And then
Phronsie wanted to get something, and little Dick teased to go too, so
Grandpapa suggested they should go after some extra pairs of scissors.
"And Mamsie will let us take hers out of her workbasket, I guess," cried
Phronsie. "Let us ask her, Grandpapa dear."
"Oh, you better stop working, Mrs. Fisher." Old Mr. King popped his white
head in at the library door. There sat Mother Fisher by the table, mending
away as usual, for the stockings never seemed to be quite done. "And come
into Jasper's den and see how fine we all are!" he added gayly.
"Yes, Mamsie, do come," chirped Phronsie, running her head in between him
and the door-casing to plead.
"Yes, Mamsie, do come," echoed little Dick, who would do and say everything
that Phronsie did.
"You see, you've simply got to come," laughed Grandpapa.
"And may we have your scissors, Mamsie?" Phronsie now deserted old Mr.
King, to run over to the big workbasket.
"My scissors?" repeated Mother Fisher. "Why, Phronsie, child, what are you
going to do with them?"
"We're going to cut letters," said Phronsie, with an important air, her
fingers already in the basket, which, standing on tiptoe, she had pulled
quickly over toward her in her eagerness. "And may we have your scissors,
Mamsie?"
"Take care," warned Mother Fisher, but too late. Over went the big basket,
and away rattled all the things, having a perfectly beautiful time by
themselves over the library floor,
"Bless me!" ejaculated old Mr.
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