“You wait and see,” said Polly gayly, and stirring away for dear life. “Well, over went the little white chicken, and”—
“You said that,” interrupted Joel; “do hurry and tell the rest.”
“Then she shut her eyes just like this,” Polly stopped stirring, and turned to Phronsie, wrinkling up her face as much like a chicken in despair as was possible. “Oh, you can’t think how she felt; she was so frightened! She tried to call her mother, but the ‘peep—peep’ that always used to be so loud and clear, stuck way down in her throat; and then she knew she never in all this world could make her mother hear because she hadn’t minded her. And outside she could hear old Mrs. Hen calling her brothers and sisters to come and get the worms she had just scratched up.”
“And wouldn’t the little white chicken ever get a worm?” broke out Phronsie in dreadful excitement; “wouldn’t she, Polly, ever?”
“No—oh, yes; she could when she was good,” said Polly at sight of Phronsie’s face.
“Make her good,” begged Phronsie, unclasping her hands to pull Polly’s gown; “oh do, Polly!”
“No, make her bad,” cried Joel insistently; “as bad as can be, do, Polly!”
“O Joel!” reproved Polly, stirring away; “whoever would want that little white chicken bad—any more than for a boy to be naughty.”
“Well, make her bad enough to be scared; and have the awful black thing be a bear, and most bite her to death, and chew her head off,” cried Joel, feeling delicious thrills at the dreadful possibilities that might happen to the chicken.