“Because it rains just about as badly as it did on that November day when the black chicken ran away and spoiled our Thanksgiving pie,” said Polly, with warm little thrills at her heart to see the happy faces before her; “so you see it’s just the time to have the story.”
“Do begin,” urged Percy, unable to keep still longer.
“Well, the old gray goose had lived with us, you know, ever since I could remember,” ran on Polly; “so she was awfully tough—why, we never thought of killing her to eat”—
“But you did,” [cried little Dick with big eyes; “you said so, Polly Pepper.”]
[“You said so, Polly Pepper,” cried little Dick with big eyes.]
“Dear me, yes!” said Polly, bobbing her brown head; “but that was afterward, when we had to. But before the black chicken ran away, why, no one ever in all this world thought of killing that old gray goose to eat. Well, she was so old and tough, and she had grown cross, and one day she bit Sally Brown.”
“Tell about it, Polly, do!” begged Van, Percy so far forgetting all unpleasantness that he begged eagerly too.
“Yes,” said Polly; “I am going to. Well, you know Sally Brown was Deacon Brown’s daughter, and she lived in”—
“Did her father let you take the big green wagon when Phronsie had her new shoes?” asked Van abruptly.