“You’re not a little pig,” said Phronsie, hurrying over to the sofa to tuck herself away in a blissful frame of mind close to Polly; “and I am so glad you are going to tell it, and please begin right off, Polly,” all in one breath.
“Yes, indeed, I will,” said Polly with a sorry little twinge for the minutes lost. “Well, you know the Silly Little Brook was not our Cherry Brook,” she began, well knowing that fact must usher in the story.
“It was not our Cherry Brook,” repeated Phronsie distinctly, and smoothing down her white apron, “because our Cherry Brook was a nice brook, and didn’t do silly things.”
“That’s so,” assented Polly, wondering if she was making her rosebud pink enough; “well, one day, quite early in the morning, when the sun was peeping over the top of a high mountain”—
“Tell how he peeped over, please, Polly,” begged Phronsie, who dearly loved to have Polly act out her stories.
So Polly laid down her rosebud, thimble, and all, in Phronsie’s lap, and got up and told it over again, to Phronsie’s intense satisfaction; then she hopped back to her embroidery work.
“And at the same time the Silly Little Brook awoke, and opened its eyes to the sun and the world. ‘Oh! how do you do?’ said the Sun, laughing as the Silly Little Brook blinked its eyes at him.
“‘Who are you?’ asked the Silly Little Brook; ‘I never saw you before.’
“‘Of course not,’ said the Sun, laughing worse than ever, ‘because you have never been awake before. Come, now, it is time for you to get to work; you’ve been a long time asleep. Look back of you.’