Five Little Peppers Midway | Page 8

till I get
her accustomed to them. You won't be frightened, will you, pet, at
those dear, sweet old dragons?" she ended, and getting on her knees,
she looked imploringly into Phronsie's brown eyes.
"N--no," said Phronsie, slowly, "not if they are really Jasper and Ben
and Clare."
"They really will be," cried Polly, enchanted at her success, "Jasper and
Ben and Clare; and they will give you a ride, and show you a cave, oh!
and perfect quantities of things; you can't think how many!"
Phronsie clapped her hands and laughed aloud in glee.
"Oh! I don't care if they are true dragons, Polly, I don't," she cried,
dreadfully excited. "Make 'em real big live ones, do; do make them big,
and let me ride on their backs."
"These will be just as real," said Polly comfortingly, "that is, they'll act
real, only there will be boys inside of them. Oh! we'll have them nice,
dear, don't you fear."
"But I'd really rather have true ones," sighed Phronsie.

III
THE REHEARSAL
"Now, Phronsie," said Polly, on her knees before the Princess, who was
slowly evolving into "a thing of beauty," "do hold still just a minute,
dear. There," as she thrust in another pin, then turned her head critically
to view her work, "I do hope that is right."
Phronsie sighed. "May I just stretch a wee little bit, Polly," she asked
timidly, "before you pin it up? Just a very little bit?"
"To be sure you may," said Polly, looking into the flushed little face;

"I'll tell you, you may walk over to the window and back, once; that'll
rest you and give me a chance to see what is the matter with that back
drapery."
So Phronsie, well pleased, gathered up the embyro robe of the Princess
and moved off, a bewildering tangle of silver spangles and floating lace,
drawn over the skirt of one of Mrs. Whitney's white satin gowns.
"There ought to be a dash of royal purple somewhere," said Polly,
sitting on the floor to see her go, and resting her tired hands on her
knees. "Now where shall I get it, and where shall I put it when I do
have it?" She wrinkled up her eyebrows a moment, lost in thought over
the momentous problem. "Oh! I know," and she sprang up exultingly.
"Phronsie, won't this be perfectly lovely? we can take that piece of
tissue paper Auntie gave you, and I can cut out little knots and sashes.
It is so soft, that in the gaslight they will look like silk. How fine!"
"Can't I be a Princess unless you sew up that purple paper?" asked
Phronsie, pausing suddenly to look over her shoulder in dismay at
Polly.
"Why, yes, you can be, of course," said Polly, "but you can't be as good
a one as if you had a dash of royal purple about you. What's a bit of
tissue paper to the glory of being a Princess?" she cried, with sparkling
eyes. "Dear me, I wish I could be one."
"Well, you may have it, Polly," said Phronsie with a sigh, "and then
afterwards I'll rip it all off and smooth it out, and it will be almost as
good as new."
"I think there won't be much left of it when the play is over," cried
Polly with a laugh; "why, the dragons are going to carry you off to their
cave, you know, and you are to be rescued by the knight, just think,
Phronsie! You can't expect to have such perfectly delightful times, and
come out with a quantity of tissue paper all safe. Something has to be
scarified to royalty, child."
Phronsie sighed again. But as Polly approved of royalty so highly, she
immediately lent herself to the anticipations of the pleasure before her,
smothering all lesser considerations.
"When you get your little silver cap on with one of Auntie's diamond
rings sewed in it, why, you'll be too magnificent for anything," said
Polly, now pulling and patting with fresh enthusiasm, since the "purple
dash" was forthcoming.

"Princesses don't wear silver caps with diamond rings sewed in them,"
observed Phronsie wisely.
"Of course not; they have diamonds by the bushel, and don't need to
sew rings in their caps to make them sparkle," said Polly, plaiting and
pinning rapidly, "but in dressing up for a play, we have to take a poetic
license. There, turn just one bit to the right, Phronsie dear."
"What's poetic license?" demanded Phronsie, wrenching her
imagination off from the bushel of diamonds to seize practical
information.
"Oh! when a man writes verses and says things that aren't so," said
Polly, her mind on the many details before her.
"But he ought not to," cried Phronsie, with wide eyes, "say things that