“Joel,” said Polly, “hush this minute; just think how good she’s been, and the raisins. O Joey!”
“They are dreadful hard,” grumbled Joel; but he slipped his head back on Polly’s lap, wishing her fingers would smooth his hair again. But they didn’t; so he burrowed deeper, and tried not to cry. Meanwhile Phronsie, with a troubled expression settling over her face at this condition of things, made as though she would slip from the old chair. “Take me, Polly,” she begged, holding out her arms.
“Oh, no, you mustn’t, you pretty creeter,” declared Grandma, getting out of her chair to waddle over to the scene, her cap-border trembling violently, “you’ll hurt your toes. You must set where you be till you get the wormwood on.” And Davie running over to put his arms around Phronsie and beg her to keep still, the little old kitchen soon became in great confusion till it seemed as if the white chicken must be left for all time, peering in at Susan’s playhouse and the black object in the corner.
“Oh, dear me!” cried Polly at her wit’s end; “now you see, Joey. Whatever shall I do?”
[“Take me, Polly,” implored Phronsie], leaning out of the big chair at the imminent danger of falling on her nose, and two tears raced over her round cheeks. At sight of these, Polly suddenly lifted her out and over to her lap, Joel deserting that post in a trice, and wishing he was Phronsie so that he could cry and be comforted.
[“Take me, Polly,” implored Phronsie.]
“Dear, dear, dear!” exclaimed Grandma Bascom gustily, trotting off to the tin cup with the wormwood steeping on the stove. “She must have the wormwood on. Whatever’ll become of her toes if she don’t set still, I d’no. There, there, she’s a pretty creeter.”
“I don’t want any on,” said Phronsie from her nest in Polly’s arms, and contentedly snuggling down. “Please don’t let her put any on, Polly,” she whispered up against her neck.