ON ALL-FOURS.
POLLIO was better next day, and still better the day after. By the time
his father came home he was feeling as well as ever, and the sad affair
was almost forgotten.
But, alas! a week after the accident Pollio was seized with a very
strange ailment.
It was morning. His bed-fellow, Teddy, had dressed and gone down
stairs, leaving him playing with the yellow-tailed kitten; but a little
while after, when Posy went into the chamber to say “Good-morning!” she
found her dear brother crying.
“O Posy! I can’t get up. When I try to get up, I tumble down.”
She helped him with all the strength of her little arms, but it did no
good; for no sooner was he fairly on his feet than he fell again to the
floor.
Very much frightened, she ran down stairs, exclaiming,—
“My Pollio’s very sick: he can’t stand up!”
“I think that must be a mistake, dear,” said mamma, kissing her; “for I
just heard him and Teddy laughing together.”
“I didn’t know he was sick,” said Teddy.
“Well, _I_ know it,” returned Posy with trembling lips. “He’s awful
sick!”
When mamma saw that the little girl was so much in earnest, she went up
stairs with her, though she did not suppose for a moment that any thing
really ailed Pollio.
When she saw him half dressed, and crying helplessly, she put her arm
round him, and asked if his head ached.
“No’m: head doesn’t ache.”
“Is your throat sore?”
“No’m: froat isn’t sore.”
“Well, darling, where do you feel sick?”
“Not sick anywhere, mamma.”
“Are you crying because you and Teddy have quarrelled?”
“No’m: we didn’t krorrel.”
“Then tell me, my little son, what is it?”
“_Can’t walk_, mamma,” sobbed the poor child, plunging headlong upon
the floor, and crawling upon his hands and knees.
“Fie! that’s not nice. Get up, my son: you’ll soil your clothes.”
“_Can’t_ get up, mamma.”
“I _said_ he couldn’t get up: my Pollio’s very sick,” repeated Posy,
hoping her mother would believe her now.
“Let me see if there isn’t a pin or bit of glass in his shoe,” said
Mrs. Pitcher. But when she had hunted, and found nothing, she began to
be alarmed, and sent Posy to call her father. Posy went eagerly, for
she wanted papa to see and pity her Pollio.
Judge Pitcher was shocked to find his little son creeping about like a
baby, and sent presently for Dr. Field.
When the doctor entered the room, Pollio hid his face in his
purple-bordered handkerchief, with his forehead touching the floor.
“Well, my little man, what’s this? Are you playing baby? Oh, no! I
guess you are a black dog, like Beppo: let us hear you bark.”
Pollio jerked both elbows angrily. He did not like to be laughed
at when he was in trouble. But, if he had only known it, the
doctor pitied him very much, and was hiding two big tears under his
“eye-bushes.” For he saw now that Pollio’s back had been hurt worse
than he supposed. There was a sore spot on it; and, strange as it may
seem, _that_ was why he could not walk.
“Well, how do you like being a dog?” asked the doctor, scowling away
another tear.
“I’m not a dog,” exclaimed Pollio, turning over on his side. “But my
legs are spoiled: they won’t go.”
“How do they feel?”
“They feel like India-rubber boots,” snapped Pollio, thinking the
doctor very inquisitive.
“Well, I am going to give you some medicine, and I hope in a few days
they will feel as stiff as _calfskin_ boots,” said the doctor, writing
something on a slip of paper.
After he was gone, Judge Pitcher took Pollio in his lap and tried to
soothe him; while the children clustered around, all talking together.
“It seems queer,” said Teddy, “that his legs won’t go, just because his
back is hurt. But I suppose the bones are all hitched together somehow.”
“Wish the doctor’d unhitch ’em,” groaned Pollio. “Oh, dear! I’m tired
of being hitched.”
“We hope this won’t last long, my son: you will get over it by and by,
and run as fast as ever,” said his father. “Won’t you try to be patient
for a little while?”
“I don’t want to be patient!” cried Pollio, swinging his arms. “I hate
to awfully!”
Posy came then, and threw both her little arms about his neck, as if to
say, “I’ll help you bear it, my Pollio.”
Mamma was going to help him too: you could see that by the tender smile
on her face. Her heart ached for her darling boy, but she would not let
him know it: she would always smile whenever she possibly could.
The first day was pretty long. If you don’t believe it, just shove
yourself about on the floor for half an hour, and see how it seems.
“Oh, dear!” said Pollio, “I’d give ten cents to buy some hinges for my
legs.”
“Please, darling, don’t you s’pose if you’d get on my back, I could
carry you?” said Posy.
It was the first time Pollio had smiled that day; but it was such a
funny speech from that mite of a girl! He would as soon have thought of
leaning on a good-sized flower, say a honeysuckle.
“Why, _Teddy_ couldn’t hardly carry me: _he_ isn’t big enough,” said
the poor boy, feeling suddenly that he was very heavy.
“Well, papa can carry you, and Nunky can carry you, and Dick.”
“Now, you stop! Do you s’pose I want to go pickapack _all_ the time?”
whined unhappy Pollio.
To comfort him, Posy took a glass of lemonade from the table, and
raised it to his lips, and of course spilled it on his neck.
“Needn’t do that again, miss! Guess I can drink my own self, ’thout
_you_ helping!”
Posy was deeply grieved, for this did not sound like Pollio.
“No, I sha’n’t go pickapack, Posy Pitcher! I shall go on my hands and
knees long as _I_ live!”
Posy slid round to the arm of the sofa, dropped her head, and began to
cry softly. It was hard to have him so cross; but she could have borne
that: it was the idea of his never walking again that broke her heart.
“Where’s Beppo?—Beppo, come here!” called Pollio.
The dog came wagging his tail, and, seeing his master lying down and
looking so sad, trotted up to him, and licked his face lovingly.
“Poor fellow! I’m awful worse. I’m going to be a doggie just like you.
The doctor says so. How do you like being a dog?”
Beppo snuggled his head close to Pollio’s, and licked his cheek
again. The two heads were of nearly the same color; but Beppo’s hair
was curly, and Pollio’s straight. Beppo’s eyes were black, like his
master’s, and had just now a wistful look.
“He wants something: I guess he wants to talk,” said Pollio.
“I guess so too,” said Posy, trying not to sob.
Pollio lay for some time stroking the dog’s nose. Did Beppo grieve
about not talking as boys did about not walking? That _would_ be sad
indeed.
It was a long day and a very long week. Pollio had friends enough. Oh,
no lack of those! Nunky, papa, and Dick carried him pickapack; mamma
and aunt Ann read to him; Teddy was as kind as he could be; and, as for
Posy, there was nothing in the world she wouldn’t have done for her
Pollio. Then the little boys in town—why, they rushed in in an army! or
you would have thought so if you had heard Eliza scold about the mud
they brought on their shoes. Even Jimmy Cushing came with a basket of
fruit, and begged forgiveness for hitting Pollio’s nose ever so long
ago.
Hop-clover came, for Pollio wanted to see her. “Poh! I s’pose you think
you’re lame; but look here,” said he, dropping on all-fours. “Can you
beat that?”
Hop-clover humbly confessed that she couldn’t. _Her_ lameness wasn’t
much: a horse never stepped on _her_; she only fell down stairs when
she was a baby, and she _’spected_ she lost out one o’ the bones. But
now she could read in the Second Reader, and _she_ didn’t care.
Mrs. Pitcher was so charmed with Hop-clover’s sweet little face and
patient ways, that she gave her some of Edith’s dresses, and asked
her to come twice a week and stay to tea. This made the little girl
perfectly happy.
“Oh, how good your mamma is!” said she to Posy. “It’s wicked to wish
you was cats and dogs, and I don’t; but I _’most_ wish I was your Muff
or your Beppo, so I could live in this house. I like a house that has
a _sign_ to it,” added she, looking wistfully at the framed motto over
the nursery-door: “God bless our home.”
Sometimes Pollio was as patient as Hop-clover, and said he was “glad he
had something the rest of the family couldn’t catch.” Sometimes, too,
he thought he shouldn’t live long. “When I die, I’ll ask God to let me
come down and see you _once_, Posy.”
“Perhaps I’ll die first,” returned she.
“Well, then, I guess there’ll be a row if _I_ can’t go up and see
_you_,” said Pollio.
He really meant no harm; but he did say very improper things sometimes,
and it troubled Posy.
When Nunky told him a story, he begged that it might be about Indians,
for he liked to feel his hair stand on end. Posy could not understand
that at all: there were many things about her dear brother she never
_would_ understand.
But Nunky refused to tell horrible stories, and chose only such as the
children would be the better and happier for remembering. He was very
kind, too, about drawing pictures on the slate for Pollio to copy; and
this was a thing the little fellow greatly enjoyed.
Indeed, everybody was so kind to him, that the small boys in town
rather envied Pollio. “I’d ’most be willing to creep round as he does,
if my mamma’d give me such nice things to eat,” said they; which shows
that they had no idea of Pollio’s trials.
When he was down stairs, he wanted to go up; and, when he was up
stairs, he wanted to come down. You would feel just as he did if
you couldn’t walk. Everybody was ready to carry him, and nobody
complained, But Pollio found after a while that he did not need so many
“horses:” he could travel on all-fours nearly as fast as Beppo or Muff.
You ought to have seen him run! How he did run away from his medicine!
Why, he went so fast that his aunt Ann could not catch him. It was her
business to give him his drops three times a day; but the moment she
began to shake the vial he was missing. He could slip out of the room
without any noise, then up stairs or down cellar,—anywhere to get away
from that hateful vial and spoon.
“Pollio, this is very naughty,” said his auntie, quite out of breath.
“Your little sister Alice didn’t behave like this: she took _her_
medicine without any trouble.”
“Did she? Then what made her die?” exclaimed Pollio, slipping under a
chair.
It was too hard for aunt Ann to be led such a chase; and Nunky said he
would take charge of the medicine. Pollio knew then that it was all
over with him, for Nunky could run like a fox. But Nunky had no idea
of running. He was a man who believed that little children should be
taught to obey.
“Pollio, you have made enough trouble, my boy; and from this time I
expect you to swallow your medicine as soon as I have counted ‘One,
two, three.’”
Pollio looked up, and saw his uncle was in earnest.
“Sha’n’t you catch me first?”
“Catch you? No, sir! you’re already caught! Open your mouth, General,
‘One, two, _three_!’”
Pollio swallowed, and sighed; and after that there was no more trouble
about the drops.