I.
THE LITTLE WHITE CHICKEN.

“You see,” said Polly, “the little white chicken was determined she would go into Susan’s playhouse.”

Phronsie sat in Mamsie’s big calico-covered rocking-chair. The last tear had trailed off the round cheek since Polly had come home and was by her side, holding her hand. The pounded toes were thrust out before her, tied up in an old cloth, and waiting for the wormwood which was steeping on the fire. Grandma Bascom, protesting that soon Phronsie wouldn’t know that she had any toes, sank into a chair and beamed at her. “You pretty creeter, you,” she cried, her cap-border bobbing heartily.

“I wish she wouldn’t talk,” grunted Joel, burrowing on the floor, his head in Polly’s lap, where her soft fingers could smooth his stubby black hair.

“’Sh!” said Polly, with a warning pinch.

“Go on,” begged Davie, hanging over her chair, intent as Phronsie on the fate of the white chicken; “did she go in, Polly; did she?”

Phronsie sat still, her eyes on Polly’s face, her fat little hands clasped in her lap, while she held her breath for the answer.

“Dear me, yes,” cried Polly quickly; “she stretched her neck like this,” suiting the action to the word, for Polly always acted out, as much as she could, all her stories, particularly on emergencies like the present one, “and peered around the corner. Susan wasn’t there, for she was up at the house sitting on a stool and sewing patchwork. But there was a black object over in the corner, and”—

“Oh, you pretty creeter, you!” exclaimed Grandma suddenly, at Phronsie, on whom she had gazed unceasingly, “so you did pound your toes—there—there—you pretty creeter!”

“Ugh—ugh! make her stop,” howled Joel, twitching up his head from its soft nest. “Oh, dear, we can’t hear anything. Stop her, Polly, do.”

“Joel,” said Polly, “hush this minute; just think how good she’s been, and the raisins. O Joey!”

“They are dreadful hard,” grumbled Joel; but he slipped his head back on Polly’s lap, wishing her fingers would smooth his hair again. But they didn’t; so he burrowed deeper, and tried not to cry. Meanwhile Phronsie, with a troubled expression settling over her face at this condition of things, made as though she would slip from the old chair. “Take me, Polly,” she begged, holding out her arms.

“Oh, no, you mustn’t, you pretty creeter,” declared Grandma, getting out of her chair to waddle over to the scene, her cap-border trembling violently, “you’ll hurt your toes. You must set where you be till you get the wormwood on.” And Davie running over to put his arms around Phronsie and beg her to keep still, the little old kitchen soon became in great confusion till it seemed as if the white chicken must be left for all time, peering in at Susan’s playhouse and the black object in the corner.

“Oh, dear me!” cried Polly at her wit’s end; “now you see, Joey. Whatever shall I do?”

“Take me, Polly,” implored Phronsie, leaning out of the big chair at the imminent danger of falling on her nose, and two tears raced over her round cheeks. At sight of these, Polly suddenly lifted her out and over to her lap, Joel deserting that post in a trice, and wishing he was Phronsie so that he could cry and be comforted.

“Dear, dear, dear!” exclaimed Grandma Bascom gustily, trotting off to the tin cup with the wormwood steeping on the stove. “She must have the wormwood on. Whatever’ll become of her toes if she don’t set still, I d’no. There, there, she’s a pretty creeter.”

“I don’t want any on,” said Phronsie from her nest in Polly’s arms, and contentedly snuggling down. “Please don’t let her put any on, Polly,” she whispered up against her neck.

“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.”

“Oh, ho,” Phronsie laughed gleefully, “how funny!”

So one of Mamsie’s old cloth slippers was tied on to Phronsie’s little foot with a bit of string through the middle, the children one and all protesting that it looked like an old black pudding-bag; and Polly began again, “Now,” she said absently, “I’ll tell you about the little white chicken—just as soon as I have—oh, dear me! let me see if I have all my things ready.” She wrinkled her brows and thought a minute. Joel kicked his heels impatiently against the table-side, while Davie clasped his hands tight so as not to say anything to worry Polly.

“Yes, I believe they’re all here,” said Polly, after what seemed an age to the children. “Well, there now, children, I’m ready to begin on the story. Oh, let me see, all but the big bowl;” and she ran into the buttery and brought it out, and began to mix the cake with quite an important air. Phronsie drew a long breath of delight that ended in a happy little crow. “You must know that the white chicken made up her mind that she would go into Susan’s playhouse, although”—

“You told that,” interrupted Joel, filliping at the dish where the raisins, with a plentiful sprinkling of flour, lay ready to lend their magnificence to Mamsie’s birthday cake; “go on where you left off, Polly.”

“You said she saw a black object over in the corner,” said Davie, with big eyes; “tell about that.”

“Oh, yes, so I did!” said Polly; “now, Joe, you mustn’t touch the raisins. Every single one must go into Mamsie’s cake.”

Joel drew away his hand; but it was impossible not to regard the plate, on which he kept his gaze fastened.

“Well, in crept the little white chicken,” said Polly tragically, and stirring briskly the cake-mixture with the long wooden spoon, “hoping the black object wouldn’t see her. She had to go in you see, because just outside the door, coming under the apple-trees, was a noise, and it sounded very much like a boy; and the little white chicken had rather be scared by a black object in the corner inside, than to let that boy spy her. So she crept in very softly, and was just beginning to tuck up her feet and sit down behind the door, when the black object stirred, and over went the little white chicken all in a heap.”

Joel gave a grunt of great satisfaction, and tore his eyes from the raisin-plate.

“What was it?” gasped Davie fearfully, and getting nearer to Polly’s side. Phronsie kept her wide eyes on Polly’s face, and sat quite still, her little hands folded in her lap.

“You wait and see,” said Polly gayly, and stirring away for dear life. “Well, over went the little white chicken, and”—

“You said that,” interrupted Joel; “do hurry and tell the rest.”

“Then she shut her eyes just like this,” Polly stopped stirring, and turned to Phronsie, wrinkling up her face as much like a chicken in despair as was possible. “Oh, you can’t think how she felt; she was so frightened! She tried to call her mother, but the ‘peep—peep’ that always used to be so loud and clear, stuck way down in her throat; and then she knew she never in all this world could make her mother hear because she hadn’t minded her. And outside she could hear old Mrs. Hen calling her brothers and sisters to come and get the worms she had just scratched up.”

“And wouldn’t the little white chicken ever get a worm?” broke out Phronsie in dreadful excitement; “wouldn’t she, Polly, ever?”

“No—oh, yes; she could when she was good,” said Polly at sight of Phronsie’s face.

“Make her good,” begged Phronsie, unclasping her hands to pull Polly’s gown; “oh do, Polly!”

“No, make her bad,” cried Joel insistently; “as bad as can be, do, Polly!”

“O Joel!” reproved Polly, stirring away; “whoever would want that little white chicken bad—any more than for a boy to be naughty.”

“Well, make her bad enough to be scared; and have the awful black thing be a bear, and most bite her to death, and chew her head off,” cried Joel, feeling delicious thrills at the dreadful possibilities that might happen to the chicken.

“Oh, dear me!” cried Polly in horror, “the poor little white chicken!”

“Don’t let it bite her much,” said Davie. “But do make it a bear, Polly!”

“Well, I will,” said Polly obligingly, “make it a bear, boys.”

“And don’t let it bite her any,” begged Phronsie; and she put up her lip, while the brown eyes were imploringly fixed on Polly’s face.

Joel squirmed all over the table-end. “Just such a little bear,” he remonstrated. “Hoh! he couldn’t bite much; I’d just as lieves he’d bite me,” baring his brown arm.

“No—no—no!” protested Phronsie, shaking her yellow head decidedly; “I don’t want him to bite her any, poor little white chicken;” and she looked so very near to crying, and Mamsie’s old black slipper on the pounded toes began to flap so dismally, that Polly hastened to say, “Oh! I’ll tell you, children, what I’ll do; I’ll have Tommy come out and shoot the bear right away.”

“Oh, whickety!” whooped Joel. David clasped his hands ecstatically. This was much better,—to have Tommy and the bear, than the bear and the little white chicken. Phronsie laughed delightedly, “Make him come quick, do, Polly!” she screamed.

“Hurry up!” called Joel; “O Phron! don’t talk. Do hurry, Polly!”

“Well, you see,” went on Polly, stirring away for dear life, “that when Susan went into the house to sit on the stool and do patchwork, her brother Tommy thought he would take his gun and see if he could find anything to shoot, like rabbits, and”—

“No—no,” cried Joel in alarm, twitching her sleeve, “bears, bears!”

“He didn’t expect to see a bear,” said Polly; “he went out to shoot rabbits. But he found the bear instead, you know,” catching sight of Joel’s face, which immediately cleared up, and he settled back contentedly. “Well, Tommy went along by old Mother Hen clucking and scratching, and all the rest of the chickens, except the little white one; and just as he was going by Susan’s playhouse he thought he would look in and scare the dolls with his big gun.”

“Don’t let him, Polly!” begged Phronsie in a worse fright than before. “Oh, don’t let him; don’t let him!”

“Ow! there ain’t any fun. Phron keeps stopping us all the time,” howled Joel. “Let him, Polly. Gee—whiz—bang! that’s the way I’d do,” bringing an imaginary gun to his shoulder and blazing away.

“Well, then he’d have scared the bear so he couldn’t have shot him,” said little Davie quietly.

“So he would, Davie,” said Polly approvingly, and dropping the spoon to pet Phronsie; “if Joel had been there, the bear would have got away.”

Joel, much discomfited at this, ducked suddenly and looked sheepish. “Well, go on,” he said.

“And Tommy didn’t scare the dolls, because you see he was scared himself. The first thing he saw was the little white chicken crouched down like this.” Down went Polly on the old kitchen floor, and made herself so much like a little white chicken very much frightened, that the children held their breath to see her.

“And then Tommy looked at what scared the little white chicken,” went on Polly, hopping up and beginning to stir the cake-mixture again. “And—he—saw—the—bear!”

It is impossible to describe the effect this statement had on the old kitchen and its occupants; and Polly, well pleased, rushed on, dilating on how the bear looked, and how Tommy looked, and how the little white chicken looked; till, in a pause, the crackling in the old stove proclaimed all things ready for the baking of Mamsie’s birthday cake, and she exclaimed, “Deary me, I must hurry. Oh well! Tommy saw the bear getting ready to spring, just like this; and he put up his gun, like this, and it went bang—bang! and over went Mr. Bear quite, quite dead.”

“Like this?” cried Joel, tumbling off from the table-end to a heap in the middle of the old floor; “just like this, Polly?” sticking up his stubby black head to look at her.

“No—no!” cried Davie, hurrying to make another heap of himself by Joel’s side; “he stuck up his legs, didn’t he, Polly?” and out went David’s arms and legs as stiff as sticks, as he lay on his back staring at the ceiling.

“Hoh—hoh!” laughed Joel in derision; “bears don’t tumble down that way, Dave, when they’re killed; do they, Polly?”

“Yes, they do too,” contradicted little David, not moving a muscle; “don’t they, Polly?” while Phronsie tried to get out of her big chair to show, too, how she thought the bear would tumble over.

“Oh, no, Phronsie pet, you mustn’t!” cried Polly in alarm; “you’ll hurt your poor toes. Well, I think the bear looked something like both of you boys. He didn’t stick his legs up stiff, but he was on his back like Davie.”

“Well, I’m on my back,” cried Joel, whirling over; while David’s stiff little wooden legs and arms fell down in a twinkling. “Well, now you boys must get me the cinnamon,” said Polly, with a brisk eye on the old clock. “Deary me, I ought to have this cake in the oven—it’s in the Provision Room, you know.”

“And then we’ll get something to eat,” cried the two bears, hopping up to race off.