“Please don’t let him have the—the”—broke in Phronsie, turning her flushed face eagerly toward Polly’s on the pillow, “don’t Polly,” she begged.
“Have the what?” cried Polly, racking her brains to think what she could do with her kangaroo. She must tell Phronsie a good story about him. “Well, I’ve seen the picture of him in the minister’s book, and I guess I can make up something about him that she’ll like.
“What is it that you want me not to do to him, Phronsie?” she asked.
“Don’t let him have—th—these—things—like mine?” pleaded Phronsie, the tears coming into the brown eyes. And despite all her efforts, she wriggled her toes, and cried, “Oh, it pricks so, Polly,” burrowing down deep in the old bed, and rubbing her chubby face.
“Oh, he sha’n’t have the measles!” cried Polly; “and you mustn’t do so, Phronsie,” all in one breath. And pulling Phronsie up against the pillow again, Polly seized both of the little fat hands and held them close. “There, there, just hear all about my lovely kangaroo, Phronsie; why, he ran into the forest, and he carried all the little bits of kangarooses in a bag with him.”
“Did he have a bag?” asked Phronsie. And she let her hands stay quite still in Polly’s clasp, and the two tears on her round cheeks ran down on the old quilt unheeded.
“Yes, indeed; a big bag that hung down in front of him, and whenever he called, all his little children kangarooses would run and hop, and jump into that bag.”
“Oh!” screamed Phronsie delightedly.
“Yes, and then the old father kangaroo would peek over the edge of the bag and say, ‘Lie still, my children, and don’t kick each other;’ and then he”—
“Did he tie it?” asked Phronsie anxiously, and poking up her head to peer into Polly’s face. “Please don’t let him tie it tight, Polly.”