"Tag--tag!" screamed Joel, crowding up in front. "Now begin, Polly, do, and let me be it."
"I'd rather have the Muffin Man," said Davie, wistfully.
"Muffin--Man--Muffin--Man," echoed Phronsie, beating her small hands. "Oh, Polly, please do let us have the Muffin Man," she cried, her yellow hair flying over her flushed face as she hopped up and down. "Please, Polly!"
"Pshaw!" Joel exclaimed, contemptuously, "that old Muffin Man, he's no fun. I say 'Tag.' Do begin, Polly," he pulled her sleeve impatiently.
"The Muffin Man is so very nice," said Davie, reflectively, "and we haven't played it in so long."
"That old--" began Joel, crossly. Then he caught Polly's eye. "All right, Dave," he cried. "Go on, Polly. And let Dave be the Muffin Man, do, Polly."
Polly shot him a beaming glance. "Now that's nice," and she took Phronsie's hand, who was so overcome with delight she could not stand still, but was engaged in making a cheese, and tumbling over in a heap on the grass. "Come on, Pet," and Polly pulled her up, "don't you see the Muffin Man is waiting for us?" for there was David standing off at the end of the grass-plot, as stiff as a stick, and most dignified, all ready to receive his visitors.
It was after the merry line was dancing back into place that Joel happened to glance up at the window of the kitchen. And as quick as a shot he dropped Polly's hand and skipped off on the tips of his toes over the grass and around the back of the house.
"Dear me!" cried Polly, "whatever can have happened to Joel?"
"Do come on, Polly," begged Phronsie, pulling at her other hand, and lifting her flushed face pleadingly, "and let us see the Muffin Man once more."