“I’ll put it on,” said Polly soothingly. “Well, now, Phronsie,” patting the yellow head, and with an anxious look up at the old clock, “you know I can’t bake Mamsie’s birthday cake unless you have that wormwood on and sit in her chair like a good girl. And then think how very dreadful it would be to have Mamsie come home and it shouldn’t be done. Oh, I can’t think of such a thing!” Polly’s hand dropped away from the yellow hair, and fell to her lap, as she sat quite still.
Phronsie lifted her head and looked at her. “I’ll have the wet stuff on, Polly, and sit in the chair,” she said, with a long sigh; “lift me back, Polly, do; then you can bake Mamsie’s cake.”
So Phronsie was lifted back with great ado, Polly kissing her many times, and telling her how glad she would be on the morrow when Mamsie’s birthday cake would be a beautiful success, and how happy Mamsie would be to know that Phronsie helped to bake it by being such a good girl. And the little toes were wet with the wormwood, and tied up in an old cloth; and Grandma Bascom, dropping the tin cup which she was bearing back to the stove, with a clatter on the floor, created such a diversion as Polly and the boys ran to get cloths and spoons to save the precious wormwood and wipe the floor clean, that the little old kitchen rang with the noise, and it was some time before Polly could get it quieted down again.
At last Polly drew a long breath. “Well, now, children, if you’ll be very still I’ll tell you the rest about the white chicken, while I’m making Mamsie’s cake. And I’ll pull your chair, Phronsie, up to the table so you can see me.”
“Let me, let me!” screamed Joel, hopping up to lay hasty hands on the old calico-covered rocker. “I want to, Polly; let me pull it up.”
“I want to,” begged David, just as nimble on the other side.
“So you shall; you can both help,” cried Polly merrily, deep in thought over the intricacies of ‘Mirandy’s weddin’-cake receet.’
“Well,” said Grandma, seeing Phronsie on such a high road to recovery, “I’m dretful glad I found that receet. I put it in my Bible so’s to have it handy to give John’s folks when they come; they set great store by it to the weddin’: and I must go home now, ’cause I left some meat a-boilin’.” So off she waddled, Joel going to the door and gallantly assisting her down the steps and to the gate, glad to make amends. Then he rushed back.
“Now for the white chicken!” he cried, drawing a long breath, and perching on the end of the baking-table.
“Yes,” said Polly; “but you’ve got to have on one of Mamsie’s old slippers first, Phronsie.”