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THE Stories Polly Pepper Told TO THE FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS.
You see," said Polly, "the little white chicken was determined she would go into Susan's playhouse."
Phronsie sat in Mamsie's big calico-covered rocking-chair. The last tear had trailed off the round cheek since Polly had come home and was by her side, holding her hand. The pounded toes were thrust out before her, tied up in an old cloth, and waiting for the wormwood which was steeping on the fire. Grandma Bascom, protesting that soon Phronsie wouldn't know that she had any toes, sank into a chair and beamed at her. "You pretty creeter, you," she cried, her cap-border bobbing heartily.
"I wish she wouldn't talk," grunted Joel, burrowing on the floor, his head in Polly's lap, where her soft fingers could smooth his stubby black hair.
"'Sh!" said Polly, with a warning pinch.
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