“Yes,” said Polly. “Now, that’s a good girl, Phronsie. You see—”
“I’ve got the most,” cried Joel, staggering in at the doorway, his arms full of all sorts and sizes of sticks. “Whickets! See me, Polly!”
“Oh, Joey, I don’t want to see you when you say such words,” said Polly reprovingly.
“I won’t say ’em any more. Now look—look!” Joel swelled up in front of her, and brandished his armful.
“O my!” exclaimed Polly, “what a nice lot! And Davie, too! Dear me, how you two boys do help!”
“I haven’t got so much,” said David, drawing slowly near with both arms around his kindlings.
“His sticks are better than mine,” said Joel critically, as the boys stood before Polly.
“Yes,” said Polly, her head on one side to view them the better. “I believe they are, Joel. Well, it’s a nice lot altogether, anyway. Now put them all in the wood-box.”
“Now what shall we do?” asked Joel, fidgeting about, the kindlings all dumped in the wood-box, and going over to Mother Pepper’s big calico-covered chair, his round face very sober.
“I believe,” said Polly meditatively, “we’d better light the candle—it’s growing dark.”