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LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS BOSTON
_FLAXIE FRIZZLE STORIES._
LITTLE PITCHERS.
BY
SOPHIE MAY,
AUTHOR OF “LITTLE PRUDY STORIES,” “DOTTY DIMPLE STORIES,”
“LITTLE PRUDY’S FLYAWAY STORIES,” “FLAXIE
FRIZZLE,” “DOCTOR PAPA,” ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED._
BOSTON 1895
LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS
10 MILK STREET NEXT “THE OLD SOUTH MEETING HOUSE”
COPYRIGHT, 1878,
BY LEE AND SHEPARD
_All rights reserved._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. POLLIO AND POSY 9
II. GOING TO SCHOOL 26
III. “THE FINNY-CASTICS” 40
IV. NOT THE END OF IT 61
V. ON ALL-FOURS 79
VI. BEPPO TALKING 94
VII. THE LAKE OF LILIES 113
VIII. POSY’S ROSEBUD 127
IX. GOING VISITING 143
X. THE QUAKER MEETING 157
XI. POLLIO MAKES UP HIS MIND 175
XII. HOP-CLOVER’S HOME 190
LITTLE PITCHERS.
CHAPTER I.
POLLIO AND POSY.
THERE were seven Pitchers in the family,—Judge Pitcher and his wife and
five children; but, as the twins were the youngest of all, they were
often called “the Little Pitchers.”
They were Flaxie Frizzle’s cousins; and the more I think about them,
the more I think I will try to put them into a story. They lived so far
away from New York, that Flaxie had never seen, and had scarcely ever
heard of them. Their home was in a town we will call Rosewood, on the
banks of a beautiful river, and so high up that the air was very pure
and cool; only it did not seem like living on a hill, for, as far as
you could see, the whole country looked nearly as flat as a table.
The twins were four years old. I don’t mean that was always their age;
but they were four when our story begins. If you had looked in the
great gilt-edged family Bible on the parlor-table, you would have seen
that their whole names were Napoleon Bonaparte Pitcher, and Josephine
Bonaparte Pitcher; but it did no great harm, for nobody called them any
thing worse than Pollio and Posy.
“_I_ don’t fink we’re twins,” said Pollio, the boy; “I fink we’re
_odds_. We don’t look any bit alike.”
And they didn’t. Strangers often asked if Pollio belonged to the
family; for he looked like a French boy, with his straight dark hair,
brown eyes, and brown skin. Posy’s hair fell in golden curls; her eyes
were blue, and her face very fair. Pollio was so homely and funny that
it made you laugh; and she was so beautiful that it made you smile.
They had two high chairs exactly alike; only Pollio had rubbed the arms
of his with his elbows, and scratched them sadly with his fork.
They had each a fur cap and tippet to wear in the winter; only Posy
kept hers on a nail, and Pollio threw his down wherever he happened to
be.
No, they were not “any bit alike;” but what loving little friends they
were, and how gayly they did trudge about the grounds at home, and
up and down the village street, with their arms around each other’s
waists! The neighbors came to the windows of their houses as the little
couple passed by, saying, “See those little Pitchers! Don’t they look
like Tom Thumb and his wife?” When people spoke to them, Posy dropped
her eyes, and blushed; but Pollio held up his head, and made answer for
both.
Once, in the winter, when they were going out walking, and Posy was
half stifled with her fur cap and a big comforter wound twice round her
neck, Pollio said,—
“She wants to walk _sturbously_ free, and not be mumbled up.”
“Sturbously” was one of his big words that mamma had to guess at; but
she unwound the comforter, and Pollio said,—
“Fank you. It’s awful mild, and she fought she’d choke. Good-by now:
we’re going.”
“Posy would never have complained of the comforter; but she has a
brother who is always ready to scold for her,” said mamma, looking
fondly after her darlings.
“Don’t you be afraid; there sha’n’t any dogs hurt _you_,” she heard him
say to his timid little sister, as Dr. Field’s Fido barked at their
heels.
He often promised to protect his mother and his aunt Ann from the same
dog, and from all the horses in town; for Pollio was a very brave boy.
“Good-morning, General Pollio! Good-morning, Mrs. _Posio_! Guess what
I’ve got in my jug,” called out Bobby Thatcher.
So of course the children followed him; and when they came home from
their walk, instead of being “mumbled up,” Pollio had left his ulster
at Mrs. Thatcher’s, and his jacket was sticky with maple-sirup.
“What _did_ you wipe your hands on?” asked aunt Ann.
“On my apron.” But looking down, and seeing he wore none, he added
promptly, “_If I’d had one on._”
Aunt Ann laughed, and “hoped he had not been teasing the neighbors for
something to eat.”
“What you s’pose?” cried Pollio indignantly. “I only told Mrs. Fatcher,
‘Oh, _dear_, we’re so hunger-y!’”
Mrs. Thatcher spoiled the twins a little; and so, I fear, did most of
the neighbors, as well as the family at home; but they _did_ have such
a good time in this bright, fresh, beautiful world! Pollio had what his
uncle Rufus called “a strong sense of the funny,” and could imitate all
sorts of noises. He could crow, bark, and mew, and even bray like a
donkey. Teddy, the boy next older, was handsomer and behaved better;
but Posy thought the sun never shone on a boy so bright as “her Pollio.”
Their papa was gone from home a great deal, attending court. The twins
had no idea what a court might be; but Pollio “fought” it was some kind
of a store, for papa always came home from it with his pockets full of
presents. He was a great fleshy man, a little gray and a little bald,
with the most winning smile around the corners of his mouth.
He liked to see his children all about him when he was at home; so he
would not stay up stairs in his study, but wrote every evening at the
parlor-table between the two front-windows. Nunky—that was uncle Rufus
Gilman—sat in the corner, reading; Nanty—that was aunt Ann Pitcher—sat
by a little basket-table, sewing; Edith and Dick—the older brother and
sister—pretended to study; and mamma—well, mamma spent half her time
keeping the three youngest children away from papa’s inkstand.
One evening Pollio got down on all-fours, put up his back, and hissed
like a cat. His father only laughed till he hit the table and upset the
inkstand, and then he had to be sent out of the room. Posy begged to go
too: she always wanted to be punished with Pollio.
Eliza Potter, the cook, was washing dishes when they came into the
kitchen.
“O you little witch, quit that!” said she to Pollio, as he began to
build houses with the knives and forks.
It always amused him to hear her say “Quit that!” and to see her wink
her eyelashes. The more she scolded, the faster she winked.
Next evening Pollio was noisy again in the parlor; but nobody minded it
till he said,—
“Don’t you see I’m naughty, mamma? Why don’t you send me out in the
kitchen?”
He wanted to tease Eliza again; but his mother punished him this time
by sending him to bed. It seemed pretty hard; for he was very wide
awake, and, though not afraid, found it rather lonesome without his
bed-fellow, Teddy. In a few moments he was heard screaming, and his
mother ran up to see what was the matter.
“O Lord! I’m a poor little boy all alone in the dark. Do send me a
la-amp, a la-amp, a _la-amp_!”
“Pollio!” exclaimed his mother as soon as she could reach his chamber.
“Why, mamma,” said he, looking up in her face very innocently, “I was
only _praying_! You want me to pray, don’t you?”
Mamma told Nunky afterwards that she did not know what to say to her
queer little boy. He and Posy both had such strange ideas about God,
that she wished Nunky would talk with them some time and try to make
them understand who He is and why we should pray to Him.
Nunky said, perhaps they were too young; but he would do the best he
could. He was like a father to them when their own father was gone. He
was quite a young man, and an artist. And here I will stop a moment,
and tell you more about him.
He had a room at the very top of the house, called a studio; and you
climbed some crooked stairs to reach it. He spent all his mornings in
this room, with the door locked but once or twice the twins had peeped
in and seen him sitting before a great easel painting pictures. He wore
a gray dressing gown, and velvet cap with a tassel; and the sun poured
straight down on his head through a hole in the roof.
“Ho yo! that’s jolly!” shouted Pollio.
Instantly the door was shut in his face. So unkind of Nunky! The twins
wouldn’t have meddled with his paints, of course: hadn’t they _told_
him they wouldn’t meddle?
“If we once got in, he’d want us to stay: he finks _everyfing_ of us,”
said Pollio to Posy.
“Let’s get in,” said she.
So one day they crept up stairs and knocked. Posy had her doll, and
Pollio his drum; for they meant to make it very pleasant for Nunky.
Knock! knock!
“We won’t be _sturbous_!” said Pollio.
“Can’t we come in a tinty minute?” pleaded Posy, fumbling at the
keyhole; while Pollio’s drum tumbled down stairs, rattlety bang.
Instead of answering, Nunky growled like a bear, and roared like a
lion; and they were obliged to go at last; for they might have stood
all day without getting in. Nunky was a man that couldn’t be coaxed.
But that very evening, when his work was done, he was perfectly lovely,
and played for them on his flute. The tune Pollio liked best was “The
Shepherd’s Pipe upon the Mountain.” He thought it was a meerschaum like
papa’s, and the shepherd was smoking it as he drove his sheep along.
Nunky forgot to say he was making his flute sound like a _bagpipe_.
But the tune Posy liked best was “The Mother’s Prayer,” low and faint
at first, then growing clearer and sweeter.
“Well, darling, what does it make you think of?” said Nunky as she sat
on his knee, her wee hands folded, and her eyes raised to his face.
“Makes me fink of the heaven-folks,” replied she solemnly. “I wish
little Alice would come down here and live again. Me and Pollio, we’d
be very glad.”
Alice was a little sister she had never seen.
“I’ve asked God to send her down,” said Pollio; “but He won’t. I
sha’n’t pray to God any more. _You_ may if you want to, Posy; but _I_
sha’n’t. I keep a-talkin’, and He don’t say a word.”
Now was the time for Nunky to tell them something about God; but what
should he say? What could they understand?
“God does speak to you, Pollio: not in words; but he speaks to your
_heart_.”
“Oh! does He? I know where my heart is,—right here under my jag-knife
pocket.”
“Well, there is a voice in there sometimes, that tells you when you do
wrong.”
“Is there?—-Put your ear down, Posy. Can you hear anyfing?”
“No, no,” said Nunky, trying not to smile: “the voice isn’t heard; it
is _felt_. Tell me, little ones, don’t you _feel_ sorry when you do
wrong?”
“When I get sent to bed I do,” said Pollio.
“Once I felt awful bad when I fell down cellar,” remarked Posy.
Nunky smiled outright then, and had a great mind not to say any more;
but he did so wish to plant a seed of truth in these little minds!
“Was it right, Pollio, to take those tarts yesterday without leave?”
The little boy hung his head, and wondered how Nunky knew about that.
“Didn’t something tell you it was wrong?”
“Yes, sir,” whispered Pollio faintly.
“Well, that was God’s voice. He spoke to your heart then.”
“Oh!”
Pollio began to understand.
“That is the way He speaks. Now, I don’t want to hear you say again, ‘I
keep a-talkin’ and a-talkin’, and He don’t say a word.’”
“No, I won’t,” said Pollio, his brown face lighting up. “He whispers
right under your pocket. I’m going to pray some more now: I’d just as
lief pray as not.”
“So’d I,” said Posy. “But I sha’n’t ask him to ‘bless papa and mamma,
and _everybody_,’ ’cause I don’t want him to bless the naughty Indians;
do _you_, Nunky?”
“Ask him to make them good,” replied Nunky, stroking the little golden
head, and wondering how much Posy understood of what he had been saying.
“Well, I will. I love God and the angels better’n I do you, Nunky. Of
course I _ought_ to love the heaven-folks best.”
“Does God do just what you ask him to when you pray?” said Pollio, who
had been for some moments lost in thought.
“Yes, if He thinks it best, he does.”
“Well, then, I sha’n’t say, ‘Accept me through thy Son;’ for the _sun_
is too hot: I’d rather go through the _moon_.”
Nunky had to turn his head away to laugh. He did not try in the least
to explain any thing more to Pollio that evening, and he really thought
all his words had been thrown away. But this was a mistake. A new idea
had entered the children’s minds,—an idea they would never forget.
Nunky found this out a long while afterward, and was very glad he had
taken so much pains.
But just now he had talked long enough; so he dropped the children from
his knee suddenly, pretending he hadn’t known they were there.
“What! _you_ here, little Pitchers? Off with you this minute!—Oh, no!
come back: you haven’t thanked me for the music.”
Nunky was careful of their manners; but I think, too, he had “a strong
sense of the funny” as well as Pollio, and enjoyed seeing his nephew
pull his front-hair and make a bow; while Posy dropped a deep, deep
courtesy, and they both lisped out,—
“Fank you, Nunky.”
You know, Pollio’s hair was uncommonly straight and black, and he
twitched it as if he were pulling a bell-rope; and Posy, being rather
fat, bounced up and down like a rubber ball.
I am sure their uncle made them say “Fank you” when there wasn’t the
least need of it, just to see how comical they looked.