“So I will,” said Polly; “I think that is just as near right as I can get it, although it doesn’t look like a real rose,” she sighed; “but you must let me stop once in a while, child, for the story sounds better.”
“But I want the Silly Little Brook to stop crying and get out,” said Phronsie in gentle haste.
“Well, so I will let her out, you’ll see,” promised Polly, hurrying on to set in more green stitches, determined, since she couldn’t make it like a real rose from Grandpapa’s garden, she would have it as good a one as possible.
“‘I shall die here,’ mourned the Silly Little Brook; and the wind in the trees sobbed over her, ‘She will die there,’ until Robin Redbreast let his head droop on his pretty red bosom.”
“Please hurry, Polly,” said Phronsie pleadingly, and there were tears in the brown eyes.
“But suddenly up jumped Robin,” cried Polly, casting aside her embroidery on the sofa; and suiting the action to the word, she sprang to her feet and waved her arms. “And he trilled out loud and clear, while he flapped his wings, ‘Stop your crying, dear Brook, I will go and bring some help;’ for he had heard what the Silly Little Brook had not been able to hear, as she was weeping so hard, the notes way up in the sky of some little birds that he knew.”
“Polly!” exclaimed Phronsie, in great excitement, and slipping from the sofa to plant herself in front of Polly,—still waving her arms, and crying, “Stop your crying, dear Brook, I will go and bring some help,”—“I love that Robin Redbreast, I do.”
“Well, we must get back to the sofa, and finish this story, or Mamsie’ll call us before we’re ready,” laughed Polly, her arms tumbling to her sides; and she picked up Phronsie, and in a minute there they were in the cosey corner once more.
“So off he flew post-haste,” hurried on Polly, picking up her needle once more to set quick stitches; “and oh! as soon as you could think, back he came, and a whole troop of [Robin Redbreasts] who were on a journey together, and there were so many of them that they picked out every stick and leaf before the new ones had a chance to choke up the way: and pretty soon, ‘Start now!’ they said; [and the Silly Little Brook] put out her feet, and away she went slipping and sliding and trickling and running like a mad little thing down the mountain-side.”