A PLEASANT PLAN
Saturday was a busy day. Polly not only helped Arctura in the kitchen,
but together they made the beds, for Miss Hetty, who usually preferred
to take that duty upon herself, had to go away unexpectedly for an hour
or so after breakfast. So Arctura and Polly turned the feather-beds and
“plumped them up,” putting the mattresses squarely over them without
any bulging out of the soft beds below, then stretched the sheets as
smooth and tight as they could be drawn, and over them the fleecy
blankets--Polly’s were striped with pink--and last of all they put on
the snowy counterpanes and patted the stout pillows till they lay round
and even at the head of each bed.
Snip and Snap added their society in Miss Pomeroy’s room. Suddenly
Snip vanished, and Snap seemed much distressed. Arctura, who had been
struggling to reduce an unaccountable lump on her side of the bed,
made an exclamation, and drew out the sheets and blankets, and Snip,
breathless but unvanquished, slid to the floor.
“My land!” ejaculated Miss Green, surveying the kitten with apparent
disgust. “If you haven’t got any more sense than to go where you’ll be
made up with a bed, it don’t seem as if you were worth raising!” But
she took Snip up in her arms and stroked him, receiving for reward a
vigorous scratch on the nose.
“Well, now, aren’t you the ungratefullest little piece that ever was?”
said Arctura, setting him hastily down, and tenderly caressing her
injured feature. “Didn’t you know to-morrow was Sunday and the minister
coming to dinner? You’ve settled one thing. I shouldn’t be willing to
sit down to a meal, facing him, all battered up this way. I shall tell
Miss Hetty, so she needn’t consider it for a minute,” said Miss Green
firmly, as she led the way to the kitchen.
There were two squash pies and two apple pies to be made that morning,
and Polly was allowed to help with the rolling, and to crimp all the
edges of the crust with a delightful little wheel. Arctura watched
her with the first pie, but after that she bustled about the kitchen
singing a gay little refrain.
“Oh--she--was--as--beautiful as a butterfly,
And as proud as a queen,
Was pretty little Polly Perkins,
Of Abingdon Green,”
sang Arctura over and over again, and little Polly Prentiss listened
with delight.
“You have a splendid voice, haven’t you, Miss Arctura?” she said, when
at last the song stopped as the pies were put in the oven. “And what
pretty words there are to that tune.”
“My voice isn’t anything now to what it was,” said Miss Green,
evidently much pleased. “I can’t rely on it as I once could. When my
brother John, that lives out West, and I were in our teens we used to
be called for far and near, whenever there was music wanted. He had
a good tenor voice, and I could sing way up above the staff without
straining my tones a mite. But now I’m getting old and I have to bear
just as light as I can on the high notes, and there’s a number down
towards G on the second line that are apt to fail me when I’m least
expecting it,” said Arctura, and Polly thought her voice sounded a
little sad.
“I think it’s all beautiful,” said Polly, with perfect sincerity. “It’s
a great deal better than anybody’s voice in the choir at the church. I
am just sure!”
“They’ve got some young folks in the singing seats that lack training,”
said Arctura, and then she dismissed that subject. “You put me in mind
of that ‘Polly Perkins’ someway,” she remarked, sitting down in the
big kitchen rocker, and pulling the little girl into her lap. “To be
sure, your name’s Mary, and, of course, favor’s a deceitful thing and
beauty’s a vain snare, but someway you brought that song to mind when
you were crimping those pie edges.”
“I don’t believe I’m much like a queen, Miss Arctura,” said Polly,
greatly pleased, but a little confused. “I haven’t any crown, you see,
or any trailing dresses, and I haven’t anything to be proud about. I
expect queens look like this, don’t you?” and, springing to her feet,
Polly tossed back her head and stood with her chin raised and her small
nose tilted up into the air, gazing out of the window.
“Mercy me, that’s almost like play acting!” cried Arctura. “I guess
Hiram can teach you gestures easy enough. I understand you’re going to
commit ‘On Linden.’ Well, it’s a real stirring piece, and it’ll give
you good exercise. Hiram’s all over the lot, when he says it. He
rehearsed it to me last night, and I said to him he’d got to bear in
mind that little girls weren’t grown men, and not keep you thrashing
round, stooping down, and reaching up every last living minute. I
pointed out a few places where he could omit some of his arm work, and
he’s going to do so. I shall expect to be invited to a performance when
you get it all learned.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Polly, gayly, “and perhaps Miss Pomeroy would come,
too. I know some pieces that Uncle Blodgett taught me, but they hadn’t
any gestures except a bow at the beginning and one at the end. And Mr.
Hiram must know other poems, doesn’t he?”
“He’s full of ’em as a nut is of meat,” laughed Arctura, “both prose
pieces and poetry, and all he wants is opportunity. Why, I’ve heard
him many a time, spouting away to himself in the barn, but I’ve never
taken any notice, for you give an inch to these people that recite, and
they’ll take an ell quick enough; it’s just like starting a leak. But a
regular performance, such as you speak of, with different ones taking
part, I believe Miss Hetty would enjoy it for once, anyway; she don’t
have much to amuse her.”
“And you would sing?” asked Polly, eagerly.
“Um-m--’twould be according to whether I could depend on my voice. I
could try it with the scales, I expect, late in the afternoon,” said
Arctura, “and then we could give the entertainment right after supper,
soon as the dishes were cleared up. Goodness me! look at that clock!
It’s most half-past ten!” and then there was a busy time in the kitchen
until the noon hour brought dinner and rest.