Phronsie was wailing dismally, sitting up in the middle of the old bed. Her face pricked, she said; and she was rubbing it vigorously with both fat little hands, and then crying worse than ever.

“O me—O my!”—cried Polly; “how you look, Phronsie!”

“I want my Mamsie!” cried poor Phronsie.

But Mamsie couldn’t come. She was sewing away for dear life, to keep the wolf from the door. So Polly curled up on the bed beside Phronsie, and fed her mouthfuls of the toast, with its unwonted richness—the sweet butter that Mrs. Henderson, the parson’s wife, sent over—while she told the doings of all the chickens in the Hendersons’ hen-coop; then gayly launched off into other stories. And this is one of the stories she told:—

“You must know,” began Polly briskly, as Phronsie leaned back against the pillow, the last morsel of toast despatched, “that the children had never seen a kangaroo, and—keep your toes in bed Phronsie;” and Polly jumped off the bed, and gave a quick pull at the bed-clothes, “oh, dear me! or the dreadful old measles will catch ’em.”

Phronsie pulled in her fat little toes where she had stuck them out from the edge of the patched bed-quilt, and huddled them under her in terror. “They’re so hot, Polly,” she wailed. “Oh, dear! will the dreadful things catch ’em? Will they, Polly?” hugging Polly around the neck.

“Not if you keep ’em in bed, child,” said Polly, patting the little bunch under the bed-quilt reassuringly; “there, stretch ’em out, Phronsie; there won’t anything hurt ’em if you keep ’em in bed.”

“Won’t they, Polly?” asked Phronsie fearfully, still huddling up in a heap.

“No, no! Come on, Mister Toes,” sang Polly gayly, pulling at them. “Doctor said you mustn’t get cold, or the measles would run in. There, that’s all right,” as Phronsie’s toes came down again; “now everything’s just splendid, and I’ll go on about my lovely kangaroo. He”—

“They’re so hot,” sighed Phronsie, wriggling all her toes; “and they prick, Polly—they do”—

“Well, we can’t help that,” said Polly; “you see, that’s the measles. And I suppose the kangaroo had prickly toes too, sometimes, Phronsie. Now I’m going to get up on the bed again, and hold your hand, and then we’ll hear all about him.” So Polly hopped up beside Phronsie, and took her hot little hand in both of her bigger ones, and began again. “You see he”—

“Please don’t let him have the—the”—broke in Phronsie, turning her flushed face eagerly toward Polly’s on the pillow, “don’t Polly,” she begged.

“Have the what?” cried Polly, racking her brains to think what she could do with her kangaroo. She must tell Phronsie a good story about him. “Well, I’ve seen the picture of him in the minister’s book, and I guess I can make up something about him that she’ll like.

“What is it that you want me not to do to him, Phronsie?” she asked.

“Don’t let him have—th—these—things—like mine?” pleaded Phronsie, the tears coming into the brown eyes. And despite all her efforts, she wriggled her toes, and cried, “Oh, it pricks so, Polly,” burrowing down deep in the old bed, and rubbing her chubby face.

“Oh, he sha’n’t have the measles!” cried Polly; “and you mustn’t do so, Phronsie,” all in one breath. And pulling Phronsie up against the pillow again, Polly seized both of the little fat hands and held them close. “There, there, just hear all about my lovely kangaroo, Phronsie; why, he ran into the forest, and he carried all the little bits of kangarooses in a bag with him.”

“Did he have a bag?” asked Phronsie. And she let her hands stay quite still in Polly’s clasp, and the two tears on her round cheeks ran down on the old quilt unheeded.

“Yes, indeed; a big bag that hung down in front of him, and whenever he called, all his little children kangarooses would run and hop, and jump into that bag.”

“Oh!” screamed Phronsie delightedly.

“Yes, and then the old father kangaroo would peek over the edge of the bag and say, ‘Lie still, my children, and don’t kick each other;’ and then he”—

“Did he tie it?” asked Phronsie anxiously, and poking up her head to peer into Polly’s face. “Please don’t let him tie it tight, Polly.”

“No; he couldn’t tie it,” said Polly, “because you see there were no strings to his bag.”

“Oh!” said Phronsie, sinking back very much relieved.

“He gripped the edges together fast, and—but the little kangarooses had cunning little places they could stick their noses out,” she hastened to add, as she caught sight of Phronsie’s face. “Oh! they liked it ever so much. And then the old father kangaroo would run—oh, such dreadful big steps he would take, Phronsie, you can’t think, as big as all across this bed in one hop!”

Phronsie’s eyes widened delightedly, and she gave a long sigh of content.

“Tell me some more,” she begged.

“Well, one day Mr. Father Kangaroo was out in the forest getting dinner. He had short little wee feet in front, and he couldn’t walk very fast you see. And”—

“Where was the mother kan—what was it, Polly?” interrupted Phronsie. “Tell me, Polly, do.”

“Kangaroo? Oh, she was in the house, working away. You see, with so many children-kangarooses, Phronsie, there was lots and lots to do,” said Polly, growing quite desperate at the thought of Mother Pepper sewing out there in the old kitchen, and all the dishes not yet washed, and everything else at a standstill. “Now, you lie still, and perhaps you’ll go to sleep while I tell the rest.”

“I can’t go to sleep,” said Phronsie, putting up her lip sorrowfully.

“Never mind,” said Polly merrily; “don’t try.—Oh, where was I?”

“You said Father Kangaroo went off to get some dinner,” said Phronsie, concluding not to cry.

“Oh, yes,—well, you see, they hadn’t any of them had any breakfast. Just think of that, Phronsie, and you’ve had toast and elegant butter;” and Polly’s mouth watered, for she hadn’t tasted any of the little pat that Mrs. Henderson sent.

“Hadn’t they?” asked Phronsie sadly.

“No, not a single bite. Well, Father Kangaroo just stalked off, that is, he hopped with great big hops, for he knew he had to get some dinner, else the little bits of kangarooses would starve to death. And pretty soon he came right into the very middle of the forest; and there under the trees, in the midst of a bramble-bush, lay a little bird,—Oh, such a cunning little bird, you can’t think, Phronsie, so fat and juicy!”

“Oh, don’t let Mr. Father Kangaroo catch the little bird, Polly!” screamed Phronsie in terror; and springing up she seized Polly’s neck with both hands, and burst into tears.

“Oh, dear me, what shall I do?” cried Polly in despair, and cuddling her up. “No, he sha’n’t eat the bird, Phronsie; now stop crying this minute, the kangaroo sha’n’t eat him, I say. I’ll make the little bird go home with him, and sing to the children kangarooses—there—there—now, says I, we’ll lie down again.”

So she patted and tucked Phronsie in again under the clothes, and wiped her face dry with the old soft handkerchief Mamsie had left under the pillow, and then she began once more.

“Deary me, where was I?—Oh, I know, I was going to have the little bird go home with Mr. Father Kangaroo.”

“Yes,” said Phronsie happily; “you were going to, Polly.”

“So Mr. Father Kangaroo looked sharply at the fat little bird lying there in the middle of the bramble-bush; and he asked, ‘What’s the matter down there, little bird?’

“And the little bird cocked up one eye at him just like this,” said Polly, suiting the action to the word.

Phronsie poked up her yellow head to see, and smiled gleefully.

“And the little bird piped out, ‘Oh Mr. big Kangaroo-man, I can’t get out.’”

“Oh, make him help him, Polly,” cried Phronsie very much excited, and pulling her hands out of Polly’s to clasp them together tightly. “Do, Polly, quick!”

“Yes; indeed I will, Pet. So Mr. Father Kangaroo leaned over the bramble-bush, and roared in a big voice, ‘Here, I’ll hold the brambles away with my paws, and you can jump into my bag.’”

“Oh, oh!” screamed Phronsie in delight. “And he did, and up jumped the little fat bird,” said Polly, tossing her hands out with a whir; “and in he came flopping oh, so quickly, into the big bag of Mr. Father Kangaroo. ’Twas just as nice, Phronsie, oh, you can’t think!”

“’Twas just as nice,” cooed Phronsie happily; “the little bird in the big bag. Tell some more, Polly, do.”

“Well then, you see, the big Mr. Father Kangaroo didn’t know what to do with the little fat bird; so he said, ‘Now, my dear, don’t you want to fly out of my bag and go home?’ And the little fat bird huddled down into the darkest corner of the bag and he piped out, ‘Oh, I haven’t any home, Mr. Kangaroo. A great cross old squirrel came up to my nest this morning, and ate up all my brothers and sisters, and I flew away and tumbled into the bramble-bush.’”

“Oh, dear!” cried Phronsie in dismay.

“But wasn’t it good that Mr. Father Kangaroo found the fat little bird?” cried Polly in her cheeriest fashion.

“Yes,” said Phronsie, “it was good, Polly.”

“Well, so Mr. Father Kangaroo said, ‘I’ll take you to my home.’ He didn’t know what in all the world he should do; for he had six—no, seven hungry little kangarooses, and not a bit to give them for dinner. But he couldn’t leave the poor little fat bird to starve, you know.”

“He was a good Mr. Father Kan—what is it, Polly?” declared Phronsie, clasping her hands.

“Kangaroo. Yes, wasn’t he Phronsie? So he looked down into the bag, and he said, ‘Now don’t you cry, little bird, and you shall go home with me where the cross old squirrels cannot catch you;’ for he thought he heard the little fat bird sobbing down in the dark corner.”

“And was he?” cried Phronsie.

“Perhaps so—a little wee bit. But he didn’t cry any more; for as soon as he heard Mr. Father Kangaroo say that, he chirped out, ‘Thank you, Mr. Kangaroo-man, and I’ll sing for you all the day long.’”

“That was nice in the little bird, wasn’t it, Polly?” cried Phronsie, wiggling her toes in a satisfied way.

“Yes, indeed. Well, so away they trudged—I mean Mr. Father Kangaroo trudged, and hopped, and skipped, with great long steps, and pretty soon he came to his home. And the little kangarooses saw him coming; and they all ran and hopped out to meet him, screaming, ‘O pappy! have you brought us our dinner?’”

“Oh, dear!” said Phronsie, very much troubled; “he hadn’t any dinner.”

“But just think what a dear sweet little fat bird he had brought them, who was going to sing all day long, Phronsie!”

“Yes,” said Phronsie, but she sighed. “Tell me some more, Polly, do.”

“Well, so Mr. Father Kangaroo didn’t say anything about dinner; for he thought if they saw the little bird first, and heard him sing, they would forget all about that they were hungry.”

“And did they?” asked Phronsie.

“Yes, indeed; they never thought of it again. And they hopped and danced all around the fat little bird; and he told them of good Father Kangaroo, who had saved him when he got caught in the bramble-bush, where he fell when he flew away from the cruel squirrel; and then he sang—oh, it was just lovely to hear him sing, Phronsie.” Polly lay back upon the pillow and folded her hands, lost in thought.

“Tell me some more, Polly,” cried Phronsie, pulling her sleeve.

“Oh, yes—well, then, you see, all that noise brought Mother Kangaroo in; and she just held up her paws in astonishment. And she didn’t like it very well; and she said, ‘What! bring another hungry mouth to feed, and you haven’t any dinner for us?’ and Father Kangaroo sat down in the corner, and his big head went down on his breast, and he sat still to think.”

“Don’t let Mother Kangaroo send the poor little bird away, Polly. Don’t let her do it!” protested Phronsie in distress.

“No, I won’t,” promised Polly. “Well, when Mother Kangaroo saw Father Kangaroo sitting so sad and still over in the corner, she hopped over to him, and put both her paws around his neck, and she kissed his furry cheek, ‘The little bird shall stay,’ she said, ‘and I’ll go out and get some dinner.’ And all the little children-Kangarooses took hold of paws, and danced around the fat little bird in delight.”

“Oh—oh!” cried Phronsie in delight.

“Mercy me!” exclaimed Mrs. Pepper, putting her head in the doorway, “I thought Phronsie was worse. Now, that’s cosey;” and she beamed at Polly in a way that made the little sunbeams sink right down into Polly’s heart.