“Hold on—don’t you jump!” roared the farmer, catching his jacket, as Polly dashed up to the buggy and ran along by its side, the brown waves of hair flying over her face.
“Mamsie!” called Phronsie, leaning as far as she could from Mrs. Brown’s lap, “see my arm,” as Mrs. Pepper drew near, and she held it up with its bandage soaked in opodeldoc that the farmer’s wife had tied on.
“Whoa!” Farmer Brown brought the Hubbard horse up with a smart jerk. “You might as well git out here,” he said, “for I’ll never keep you two in this buggy till we git to th’ house.”
“I never can thank you,” Mother Pepper was saying, as the farmer’s wife got heavily out of the buggy, “for all your goodness.”
Mrs. Brown’s mouth worked and she tried to speak. “I wish—” she looked off to the little brown house, but she couldn’t finish what she had been composing all the way along—“you’d let me have this little gal for a while, anyway; you’ve got so many children; and I haven’t got one.” So she only kept on wobbling her lips and twisting her hands.
“Hem!” Farmer Brown cleared his throat. “I’ll come over an’ git them two,” pointing a rugged forefinger in the direction of Davie and Phronsie, “ef you’ll let ’em come over an’ pass th’ day with us some time.”
“He’s got chickies,” said Phronsie, raising her head from Mrs. Pepper’s arms.
“And pigs,” said Farmer Brown, “little uns—don’t you forgit them.”
“And dear sweet little pigs—oh, Mamsie, and I am going to scratch their backs.”
“An’,” Farmer Brown whirled around on David, “this young man’s comin’, sure! He’s a right smart boy, an’ I’ve took a fancy to him.”