“Oh—she—was—as—beautiful as a butterfly,
And as proud as a queen,
Was pretty little Polly Perkins,
Of Abingdon Green,”
sang Arctura over and over again, and little Polly Prentiss listened with delight.
“You have a splendid voice, haven’t you, Miss Arctura?” she said, when at last the song stopped as the pies were put in the oven. “And what pretty words there are to that tune.”
“My voice isn’t anything now to what it was,” said Miss Green, evidently much pleased. “I can’t rely on it as I once could. When my brother John, that lives out West, and I were in our teens we used to be called for far and near, whenever there was music wanted. He had a good tenor voice, and I could sing way up above the staff without straining my tones a mite. But now I’m getting old and I have to bear just as light as I can on the high notes, and there’s a number down towards G on the second line that are apt to fail me when I’m least expecting it,” said Arctura, and Polly thought her voice sounded a little sad.
“I think it’s all beautiful,” said Polly, with perfect sincerity. “It’s a great deal better than anybody’s voice in the choir at the church. I am just sure!”
“They’ve got some young folks in the singing seats that lack training,” said Arctura, and then she dismissed that subject. “You put me in mind of that ‘Polly Perkins’ someway,” she remarked, sitting down in the big kitchen rocker, and pulling the little girl into her lap. “To be sure, your name’s Mary, and, of course, favor’s a deceitful thing and beauty’s a vain snare, but someway you brought that song to mind when you were crimping those pie edges.”
“I don’t believe I’m much like a queen, Miss Arctura,” said Polly, greatly pleased, but a little confused. “I haven’t any crown, you see, or any trailing dresses, and I haven’t anything to be proud about. I expect queens look like this, don’t you?” and, springing to her feet, Polly tossed back her head and stood with her chin raised and her small nose tilted up into the air, gazing out of the window.