So Polly dilated at great length on the old gray goose,—how it was the only living thing they had, because they were too poor to buy a cow or a pig, or even a chicken, and how the old goose had lived there ever since they could remember, and how cross it was, so they couldn’t play with it, and how it bit Sally Brown one day, when she came over with an errand from her mother, and—
“Tell about how it bit Sally Brown,” interrupted Van eagerly.
“If you stop for everything, Polly never’ll get that chicken-pie baked,” said Ben.
“Yes,” said Jasper; “now don’t interrupt again. It’s a shame to have to tell stories and be stopped every minute.”
“Oh, I don’t mind it!” said Polly brightly; “only if you have all about Sally Brown and everything else, why I sha’n’t get through with the chicken-pie.”
“Go on about the chicken-pie, then, do, Polly,” said Van reluctantly, mentally determining to have the whole of Sally Brown and the old gray goose some time. And so Polly ran on again,—how they always fed the old gray goose every day most carefully, and Phronsie saved something from her dinner for it most especially, and—
“It used to eat awfully,” grumbled Joel.
“Hush!” said Ben.
“And so you see,” cried Polly gayly, “how perfectly fine it was to have such a splendid chicken come to us. Seems as if it was just on purpose for Thanksgiving; for you must know that Mamsie had promised us a chicken-pie as soon as she could manage it, and it was to be all wings, and drumsticks, and wish-bones and”—