“Ever and ever so many years ago,” said Polly, “there was a queer little man; and he lived in the middle of a big city, in a perfectly funny little house, with only one window in it besides the door, and he had a little daughter,—she was only so high;” Polly put her hands up above the table-top a little way,—“and she could speak thirty-seven different languages.”
“O Polly!” exclaimed old Mr. King under his breath.
“And there wasn’t anything that would make music that she couldn’t play on,” said Polly; “so they didn’t have to have the hand-organs stop in front of the house. The queer little old man used to climb up the tree in front of the perfectly funny little house, and if he saw a hand-organ man coming along, he would scream out, [‘Go right away! my daughter makes all the music I want.’”]
[“Go right away! my daughter makes all the music I want.”]
“Even if there was a monkey with him?” asked Joel, breaking in.
“Yes, even if there was a monkey,” said Polly, “that made no difference; he made him go away all the same. Well, and then down the queer little man would slide along the tree till he got to the ground; and then he would rush into the house in a great state, and he would cry out, ‘Come, my daughter, and play me a tune;’ and then he would begin to dance; round and round and round and round he would spin until his feet were all twinkling in and out underneath his coat, for I must tell you that he wore a long coat that flapped around his heels every step he took.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Joel, in which the others joined, Polly smiling at them to see their brightness restored. “Well, and there he would keep Araminta Sophia, for I forgot to tell you her name, playing away till she almost tumbled down she was so tired; and at last, when he had danced as much as he wanted to, he said, ‘Now take the green umbrella, and go out and buy me some fish for breakfast.’
“So Araminta Sophia hopped up from the piano-stool, and ran out into the shed that was tacked onto the perfectly funny little house; and there, hanging on a gold peg, was the green umbrella.”
“Real gold, Polly Pepper?” cried Van.