Phronsie was wailing away 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.

"Oh me! oh my!" cried Polly; "how you look, Phronsie!"

"I want my mammy!" cried poor Phronsie.

"Mammy can't come now, Phronsie dear; she's sewing. See what
Polly's got for you--butter: isn't that splendid!"

Phronsie stopped for just one moment, and took a mouthful; but
the toast was hard and dry, and she cried harder than before.

"Now," said Polly, curling up on the bed beside her, "if you'll stop
crying, Phronsie Pepper, I'll tell you about the cunningest, yes, the
very cunningest little chickens you ever saw. One was white, and
he looked just like this," said Polly, tumbling over on the bed in a
heap; "he couldn't stand up straight, he was so fat."

"Did he biteP" asked Phronsie, full of interest.

"No, he didn't bite me," said Polly; "but his mother put a bug in his
mouth--just as I'm doing you know," and she broke off a small
piece of the toast, put on a generous bit of butter, and held it over
Phronsie's mouth.

"Did he swallow it?" asked the child, obediently opening her little
red lips.