"I'd rather have the Muffin Man," said Davie, wistfully.

"Muffin--Man--Muffin--Man," echoed Phronsie, beating her small
hands. "Oh, Polly, please do let us have the Muffin Man," she
cried, her yellow hair flying over her flushed face as she
hopped up and down. "Please, Polly!"

"Pshaw!" Joel exclaimed, contemptuously, "that old Muffin Man,
he's no fun. I say 'Tag.' Do begin, Polly," he pulled her sleeve
impatiently.

"The Muffin Man is so very nice," said Davie, reflectively, "and
we haven't played it in so long."

"That old--" began Joel, crossly. Then he caught Polly's eye.
"All right, Dave," he cried. "Go on, Polly. And let Dave be the
Muffin Man, do, Polly."

Polly shot him a beaming glance. "Now that's nice," and she took
Phronsie's hand, who was so overcome with delight she could not
stand still, but was engaged in making a cheese, and tumbling
over in a heap on the grass. "Come on, Pet," and Polly pulled
her up, "don't you see the Muffin Man is waiting for us?" for
there was David standing off at the end of the grass-plot, as
stiff as a stick, and most dignified, all ready to receive his
visitors.

It was after the merry line was dancing back into place that
Joel happened to glance up at the window of the kitchen. And as