"Aren't these queer beds, Mrs. Fisher?" the parson's wife was saying,
peering into the shelves against the side of the wall, boarded up, with
doors swung open inviting inspection.
"The idea of sleeping in one of them!" exclaimed Mrs. Fisher,
inspecting the interior with a sharp eye. "They're clean enough and as
neat as a pink"--with a critical glance along the white lace spread and
the immaculate pillow--"but to be shut up in a box like that. I should
as soon go to bed in a bureau drawer."
"So should I," laughed the parson's wife; "and look at the artificial
flowers hanging up over the head, and that picture pinned, above the
foot. Well, well, well, and so that is a Dutch bed!"
"There are a good many kinds and sorts of Dutch beds, I suppose,"
observed Mrs. Fisher, turning away, "just as there are a good many
American ones; but I hope there aren't many of this particular kind."
"Jasper," exclaimed Polly, as they all filed decorously out of the
"Model Farm," "how I do wish you and I could race down to the
boat-landing!"
Jasper looked longingly down the washed and shining road. "So do I,
Polly," he said, "but I suppose it wouldn't do; we should shock these
natives."
"I suppose so," assented Polly, ruefully. Just then Phronsie came up
holding with both hands her paper-covered, twine-netted little round
yellow cheese.
"What in the world has Phronsie got!" exclaimed Polly, catching sight
of her.
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