Part 17 (1/2)
”Yes, this child has been sitting there a whole hour, Polly.” Mother Fisher gave a merry little laugh, and then she began to drop kisses on Polly's rosy cheek--ever so many of them.
Polly's dewy eyes opened wide.
”It's your birthday, don't you know!” exclaimed Phronsie, trying to drop as many kisses and as fast, on Polly's other cheek, and to talk at the same time.
”Mamsie Fisher!” cried Polly, springing up straight in the middle of the bed, nearly knocking Phronsie over. ”Why, so it is. Oh, how could I forget--and sleep over. And I'm fifteen!”
”You're fifteen,” repeated Mother Fisher, setting the last little kiss on Polly's cheek,--”and it's the best thing you could possibly do, to sleep over, child. Now, then, Phronsie, let us help her to get dressed.”
Wasn't there a merry time, though, for the next half-hour, till Polly had had her bath, and was arrayed, Mother Fisher and Phronsie here, there, and everywhere, helping to tie and to hook Polly's clothes--Phronsie bringing her little silver b.u.t.ton-hook that Auntie Whitney gave her, declaring that she should b.u.t.ton Polly's boots.
”Oh, no, child,” protested Polly. ”I'll b.u.t.ton them myself,” flying off for the boots.
But Phronsie piped out, hurrying after her, ”I have them, Polly,” and, sure enough, there they were, one under each arm; ”do let me, Polly--do, please!” she begged.
”I would, Polly,” advised Mrs. Fisher, ”for Phronsie really has set her heart on doing it.”
So Polly sat down in the low chair, and put out her foot, feeling very queer indeed, and as if she ought to be doing up Phronsie's boots instead. And Phronsie curled up on the floor, and patiently drew every one of the b.u.t.tons into place, and b.u.t.toned them fast. And then on with the other boot.
”There, now, I did do them all by myself,” she announced, getting up from the floor, and smoothing down her gown with much importance. ”I did truly, Polly.”
”So you did, Pet,” cried Polly, sticking out both feet to look at them.
”You b.u.t.toned every single one of those b.u.t.tons up splendidly, Phronsie Pepper. Now my toes will be just as happy all day; oh, you can't think how happy they'll be.” And she seized her, half smothering her with kisses.
”Will they?” cried Phronsie, coming out of the embrace to peer up into Polly's face, in a transport. ”Will your toes really and truly be happy, Polly?”
”They'll be so happy,” declared Polly, with a little wriggle of each foot, ”that they'll want to sing, only they can't,” and she burst out into a little laugh.
”Put on your blue dress, Polly,” said Mother Fisher, coming out of the closet to hurry operations a bit.
”Oh, Mamsie,” begged Phronsie, ”mayn't Polly wear her white one? Do, Mamsie, please!” She ran up to her mother pleadingly.
”Polly will wear a white gown to-night,” said Mother Fisher, her eyes s.h.i.+ning, and the same funny little smile hiding in the corners of her mouth; ”but this morning she would better put on her blue gingham.”
”Yes, that's best,” said Polly, rea.s.suringly, running off to get it out of the big bureau drawer. ”It's all done up spick and span,” drawing it out. ”Mamsie, don't these Dutch women do up things well, though?”
”They do, indeed,” a.s.sented Mrs. Fisher, with a critical eye for the blue gingham; ”but I really suppose the Swiss beat them, Polly.”
”Well, they must be just perfect, then,” said Polly, putting the blue gown carefully over her head. ”Mamsie, I just love this dress.”
”Yes, it is pretty,” said Mother Fisher, with an approving eye for the dainty ruffles, ”and you keep your clothes cleaner than you used to, Polly; you're improving.”
”I used to get them all mussed up just as soon as could be,” mourned Polly, her cheeks rosy at the remembrance. ”Mamsie, how much trouble I've made you.” She stopped dressing, and sprang over to Mrs. Fisher.
Phronsie, trying to b.u.t.ton on the waistband, and clinging to it, went stumbling after.
”Take care,” warned Mrs. Fisher, ”don't muss it; it looks so nice now.”
”There, there, Phronsie, I'll do that,” said Polly, a trifle impatiently, looking over her shoulder.