face with its stubby beard close to her little one.
“I’m going to my Mamsie,” said Phronsie, her blue eyes searching his face, “and my foots are tired.” With that she put up her arms.
“I’ll be blowed!” exclaimed Mr. Brown. Then he saw the little blood-stained arm and he started back.
“Take me,” said Phronsie, as she clutched his shaggy coat, “please, to my Mamsie.”
“Where’d you git hurt?” asked Mr. Brown, with no eyes for anything but the small arm with its bloody streak.
Phronsie looked down and surveyed it gravely. “My Mamsie will make it well,” she said confidently.