“Oh, dear me!” cried Polly in horror, “the poor little white chicken!”
“Don’t let it bite her much,” said Davie. “But do make it a bear, Polly!”
“Well, I will,” said Polly obligingly, “make it a bear, boys.”
“And don’t let it bite her any,” begged Phronsie; and she put up her lip, while the brown eyes were imploringly fixed on Polly’s face.
Joel squirmed all over the table-end. “Just such a little bear,” he remonstrated. “Hoh! he couldn’t bite much; I’d just as lieves he’d bite me,” baring his brown arm.
“No—no—no!” protested Phronsie, shaking her yellow head decidedly; “I don’t want him to bite her any, poor little white chicken;” and she looked so very near to crying, and Mamsie’s old black slipper on the pounded toes began to flap so dismally, that Polly hastened to say, “Oh! I’ll tell you, children, what I’ll do; I’ll have Tommy come out and shoot the bear right away.”
“Oh, whickety!” whooped Joel. David clasped his hands ecstatically. This was much better,—to have Tommy and the bear, than the bear and the little white chicken. Phronsie laughed delightedly, “Make him come quick, do, Polly!” she screamed.
“Hurry up!” called Joel; “O Phron! don’t talk. Do hurry, Polly!”
“Well, you see,” went on Polly, stirring away for dear life, “that when Susan went into the house to sit on the stool and do patchwork, her brother Tommy thought he would take his gun and see if he could find anything to shoot, like rabbits, and”—
“No—no,” cried Joel in alarm, twitching her sleeve, “bears, bears!”