“Please, Polly,” entreated Phronsie, pulling Polly’s gown gently.

“O Pet! there isn’t time,” said Polly hastily, “to tell you a story now. Why, Mamsie will call us in a quarter of an hour.”

“Just the ‘Silly Little Brook,’” pleaded Phronsie, folding her hands.

“Why, you’ve heard that fifty thousand times,” said Polly; “oh,—oh! don’t ask for that.” She gave a long yawn, and flew back to the table. “Where is that pink embroidery silk Auntie gave me? Now I’ll try that new stitch.”

“Here ’tis,” said Phronsie, getting down on the floor, and spying it where it had trailed off on the table-cloth; and she quickly brought it up in her hand.

“Oh, that’s good!” exclaimed Polly in great satisfaction, with one eye on the French mantel clock. “Now, if I had to hunt for that tiresome pink silk, the whole quarter of an hour would be gone; and I must try this rosebud to show to Auntie Whitney.” She seized her embroidery work, huddling up silks and thimble, and all, and ran to ensconce herself in a cosey corner of the library sofa, humming softly to herself the last piece of music Monsieur had given to her.

“I might have a piece of the ‘Silly Little Brook,’” said Phronsie, standing quite still by the table.

“What is it?” cried Polly, coming out from the trills and runs, to stare at her. “Oh, that story! I forgot all about it, Phronsie. Yes, indeed, you shall have it.” And a remorseful wave made her cheek rosy red. “I’m a selfish little pig, Phronsie. Come over, and I’ll tell it right away.”

“You’re not a little pig,” said Phronsie, hurrying over to the sofa to tuck herself away in a blissful frame of mind close to Polly; “and I am so glad you are going to tell it, and please begin right off, Polly,” all in one breath.

“Yes, indeed, I will,” said Polly with a sorry little twinge for the minutes lost. “Well, you know the Silly Little Brook was not our Cherry Brook,” she began, well knowing that fact must usher in the story.

“It was not our Cherry Brook,” repeated Phronsie distinctly, and smoothing down her white apron, “because our Cherry Brook was a nice brook, and didn’t do silly things.”

“That’s so,” assented Polly, wondering if she was making her rosebud pink enough; “well, one day, quite early in the morning, when the sun was peeping over the top of a high mountain”—

“Tell how he peeped over, please, Polly,” begged Phronsie, who dearly loved to have Polly act out her stories.

So Polly laid down her rosebud, thimble, and all, in Phronsie’s lap, and got up and told it over again, to Phronsie’s intense satisfaction; then she hopped back to her embroidery work.

“And at the same time the Silly Little Brook awoke, and opened its eyes to the sun and the world. ‘Oh! how do you do?’ said the Sun, laughing as the Silly Little Brook blinked its eyes at him.

“‘Who are you?’ asked the Silly Little Brook; ‘I never saw you before.’

“‘Of course not,’ said the Sun, laughing worse than ever, ‘because you have never been awake before. Come, now, it is time for you to get to work; you’ve been a long time asleep. Look back of you.’

“The Silly Little Brook did just as the Sun told her, and looked back of her. ‘I don’t see anything,’ she said, ‘except a black hole in the ground.’

“‘Of course you don’t,’ said the Sun, ‘because that’s all there is to see. You’ve just come out of that hole, where you’ve been asleep all your life. Now look ahead!’

“The Sun said this so loud, and stared at her face so long, that the Silly Little Brook began to feel quite uncomfortable; so she winked and blinked and said nothing.

“‘Look ahead,’ commanded the Sun sharply. ‘Oh, you silly, stupid, little thing!’ And this time she obeyed; and there was a tiny, wee, little stream of clear, white water trickling away like a thread down the mountain.”

“It was the Silly Little Brook,” cried Phronsie, clapping her hands in glee, just as if she hadn’t heard the story time and again.

“Yes,” said Polly, bobbing her head, and setting in quick stitches, “so it was. ‘Now hurry up!’ said the Sun; by this time he was very fierce, for his face had been getting rounder and bigger every minute, ‘and set to work, for you have a great deal to do. Be a useful little brook, and don’t stop on your way, and I shall be glad that you woke up. Good-day!’ And the Silly Little Brook felt her feet give way before her, and in a minute she was slipping and sliding down, down, the mountain side.

“‘I’m not going to be sent down in this fashion,’ she grumbled as soon as she could catch her breath, while she rested a bit in a hollow. ‘I shall choose my way, and what I’ll do; and I’m not going to work all the time either, and that cross old Sun needn’t think he can command me to do it. I’m going to play as much as I want to.’ With that she rested in the hollow all that day, and the next, and the next.”

Phronsie shook her yellow head mournfully, as one who knows a sorrowful tale too well.

“The first day,” said Polly, hurrying on, “the birds came to see the Silly Little Brook; and they sang sweet songs over her head, and they told her pretty stories, and they dipped their beaks in her clear little pool of water in the hollow; and the Silly Little Brook said to herself, ‘Oh, what a lovely time this is! How good it was for me that I didn’t mind what the cross old Sun said to me when he told me not to stop. Forsooth! I shall stop here as long as I want to.’”

“What does for—what is it, Polly,—mean?” asked Phronsie who always asked this question at this particular stage of the story.

“Oh, it doesn’t mean anything!” said Polly carelessly.

“Then, why did she say it?” persisted Phronsie.

“Oh, because it sounded nice!” said Polly, twitching her pink silk thread out to replace it with a green one to begin on the calyx; “people have to say things sometimes that don’t mean anything—in a story.”

“Do they?” said Phronsie with wondering eyes.

“Well, she did any way,” said Polly; “so she said ‘Forsooth!’ and tossed her head, and immediately she felt very big and grand. And the next day the birds came, and everything was lovely, and the Silly Little Brook went to sleep at night, and dreamed of all sorts of beautiful things. But the day after, she looked up, and saw to her astonishment a flock of birds, that was whirring along over the tip of the mountain-side, pause when they got to her, and look down; then they whispered together, and presently off they flew, chattering, ‘Oh, no—no; we’ll not stop there!’

“What to make of it the Silly Little Brook did not know; she only tossed her head, and grew angrier and angrier, and said she didn’t care. But she went to sleep sobbing as hard as she could that night; and her pillow, a clump of moss, was wet with tears.”

Phronsie moved uneasily, but said not a word.

“At last, as morning broke, the Silly Little Brook heard a voice close to her ear say, ‘O dear Brook, wake up! I have something to say to you;’ and there was Robin Redbreast.”

“I am so glad he has come, Polly,” ejaculated Phronsie in relief.

“The Silly Little Brook at that opened her eyes. ‘What is it?’ she asked sadly.

“‘Don’t you know why the birds are flying over your head, to seek other streams, without so much as giving you a gentle word,—and no one remains to tell you the truth but me?’ asked Robin.

“‘No, I don’t!’ said the Silly Little Brook; ‘tell me, Robin.’

“‘Look for yourself,’ said Robin Redbreast.

“So the Silly Little Brook turned her eyes to look at herself in the little hollow where she had rested, and lo and behold, instead of the clear, white water with the shade just like the violets in our woods at Badgertown, you know, Phronsie,” and Polly’s hands with their work dropped to her lap, “why”—

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Phronsie with a small sigh, hearing which, Polly picked up her work again and hurried on.

“Why, there was a dark, dirty pool of water with a little green scum coming all over the top of it.

“‘Oh, Horrors!’ screamed the Silly Little Brook, ‘why, where have I gone? That isn’t my little Brook.’

“‘Yes it is,’ said Robin, shaking his head sadly; ‘you’re turned into this hateful thing because you staid still. O dear Brook! why didn’t you obey the good Sun, and go on?’

“‘I will now,’ said the Silly Little Brook, bursting into a torrent of tears; and she tried to start. But her feet were all tangled up in a mess of leaves and green things that weren’t nice, and she couldn’t stir a step.”

Phronsie here moved uneasily again, but waited for Polly to go on.

“‘I’ll help you,’ said Robin Redbreast quickly; and, jumping down, he picked patiently all the sticks and leaves he could in his bill, and carried them out of the way of the Silly Little Brook when she should once more start to run down the mountain-side.”

“He was a nice Robin Redbreast, Polly, and I like him,” Phronsie exclaimed joyfully.

“So he was, Pet,” Polly made haste to answer. “Well, but as fast as he picked off the leaves and sticks out of the way of the Silly Little Brook, ever so many others would come blowing down on her from the trees, and choke up the path again. So at last poor Robin Redbreast had to sit down quite tired out, and declare he could do no more.”

“Please hurry and tell it, Polly,” begged Phronsie, pulling her sleeve, for Polly dearly loved to stop a bit in the most impressive spots.

“Well, and then the Silly Little Brook began to sob and to scream louder than ever; and the sticks and leaves flew around her thick and fast, for it was a very windy day; and the birds flew over her head, never so much as giving her a glance; and it was very dreadful indeed,” said Polly, holding up her embroidery at arm’s length to see if the calyx was beginning to look exactly as if the rosebud were just picked from the garden.

“Please hurry,” begged Phronsie, pulling her sleeve again.

“So I will,” said Polly; “I think that is just as near right as I can get it, although it doesn’t look like a real rose,” she sighed; “but you must let me stop once in a while, child, for the story sounds better.”

“But I want the Silly Little Brook to stop crying and get out,” said Phronsie in gentle haste.

“Well, so I will let her out, you’ll see,” promised Polly, hurrying on to set in more green stitches, determined, since she couldn’t make it like a real rose from Grandpapa’s garden, she would have it as good a one as possible.

“‘I shall die here,’ mourned the Silly Little Brook; and the wind in the trees sobbed over her, ‘She will die there,’ until Robin Redbreast let his head droop on his pretty red bosom.”

“Please hurry, Polly,” said Phronsie pleadingly, and there were tears in the brown eyes.

“But suddenly up jumped Robin,” cried Polly, casting aside her embroidery on the sofa; and suiting the action to the word, she sprang to her feet and waved her arms. “And he trilled out loud and clear, while he flapped his wings, ‘Stop your crying, dear Brook, I will go and bring some help;’ for he had heard what the Silly Little Brook had not been able to hear, as she was weeping so hard, the notes way up in the sky of some little birds that he knew.”

“Polly!” exclaimed Phronsie, in great excitement, and slipping from the sofa to plant herself in front of Polly,—still waving her arms, and crying, “Stop your crying, dear Brook, I will go and bring some help,”—“I love that Robin Redbreast, I do.”

“Well, we must get back to the sofa, and finish this story, or Mamsie’ll call us before we’re ready,” laughed Polly, her arms tumbling to her sides; and she picked up Phronsie, and in a minute there they were in the cosey corner once more.

“So off he flew post-haste,” hurried on Polly, picking up her needle once more to set quick stitches; “and oh! as soon as you could think, back he came, and a whole troop of Robin Redbreasts who were on a journey together, and there were so many of them that they picked out every stick and leaf before the new ones had a chance to choke up the way: and pretty soon, ‘Start now!’ they said; and the Silly Little Brook put out her feet, and away she went slipping and sliding and trickling and running like a mad little thing down the mountain-side.”

Phronsie clapped her hands and shouted in glee.

“‘Don’t stop again,’ screamed every one of those Robin Redbreasts after her, ‘but go on—and on—and on.’”

“Pol—ly!” called Mamsie over the stairs—and “Phron—sie! it’s time to go down town to buy your shoes.”