"That's David now, I bet! Sounds like his whistle. Oo-oo, David," she called as the boy came swinging down the road. "Hello, Phœbe. Where you at?" He turned in at the gate and looked around. "Whew," he whistled as he glanced up and saw her at the little window of the attic. "What you doing up there?" "Playin' primer donner. I just look something grand. Wait, I'll come down." "Sure, come on down and let me see you. I'm going to hang around a while. Mom's here quilting, ain't she?" "Sh!" Phœbe raised a warning finger, then placed her hands to her mouth to shut the sound of her voice from the people in the gray house. "You sneak round to the kitchen door, to the back one, so they can't hear you, and I'll come down. Aunt Maria mightn't like my hair and dress, and I don't want to make her cross on my birthday. Be careful, don't make no noise." "Ha," laughed the boy. "Bet you're sneaking things, you little rascal." Phœbe lifted her finger, shook her head, then smiled and turned from the window. She tiptoed down the dark attic stairs, then down the narrow back stairs to the kitchen and slipped quietly to the little porch at the very rear of the house. "Gee whiz!" exclaimed David. "You're a swell in that dress!" "Ain't I--I mean am I--ach, David, it's hard sometimes to talk like Miss Lee says we should." "Where'd you get the dress, Phœbe?" "Up in the garret. Aunt Maria said I dare go up and play 'cause it's my birthday." "Hold on, that's just what I came for, to pull your ears." "No you don't," she said crossly. "No you don't, David Eby, pull my ears." She clapped a hand upon each ear. "Then I'll pull a curl," he said and suited the action to the word. He took one of the long light curls and pulled it gently, yet with a brusque show of savagery and strength--"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, and one to make you grow. Now who says I can't celebrate your birthday!" "You're mean, awful mean, David Eby!" She tossed her head in anger. But a moment later she relented as she saw him smile. "Ach," she said in friendly tone, "I don't care if you pull my curls. It didn't hurt anyhow. You can't do it again for a whole year. But don't you think I look like a primer donner, David?" "Oh, say it right! How can you expect to ever be what you can't pronounce? It's pri-ma-don-na." "Pri-ma-don-na," she repeated, shaking her curls at every syllable. "Do I look like a prima donna?" "Yes, all but your face." "My face--why"--she faltered--"what's wrong with my face? Ain't it pretty enough to be a prima donna?" "Funny kid," he laughed. "Your face is good enough for a prima donna, but to be a real prima donna you must fix it up with cold cream, paint and powder." "Powder!" she echoed in amazement. "Not the kind you put in guns?"