"Yes," said Joel, bobbing his head, "I remember, Polly. I couldn't bite a single thing off. Mean old goose!"
"He looked nice," said little Davie, thoughtfully, "he was so brown, and there were Polly's flowers on top of him."
"Yes," said Polly, "those were nice, children. Well, p'r'aps we'll get a really and truly chicken pie sometime. And if the old stove would behave, and not have these dreadful holes coming all the time, where the putty tumbles out, it would be perfectly splendid. Now," cried Polly, running up to the stove, and shaking her brown head at it, "you've got to do your very best. If you don't, I'm sure I shall just give up!"
"Will you cry, Polly?" asked Phronsie, creeping up behind her.
"Yes, maybe," said Polly, recklessly. "Yes, I really think I shall have to cry, Phronsie, if that old stove lets the putty Ben put in last week tumble out again."
"Then it mustn't, Polly," said Phronsie, very decidedly, "let the--What is it Ben put in?"
"The putty, child," said Polly.
"It mustn't let the putty tumble out," said Phronsie. Then she ran up to the stove, and laid her little face up against its cold, black surface, for on summer afternoons there was never any fire in it. "You mustn't be naughty, old stove," she said, "for then Polly will cry."
"Oh, Phronsie!" cried Polly, "you've smutted your face, and blacked up your nice clean dress," and she pulled her back in dismay.
"O dear!" whimpered Phronsie, in distress, as she looked down at the long black streak across her pink calico gown. "I didn't mean to, Polly; truly, I didn't."