Polly shot him a reproving glance that made him duck behind Davie, who sat next, as she went on, “And now to-day I’m going to give it to you. I know Mamsie’d say ’twas best, everything’s all clean spick span;” and she glanced with pride around the little old kitchen that shone from top to toe.
“Mamsie’d like it,” cooed Phronsie; and she patted her pink apron down and looked at Polly to begin.
[“The Circus story,” said Polly], beginning with a great flourish, [“is about so many best and splendid things that you must keep quite still] and not interrupt me a single teenty wee bit.”
They one and all protested that they wouldn’t say a word. So she began, while each one sat as still as a mouse.
“Way far over the top of a high mountain,” said Polly, “so far that no one had ever been entirely over it, at least to come back, lived a big man. He was so large that he couldn’t have found any house in all Badgertown big enough to get into if he had tried ever and ever so much. He had arms and legs and eyes to match, you know, and feet and ears, so he could take perfectly dreadfully large steps, and he could lift as big rocks in his hands as the one hanging over Cherry Brook. Oh, and he could see with his big eyes that stood right out of his face just like cannon balls, so that nothing could hide from him, even if it tried ever so much.”
Joel twisted uneasily and wriggled up nearer to Polly’s side. “And one day the big man sat down on a spur of the mountain and dangled his feet down the side. This was his swing, you know; and he always sat there when he was thinking hard over anything, or making plans.
“Well, there he sat thinking—thinking away as hard as ever he could. And pretty soon he got up and slapped his knee, just as Mr. Tisbett does, you know; and he roared out, ‘The very thing—the very thing!’ And folks down in the valley all ran to their windows and said it thundered, and they drove into the barns and sheds and got ready for the storm. Well, after the big man stopped roaring ‘the very thing,’ and slapping his knee, he looked down the mountain, the side he lived on, you know, and the first thing he saw was a hippo—hippo—moppi—poppicus.” Here Polly paused to take breath. She was very fond of long words, and it was her great delight to wrestle with them; so now she thought she had done very well indeed, and she ran on in the best of spirits—“Oh, he was so big—there isn’t anything, children, that can tell you how big he was! Well, the big man no sooner saw him than he ran like lightning on his perfectly dreadfully large feet down his side of the mountain, and he said to the hippo—pippo—poppi—moppicus—‘Here, you, sir, put your head in this;’ and he twitched out of one of his side pockets a string. It was made of leather, and was just as strong—oh, you can’t think. Well the ‘hippo,’ I’m going to call him that for short,” said Polly suddenly, quite tired out, “took a good look all around, but he saw no way of escape; and the big man kept growing more dreadfully cross every minute he waited, so the poor hippo at last said, ‘As you please, sir,’ and he put his head into the string and was tied fast to a big tree that was one hundred and sixty-seven feet round. Then the big man laughed a perfectly dreadful laugh; and he said, when he had finished, ‘Now you are going to the Circus, sir, and see the pennies taken in at the door.’ Then he went off up to his mountain-spur again.
“And presently he looked down his side of the mountain again, and he spied a gre-at big snake, oh, a beautiful one! all green and gold stripes, and great flashing green eyes to match; for the big man watched Mr. Snake raise his head as he wriggled along, and he ran down his side of the mountain on his dreadfully large feet as quick as a flash, and stood in front of Mr. Snake, who looked this way and that for a chance to escape. But there was none, you see, for the dreadfully large feet of the big man took up all the room; so at last Mr. Snake said in a tired-out voice, just like this: ‘If you please, sir, would you move just a very little?’