“The little duck ran away,” announced Polly, “to begin with,” to the group around her chair.
“Then he was a very naughty duck,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head.
“Tell about him!” cried Joel with a gusto.
“Yes, I’m going to,” said Polly, setting her stitches with a firm hand. “But, children, you interrupt so much that it makes me forget all what I’m going to say, when I’m telling stories.”
“Oh, we won’t; we won’t!” they all promised. “Do begin, Polly, do.”
“Well, once upon a time,” said Polly, with true story-book flourish, “no, when I was a little girl, years ago, that’s the way Grandma Bascom begins her stories”—
“But ’twasn’t years ago when you were a little girl, Polly,” said little David thoughtfully.
“Well, ’tis in a play-story,” said Polly. “And all my stories are make-believe, you know. Now, I’m an old lady, children; and I’m going to tell you about my little duck I had, oh, ever so many years ago!”
The little bunch of Peppers shouted at the idea of Polly’s being an old lady; and Joel got up and whirled around, clapping his fists together till the old kitchen rang with the noise. “Put on a big cap, Polly,” he screamed, “just like Grandma’s!”