“‘I will now,’ said the Silly Little Brook, bursting into a torrent of tears; and she tried to start. But her feet were all tangled up in a mess of leaves and green things that weren’t nice, and she couldn’t stir a step.”
Phronsie here moved uneasily again, but waited for Polly to go on.
“‘I’ll help you,’ said Robin Redbreast quickly; and, jumping down, he picked patiently all the sticks and leaves he could in his bill, and carried them out of the way of the Silly Little Brook when she should once more start to run down the mountain-side.”
“He was a nice Robin Redbreast, Polly, and I like him,” Phronsie exclaimed joyfully.
“So he was, Pet,” Polly made haste to answer. “Well, but as fast as he picked off the leaves and sticks out of the way of the Silly Little Brook, ever so many others would come blowing down on her from the trees, and choke up the path again. So at last poor Robin Redbreast had to sit down quite tired out, and declare he could do no more.”
“Please hurry and tell it, Polly,” begged Phronsie, pulling her sleeve, for Polly dearly loved to stop a bit in the most impressive spots.
“Well, and then the Silly Little Brook began to sob and to scream louder than ever; and the sticks and leaves flew around her thick and fast, for it was a very windy day; and the birds flew over her head, never so much as giving her a glance; and it was very dreadful indeed,” said Polly, holding up her embroidery at arm’s length to see if the calyx was beginning to look exactly as if the rosebud were just picked from the garden.
“Please hurry,” begged Phronsie, pulling her sleeve again.