“Yes, indeed, Jasper,” cried Polly; “I’ll tell about the chicken-pie I made; only ’twasn’t a chicken-pie at all,” and she broke off into a merry laugh.

“Hold on,” cried Ben, “you’ll spoil it all, Polly. Tell the story first, that’s best.”

“So I will,” said Polly. “Well, in the first place, none of us in The Little Brown House ever knew where it came from, to begin with. Ben found it one day in a swamp down by the meadow, as he was digging sweet-flag to sell, to get some money to buy a pair of boots for the winter. It wasn’t hurt in the least, only it was so small it couldn’t get out. The wonder is, how it ever got there at all; however, Ben didn’t care for that, so long as he could get Master Chick in his possession. So he took an old fence-rail; and by dint of poking and urging the chicken, which didn’t want to come, and by floundering and tumbling round in the bog till he was pretty wet himself, at last he caught it.

“Oh! you must know it was a fine black chicken,—a Shanghai; and Ben grasped it, oh, so tightly! under one arm, and he flew home, and bursting into the door, he scared us, and he most upset me,—I was helping Mamsie to pull out the basting-threads of the coat she had just finished. And, goodness me, how that chicken did scream!”

“Yes, and so did you, most as bad,” said Ben, bursting into a laugh. “I never will forget; you said I’d scared you most to death.”

“Well, and so you did,” declared Polly; “we didn’t see that dreadful chicken till you flapped it in our faces. It was lucky that the children weren’t there, or I don’t know but what the roof of The Little Brown House would have flown off with the noise.”

“Where were the children?” demanded Percy.

Joel twisted uneasily. It had always been a great trial to think of his absence on such a momentous occasion.

Polly answered briskly, “Why, the two boys were down in Farmer Brown’s cow-yard; there was a little hole full of water, something like a pond, you know; and they were sailing boats, and”—

“Oh, dear me, I wish we hadn’t been!” grunted Joel. “I’d rather have seen the black chicken come in.”

“And Phronsie had been put to bed early. It was almost dark, you know, and she was tired out; so Mamsie and I were all alone.”

“And Mamsie thought it was a crow,” said Ben to Mother Pepper, who still was at work over her mending-basket the same as ever. “Didn’t you, Mamsie?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper, with a smile at the remembrance. “He was more like a crow, children, I’m sure, than anything else, he was so black.”

“Oh, how I wish we could have seen it!” exclaimed Percy and Van together.

“And Ben said he’d give me half of the chicken,” ran on Polly; “and then we could have him for Thanksgiving, and I could make my pie”—

“Oh, you ought to have seen Polly dance when I told her that!” said Ben, laughing again.

“Oh, dear, you did have such good times in The Little Brown House!” cried Percy enviously. “Why couldn’t we have been there!”

“And then we began to count up how long it would be to Thanksgiving. We’d never had one, you know,” said Polly.

“Never had a Thanksgiving!” cried all the Whitney children together.

“Hush!” exclaimed Jasper, with a warning pull at the jacket nearest to him.

“I remember,” said Mrs. Pepper, laying down her work. “It was July then, and there were four months to wait; but if we could find out where the chicken belonged, I told you, we must give it back.”

“And did you give it back?—did you?—did you?” clamored the Whitney boys.

“No,” said Polly, “because we couldn’t find anybody who had ever seen him; so we put him in the shed where the old gray goose was, and”—

“Oh! did you have an old gray goose, Polly Pepper?” cried Van. “Tell about him, do.”

So Polly dilated at great length on the old gray goose,—how it was the only living thing they had, because they were too poor to buy a cow or a pig, or even a chicken, and how the old goose had lived there ever since they could remember, and how cross it was, so they couldn’t play with it, and how it bit Sally Brown one day, when she came over with an errand from her mother, and—

“Tell about how it bit Sally Brown,” interrupted Van eagerly.

“If you stop for everything, Polly never’ll get that chicken-pie baked,” said Ben.

“Yes,” said Jasper; “now don’t interrupt again. It’s a shame to have to tell stories and be stopped every minute.”

“Oh, I don’t mind it!” said Polly brightly; “only if you have all about Sally Brown and everything else, why I sha’n’t get through with the chicken-pie.”

“Go on about the chicken-pie, then, do, Polly,” said Van reluctantly, mentally determining to have the whole of Sally Brown and the old gray goose some time. And so Polly ran on again,—how they always fed the old gray goose every day most carefully, and Phronsie saved something from her dinner for it most especially, and—

“It used to eat awfully,” grumbled Joel.

“Hush!” said Ben.

“And so you see,” cried Polly gayly, “how perfectly fine it was to have such a splendid chicken come to us. Seems as if it was just on purpose for Thanksgiving; for you must know that Mamsie had promised us a chicken-pie as soon as she could manage it, and it was to be all wings, and drumsticks, and wish-bones and”—

“O Polly Pepper!” exclaimed Percy, with a little laugh. “Chickens don’t have but one wish-bone apiece.”

“I can’t help it,” retorted Polly recklessly; “seems as if this chicken-pie was going to be better than any other that was ever baked in all this world. Oh! and the crust was to be thick, and the gravy was to be just lovely, and Phronsie was to have the wish-bone.”

“Yes, I was,” said Phronsie, with a small sigh, and folding her hands.

“And so, you see, when Mister Shanghai dropped down from the clouds in the way he did, why, we were just as happy as we could be. Well, every day when the work was done up we talked over just how that pie was to be baked; and when it was too dark to see, for we didn’t light the candle any earlier than we could help, and”—

“Why didn’t you light the candle early?” asked little Dick, pushing forward into the middle of the group.

“Why, because we were poor,” said Polly, “and we had to save the candles as long as we could. Well, and we used to play it really was Thanksgiving, and the table was set, and”—

“And Polly always played that she had a bunch of flowers to trim the chicken with,” said Ben.

“Well, and now something very dreadful happened,” said Polly; “very dreadful indeed. I won’t tell you what it was, but”—

“Oh, tell, tell, Polly Pepper, do!” cried all the Whitney boys in a clamor.

“No, not just yet,” said Polly, shaking her brown head decidedly; “because that would spoil the story. But I’m going to pretend that the old gray goose and the black chicken could talk together, and tell you what they said.”

“And then will you tell us the perfectly dreadful thing that happened?” asked Van anxiously; while the others cried delightedly, “Oh, that will be fine!”

“Yes,” said Polly, with a reassuring nod over at him, “I will Vanny, tell it all. Well, so here is what they said. The old gray goose began it:

“‘Humph!’ she said, with a very knowing look; ‘you don’t know as much as you will in a short time—say in November.’

“Now, what November was, the chicken, of course, couldn’t tell, for he had never seen a November; so he asked the cross old goose very plainly, but very politely, one day, to tell him exactly what she did mean. This was the week before Thanksgiving; and it rained, and it was cold and dreary, and the two were perched on a rail, shivering with the cold. But what the old gray goose was saying made Shanghai shake and shiver worse than anything else, only he pretended that he wasn’t frightened a bit.

“Now, you must know that the old gray goose was very angry at the Shanghai chicken for coming there at all; and when she saw us all feed it, she got angrier and angrier, till she tried to say very bad things indeed to that poor little black chicken.”

“That was naughty,” little Dick burst out vehemently.

“Yes, she was very naughty indeed,” said Phronsie, shaking her head gravely.

“So she was,” declared Polly; “wait, and you’ll see what happened. Well, she went on, and on, and talked, and talked, about how the chicken was to be baked in pieces in a pie, and all that.

“‘I’ve seen ’em!’ she said with the air of one who knew everything. ‘Year after year, hens and chickens, yes, and geese, stepping around in the morning, oh! so happy and smart; and then at evening they would go past here to market, all stiff and stark, with their heads off and Mr. Brown’s boy holding them by their legs! All for pies, and so that people may eat themselves sick; and they call it a Thanksgiving!’

“Oh, how the chicken shook! It seemed as if it would fall off from its perch; but it was very dark, so the old goose didn’t notice it. Shanghai wouldn’t for all the world have had her; so he controlled himself, and, being a brave little fellow, he stopped the beating of his heart, and he spoke up loud:—

“‘Well, why weren’t you baked in a pie, then, along with the others?’

“‘What!—why—well—’ stammered the goose, ‘they were going to kill me time and again,—but—well, the fact is, they thought so much of me they couldn’t bear to.’ In spite of its fright, the chicken couldn’t help laughing softly to itself.

“‘Well, come, you’d better go to bed!’ crossly snapped the goose; ‘they’ll come for you bright and early in the morning. I heard ’em saying so.’

“‘Well! then I say,’ declared the chicken, drawing himself up on his long legs till he looked, oh, so tall! ‘they won’t find me here; that’s all I’ve got to say!’

“‘Why, where will you go?’ demanded the goose, seeing that she had gone too far in the desire to make the poor little chicken as unhappy as possible.

“‘Oh, I’m going to set out for my own fortune!’ gayly replied the chicken. ‘At any rate, it can’t be any worse than to be baked in a pie. I think I see myself staying here for that! No; good-night, Mrs. Goose. Thank you for all your kindness; I’m off!’

“‘Yes! and be stuck in a bog for your pains!’ scornfully hissed the old goose, seeing it was useless to advise or to urge further; but the chicken’s long legs were going at a pretty smart pace down the hill, and it was soon out of sight, and it was never seen by any of us in The Little Brown House again.”

“Oh, dear me!” screamed Percy and Van together; “then, you didn’t have any chicken-pie. Why, Polly Pepper— And you said you had one!” While little Dick roared steadily, only the words, “chicken,” and “pie,” and “Oh, dear! oh, dear!” could be heard.

When the noise was quelled as best it could be, by Jasper and Ben, Polly was saying, “Well that was the very dreadful thing that happened, you know I told you about, and”—

“And didn’t you have anything?”—

“Any pie—any pie at all,” screamed and wailed the Whitney children, beside themselves with distress. So Polly hastened to reassure them. “There, there, don’t feel so, boys; you’ll see it all turned out beautifully, after all.”

“How could it,” exclaimed Van, horribly disappointed, “if you didn’t have any chicken-pie, after all?”

“You’ll see,” was all that Polly would tell him by way of comfort, as she hurried on.

“Well, ’twas a beautiful morning, wasn’t it, Ben,” cried Polly, “when you went out to kill the chicken?”

“Yes,” said Ben; “but what I remember most of all was, how you all screamed and cried, and said you’d rather go without the pie than to have the chicken killed.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the little bunch of Whitneys.

“I know it,” said Polly. “And so, after all, it was better that that black Shanghai ran away.”

“O Polly Pepper!” cried all the children but Phronsie.

“Yes,” said Polly stoutly; “I really think it was. Well, never mind, let us go on and hear the rest of it. Joel was the first one to tell us the chicken had gone. He rushed screaming in, ‘O Mamsie! Mamsie! the chicken isn’t there!’”

“Oh, dear me!” interrupted Joel; “I remember.”

“And after him came Davie flying in, and then I can’t tell you how we all acted in that kitchen.”

“You didn’t, Polly,” said Ben hastily; “all the rest of us did.”

“I know I was just as bad as any of us,” said Polly. “Well, anyway, then we all went out and hunted for the chicken, and”—

“And didn’t you ever find him?” demanded Percy.

“No, she said so before,” said Van; “she said they never saw him again, don’t you know?”

“No, we couldn’t find him,” said Polly to Percy, “though we hunted high and low,—in the woodshed, and the Provision Room, and all about the house, and down in the pine wood, oh! and over by Cherry Brook. Well, you can’t think how we searched for that long black chicken. Yes, and Ben ran down to the swamp where he had found it, when he was digging sweet-flag, to see if perhaps Mister Shanghai had run back there, and got stuck in the bog; but no, he wasn’t there, not a bit of him, so finally we all had to come home and tell Mamsie that we couldn’t find him. And it rained dreadfully all that afternoon; and there was the flour-bag standing up all ready in the pantry, oh, dear! and so we had to tell stories to keep the children from being too sorry and forlorn, and”—

“You did, Polly,” corrected Ben. “I couldn’t; but you told some splendid stories.”

“Oh! will you tell us some of those splendid stories, Polly Pepper?” cried Percy radiantly. “Will you? that you told that rainy afternoon, when the black chicken ran away?”

“She’s going to tell us how the old gray goose bit Sally Brown, too,” declared Van positively, not losing sight of this future bliss.

“And so I will, Van,” promised Polly; “and I’ll tell you one of the stories I told the children on that dreadful afternoon when it rained, and the black chicken ran away. But not now; I must finish about the chicken-pie.”

“Tell more than one, Polly,” begged the children; “please tell us all the stories you told then.”

“We’ll see,” said Polly brightly; “I’ll tell you some, but I don’t know as I could tell you all the stories I told that dreadful afternoon. I had to tell a good many, you know; it was so very hard to get over. Well, now we must hurry. Where was I? Oh”—

“You said you were telling stories,” shouted Van, first of all.

“Yes, I know. Well, it was Ben who first proposed the best thing you could think of in all this world. All of a sudden he jumped up, and waved his hand like this.” Polly sprang to her feet. “See here, children, why not let’s have the old gray goose?” she shouted.

“And you all screamed at me ‘The goose,’ in great scorn,” said Ben.

“I know we did,” said Polly humbly, her hand falling to her side; “but that was because we weren’t as smart as you were, to see what a wise thing it was to have the old gray goose. I remember you said, if we can’t have chicken-pie, why we must take the next best, and that’s goose.”

“Well, you all came around finely in a little while, though,” said Ben, smiling at her. “And Mamsie said: ‘I think Ben is right; and the old gray goose is really too cross to be allowed to live, for it isn’t safe to have her around any longer; so she really ought to be killed, anyway, and we can boil her a good while to make her as tender as possible; so you can have your pie, Polly!’”

“Oh, dear me!” said the Whitney children.

“And Polly said: ‘but why couldn’t the old gray goose have run away, I wonder?’ and that made us all laugh,” said Ben, “instead of crying any more.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” screamed Van; and he rolled over and over on the floor in a ball. “Now the old gray goose, the bad, naughty, hateful old thing, is going to be killed, instead of the chicken she scared so.”

“So am I,” cried Percy; but he sat quite straight and dignified in his chair, only clapping his hands by way of approval. “Oh, do tell on, Polly!” he begged.

“And so the old gray goose, huddling in from the rain, and chuckling to herself at the state of affairs, didn’t dream what was coming; and on the next morning, chop—off went her head—and we had our pie.”

“And Polly had some flowers on it, after all,” said Ben; “for, at the last minute, a neighbor ran in with a bunch of posies; and she said: ‘I’m real sorry you had such a time about your pie, children.’ So, you see, the old gray goose was decked up fine after all; for Polly stuck them in her bony, tough old breast.”

“And Mamsie baked us such a beautiful pudding,” cried Polly, looking over at Mrs. Pepper with a bright smile.

“Most all plums,” said Joel, smacking his lips at the remembrance. “My! wasn’t it good, though!”

“And did Phronsie get her wish-bone?” asked little Dick anxiously.

“Why, how could she, when the black chicken ran away with it?” cried Polly.