“Tell us now,” said Jasper; “do, Polly.”
So Polly began the story in earnest. “[Lucy Ann’s Garden] wasn’t a bit like any other garden in all the world; it was up on the tops of ever so many trees”—
“Oh, oh!” exclaimed the bunch of Whitneys in delight, Jasper adding his approval to the rest.
“This is a splendid story,” declared Joel to Van, who was next, “you better believe.”
“Hush!” said Van, edging away; “I can’t hear Polly when you talk.”
“You see, Lucy Ann’s father had ever so many apple-trees he was going to cut down, because they didn’t have anything on them but shrivelled up miserable little apples; and he got his big axe, and went out one day, and Lucy Ann saw him, and she ran after him. ‘Father, father,’ she cried, ‘what are you going to do?’ And then he told her.
“‘Oh, dear me!’ said Lucy Ann; and then she just sat down on the grass and cried; for she couldn’t bear to have a tree cut down around her home, nor a chicken killed, nor anything changed.”
“How could they ever have chicken-pies, then?” asked Percy abruptly.
“Why, they had to send Lucy Ann over to spend the day with her grandmother,” said Polly; “and then they killed all the chickens they wanted to eat for a week. But Lucy Ann always cried quarts of tears when she came home, and found out about it.”