“O Polly Pepper!” exclaimed Percy, with a little laugh. “Chickens don’t have but one wish-bone apiece.”
“I can’t help it,” retorted Polly recklessly; “seems as if this chicken-pie was going to be better than any other that was ever baked in all this world. Oh! and the crust was to be thick, and the gravy was to be just lovely, and Phronsie was to have the wish-bone.”
“Yes, I was,” said Phronsie, with a small sigh, and folding her hands.
“And so, you see, when Mister Shanghai dropped down from the clouds in the way he did, why, we were just as happy as we could be. Well, every day when the work was done up we talked over just how that pie was to be baked; and when it was too dark to see, for we didn’t light the candle any earlier than we could help, and”—
“Why didn’t you light the candle early?” asked little Dick, pushing forward into the middle of the group.
“Why, because we were poor,” said Polly, “and we had to save the candles as long as we could. Well, and we used to play it really was Thanksgiving, and the table was set, and”—
“And Polly always played that she had a bunch of flowers to trim the chicken with,” said Ben.
“Well, and now something very dreadful happened,” said Polly; “very dreadful indeed. I won’t tell you what it was, but”—
“Oh, tell, tell, Polly Pepper, do!” cried all the Whitney boys in a clamor.
“No, not just yet,” said Polly, shaking her brown head decidedly; “because that would spoil the story. But I’m going to pretend that the [old gray goose and the black chicken could talk together], and tell you what they said.”