“Oh, I’m not tired!” said Polly, shaking back the little fluffs of hair from her brow. Then she sat looking into the fire a minute. [“I guess I’ll tell you of ‘The Runaway Pumpkin.’”]
[“I guess I’ll tell you of the Runaway Pumpkin,” said Polly.]
“Do,” cried Jasper in great satisfaction. “I remember that; that’s fine. Now, keep still, you three chaps, or else Polly can’t tell it. You’re worse than the menagerie any day,” as the boys began to express their enthusiasm in such a babel, Polly could scarcely get a word in by way of beginning.
“Well, once upon a time,” began Polly, trying to frown at them; but instead, the brown eyes were laughing as she hurried on, with quite a flourish. “You must know that my story is all about the time when animals talked, and pumpkins walked, and”—
“Oh, don’t have any poetry!” began Van in alarm; “that’s perfectly horrid. Don’t, Polly.”
“Why, it isn’t in poetry,” she said.
“Yes, ’tis,” contradicted Van.
“Look out,” cried Jasper. “The first chap who contradicts will get off from this rug, and have no story at all.”
“I didn’t mean,” began Van.