“Isn’t Polly wonderful to know that they are mice?” cried the little girl to Sonny Boy.
But the mice, not being used to pussies, did not mind hearing her call a cat in the least.
Some were quietly nibbling at a lump of sugar which Trixie had put into the cage for them, and some were trying to thrust their heads through the wires to see the world.
“Polly is a gray African parrot,” said the little girl. “She knows a lot, and she’s worth a hundred dollars. We are carrying her to Otto, at the hospital, but we are a little afraid they won’t let him keep her there, for some don’t like her voice.”
“I like it,” said Sonny Boy, politely and truthfully.
“So do I like your mice,” said the little girl as politely.
And then they felt they had known each other for a long time.
They sat down on a large trunk, with the cage of mice between them, and Sonny Boy told the little girl that the mice with black spots on them were Spaniards, and showed her just which of the white ones were Dewey and Sampson, and told her that the dashing little fellow that led all the others in daring swings and leaps was Hobson.
“Oh, if Otto could only see them!” cried the little girl. “He loves soldiers. He wants to be one, and only think! he isn’t like other boys. His back isn’t straight and he is lame, and though he is eleven you wouldn’t think him more than eight.”