“Well, see that you don’t run and scramble and take away Davie’s things again when he starts first,” said Polly. “Come on, Joe, I’m waiting.”
So Joel tumbled out of his corner, wiping away the tears on the back of his little red hand; and soon Polly’s cap was tied on in the most approved style, amid the shouts of the children, who all escorted her to the cracked looking-glass over the bedroom bureau, when she pronounced it “just too perfect for anything.”
“Well, now,” said Polly, drawing a long breath, and racing back to sit down and pick up her sewing, “I must hurry and tell about my cunning little duck, or I don’t know what I shall do. Now, children, you know I’m an old, old lady, and”—
“How old?” demanded Joel, who dearly loved facts and figures.
“Oh! I don’t know—most a hundred I guess,” said Polly; “well”—
“Ho—Ho! Polly’s most a hundred,” laughed Joel, and Davie burst out laughing too. “Polly’s most a hundred,” echoed Phronsie with a gurgle.
“Now, see here, children, I shall never tell this story if you keep interrupting me like that,” said Polly, pushing back her paper cap that settled over one eye. “Dear me, I didn’t s’pose it was such trouble to pretend to be old—this slides all over my head, and I can’t see to sew. Well, I once had a [cunning little duck], when I was a little girl years and years ago.”
