“Tell us, tell us,” begged Percy and Van, coming out of their deep reflection.
“Well, maybe, some time,” said Polly; “but now I’m going to tell you about our little snow-house. You see, it had been awfully cold one winter,” here Polly hurried on with all her speed, after a glance at Ben’s face, “and we hadn’t had much snow, because it was ’most too cold to snow, and we children had been hoping that we might have some; and every day Joel would come shouting in that he guessed it would snow before night, and”—
“And we had to fill the wood-box and chop kindlings all the time, I remember,” grumbled Joel; “and our fingers most froze, didn’t they, Dave.”
“Maybe,” said David, with a glance at Polly’s face, and very much wishing that the question had not been asked.
“Never mind,” said Ben; “don’t bother to tell any more about the cold, Polly, but get along to the story.”
“And so I will,” she said briskly, with another look at his face. “Well, and one day—oh! I remember it as well as could be, for Joel had said the same thing about the snow coming, over and over, and”—
“And it did come,” interrupted Joel triumphantly, “so, there”—
“You mustn’t tell before I get to it,” said Polly.
“That’s a fact,” said Ben. “If Polly tells this story, she must be let alone. Now, Joe, don’t you say another word.”
Joel, at this, subsided, and folded his chubby hands tightly together, and Polly went on. “Well, and pretty soon, do you know, down came the white flakes of snow, so soft and pretty and white; and Mamsie said we might stop our work for five minutes, and watch it from the window. We’d wanted it so, you know, for days and days.