“There are chickens,” said Mrs. Brown desperately, “and—”
“Are there little chickies?” asked Phronsie, as Mr. Brown gave her face another dab with the big handkerchief.
“Yes—yes, awful little ones,” cried Mrs. Brown; “just as little as anythin’, an’ yellow an’ white an’ fluffy.”
Phronsie clapped her hands and smiled between her tears.
“An’ there’s pigs, little ones,” broke in the farmer, to hold all advantage gained, “an’ you can scratch their backs.”
Phronsie tore off her thoughts from the little chickens, yellow and white and fluffy, to regard the farmer. “Ooh! I want to see the little pigs,” she cried, leaning over to look into Mr. Brown’s face, “and I’m going to scratch their backs right off.”
“So you shall—so you shall,” he cried, “when you get to my house.”
Phronsie’s lip fell suddenly, and she flew back to Mrs. Brown’s arms. “I want to go to the little brown house,” she wailed, casting herself up against the kind breast.
“John, can’t you let well enough alone?” scolded his wife. “She was took with the chickens. There, there, child, don’t cry.”
“She liked my pigs best,” said the farmer sullenly. “G’long there!” slapping the leather reins down smartly on the back of the old white horse.