“We sha’n’t have to whisper when you are out of the way, Joe,” said Ben; “come, hurry up and start.” “Now, Joey, you promised,” said Polly reproachfully. She was aching to talk over all the splendid plans with Ben; and there were the bright bits of paper left after they had covered the nuts; and just this very night she was to set about making Phronsie’s paper doll, and Ben was to begin on a windmill for Davie, and Mamsie was to sit down at the big table drawn out from against the wall, and make Seraphina’s bonnet. And Christmas was getting so near!
“O Joe!” exclaimed Polly suddenly, in such a tone of despair that Ben said sharply, “Go along, or she’ll stop telling you stories. You won’t get another one to-morrow—sir!”
“I’ll go,—I’ll go,” cried Joel, clattering over the stairs in a trice—“I’m going, Polly—you’ll tell me another to-morrow, won’t you—won’t you, Polly?” he screamed at the top.
“Yes indeed,” cried Polly merrily, running along to the foot of the stairs leading to the loft. “That’s a good boy, Joey; I’ll tell you a good one to-morrow.”
“It’s got to be a long one,” said Joel; “not such a little squinchy one as ’twas to-day. Hoh! that was no good.”
“Hush up there,” shouted Ben at him, from the kitchen, “or you’ll wake Dave up. Come on, now, Polly.”
So Polly ran back again; and [the two pulled out the kitchen table]; and Mamsie brought her big basket, and Seraphina’s bonnet was snipped out of the piece of ribbon so long waiting for it; and Polly whisked out the bits of bright paper from the bureau-drawer in the bedroom; and Ben got out his big jack-knife, and commenced to whittle bravely; and everything was as brisk as a bee and as cheery,—and the tongues flew just as fast as the fingers, till the little old kitchen was alive with the work of getting ready for Christmas.
[The two pulled out the kitchen table.]
But on the next morning, all the signs of the coming festivity tucked carefully away, and the every-day work done up, then didn’t Polly just have to spin off a story when in marched Joel with a “Come on, Dave, Polly’s sewing; now for the story!” he whooped, and threw himself on the floor at her feet.