But Mamsie couldn’t come. She was sewing away for dear life, to keep the wolf from the door. So Polly curled up on the bed beside Phronsie, and fed her mouthfuls of the toast, with its unwonted richness—the sweet butter that Mrs. Henderson, the parson’s wife, sent over—while she told the doings of all the chickens in the Hendersons’ hen-coop; then gayly launched off into other stories. And this is one of the stories she told:—
“You must know,” began Polly briskly, as Phronsie leaned back against the pillow, the last morsel of toast despatched, “that the children had never seen a kangaroo, and—keep your toes in bed Phronsie;” and Polly jumped off the bed, and gave a quick pull at the bed-clothes, “oh, dear me! or the dreadful old measles will catch ’em.”
Phronsie pulled in her fat little toes where she had stuck them out from the edge of the patched bed-quilt, and huddled them under her in terror. “They’re so hot, Polly,” she wailed. “Oh, dear! will the dreadful things catch ’em? Will they, Polly?” hugging Polly around the neck.
“Not if you keep ’em in bed, child,” said Polly, patting the little bunch under the bed-quilt reassuringly; “there, stretch ’em out, Phronsie; there won’t anything hurt ’em if you keep ’em in bed.”
“Won’t they, Polly?” asked Phronsie fearfully, still huddling up in a heap.
“No, no! Come on, Mister Toes,” sang Polly gayly, pulling at them. “Doctor said you mustn’t get cold, or the measles would run in. There, that’s all right,” as Phronsie’s toes came down again; “now everything’s just splendid, and I’ll go on about my lovely kangaroo. He”—
“They’re so hot,” sighed Phronsie, wriggling all her toes; “and they prick, Polly—they do”—
“Well, we can’t help that,” said Polly; “you see, that’s the measles. And I suppose the kangaroo had prickly toes too, sometimes, Phronsie. Now I’m going to get up on the bed again, and hold your hand, and then we’ll hear all about him.” So Polly hopped up beside Phronsie, and took her hot little hand in both of her bigger ones, and began again. “You see he”—