No, they were not “any bit alike;” but what loving little friends they were, and how gayly they did trudge about the grounds at home, and up and down the village street, with their arms around each other’s waists! The neighbors came to the windows of their houses as the little couple passed by, saying, “See those little Pitchers! Don’t they look like Tom Thumb and his wife?” When people spoke to them, Posy dropped her eyes, and blushed; but Pollio held up his head, and made answer for both.
Once, in the winter, when they were going out walking, and Posy was half stifled with her fur cap and a big comforter wound twice round her neck, Pollio said,—
“She wants to walk sturbously free, and not be mumbled up.”
“Sturbously” was one of his big words that mamma had to guess at; but she unwound the comforter, and Pollio said,—
“Fank you. It’s awful mild, and she fought she’d choke. Good-by now: we’re going.”
“Posy would never have complained of the comforter; but she has a brother who is always ready to scold for her,” said mamma, looking fondly after her darlings.
“Don’t you be afraid; there sha’n’t any dogs hurt you,” she heard him say to his timid little sister, as Dr. Field’s Fido barked at their heels.
He often promised to protect his mother and his aunt Ann from the same dog, and from all the horses in town; for Pollio was a very brave boy.
“Good-morning, General Pollio! Good-morning, Mrs. Posio! Guess what I’ve got in my jug,” called out Bobby Thatcher.