[XXV.]
THE SILLY LITTLE BROOK.
“Please, Polly,” entreated Phronsie, pulling Polly’s gown gently.
“O Pet! there isn’t time,” said Polly hastily, “to tell you a story now. Why, Mamsie will call us in a quarter of an hour.”
“Just the ‘Silly Little Brook,’” pleaded Phronsie, folding her hands.
“Why, you’ve heard that fifty thousand times,” said Polly; “oh,—oh! don’t ask for that.” She gave a long yawn, and flew back to the table. “Where is that pink embroidery silk Auntie gave me? Now I’ll try that new stitch.”
“Here ’tis,” said Phronsie, getting down on the floor, and spying it where it had trailed off on the table-cloth; and she quickly brought it up in her hand.
“Oh, that’s good!” exclaimed Polly in great satisfaction, with one eye on the French mantel clock. “Now, if I had to hunt for that tiresome pink silk, the whole quarter of an hour would be gone; and I must try this rosebud to show to Auntie Whitney.” She seized her embroidery work, huddling up silks and thimble, and all, and ran to ensconce herself in a cosey corner of the library sofa, humming softly to herself the last piece of music Monsieur had given to her.
“I might have a piece of the ‘Silly Little Brook,’” said Phronsie, standing quite still by the table.
“What is it?” cried Polly, coming out from the trills and runs, to stare at her. “Oh, that story! I forgot all about it, Phronsie. Yes, indeed, you shall have it.” And a remorseful wave made her cheek rosy red. “I’m a selfish little pig, Phronsie. Come over, and I’ll tell it right away.”