them
in the face--little dingy rolls of yellow paper, with an ancient odor
of spice still clinging to them; but all efforts to find this particular
one failed utterly.

"Won't some other one do?" asked Polly, in the interval of fruitless
searching, when grandma bewailed and lamented, and wondered, "where I
could a put it!"

"No, no, child," answered the old lady; "now, where do you s'pose 'tis!"
and she clapped both hands to her head, to see if she could possibly
remember; "no, no, child," she repeated. "Why, they had it down to my
niece Mirandy's weddin'--'twas just elegant! light as a feather; and
'twan't rich either," she added; "no eggs, nor--"

"Oh, I couldn't have eggs;" cried Polly, in amazement at the thought of
such luxury; "and we've only brown flour, grandma, you know."

"Well, you can make it of brown," said Mrs. Bascom, kindly; "when the
raisins is in 'twill look quite nice."

"Oh, we haven't any raisins," answered Polly.

"Haven't any raisins!" echoed grandma, looking at her over her
spectacles; "what are you goin' to put in?"

"Oh--cinnamon," said Polly, briskly; "we've got plenty of that,
and--it'll be good, I guess, grandma!" she finished, anxiously; "anyway,
we must have a cake; there isn't any other way to celebrate mamsie's
birthday."

"Well, now," said grandma, bustling around; "I shouldn't be surprised
if you had real good luck, Polly. And your ma'll set ever so much by it;
now, if we only could find that receet!" and returning to the charge she
commenced to fumble among her bits of paper again; "I never shall forget
how they eat on it; why, there wasn't a crumb left, Polly!"

"Oh, dear," said Polly, to whom "Mirandy's wedding cake" now became the
height of her desires; "if you only can find it! can't I climb up and
look on the pantry shelves?"

"Maybe 'tis there," said Mrs. Bascom, slowly; "you might try; sometimes
I do put things away, so's to have 'em safe."

So Polly got an old wooden chair, according to direction, and then
mounted up on it, with grandma below to direct, she handed down bowl
after bowl, interspersed at the right intervals with cracked teacups and
handleless pitchers. But at the end of these explorations, "Mirandy's
wedding cake" was further off than ever.

"Tain't a mite o' use," at last said the old lady, sinking down in
despair, while Polly perched on the top of the chair and looked at her;
"I must a-give it away."

"Can't I have the next best one, then?" ask