POLLIO MAKES UP HIS MIND.
BUT Pollio’s conscience was not easy. He danced about as if the
barn-floor were covered with thistles and every step hurt him. As he
flew from barrel to hay-mow, and from hay-mow to hogshead, he kept
talking to himself in this way:—
“Poh! what do I care? Smart carriage to break so easy as that! My papa
wouldn’t keep one ’thout it was strong enough to jump on. What do _I_
care?”
But he did care: he cared a great deal.
“Oh, dear! I can’t find any eggs,” said Posy.
That roused him for a moment; and he lifted his head from a barrel long
enough to say,—
“Why, I meant to told you, Dorothy came out ever so long ago and _got_
the eggs.”
“Did she? Well, what are you hunting for, then? How queer you do act!”
said Hop-clover, as Pollio danced along to the cow’s stall, and peeped
in at nothing.
But the boy did not hear her; he was thinking:—
“A new carriage too! We are going to ride home in it to-morrow. Yes,
that’s the carriage we are going to ride home in. Got to be mended.
What’ll Mr. Littlefield think?”
Here Pollio danced along on thistles to the colt’s crib.
“There’s that colt. Perhaps Mr. Littlefield will think the colt got in
where the carriage is, and chewed the thill.—_Could_ he chew the thill?
“No: Mr. Littlefield would know better than that. Well, p’rhaps the dog
broke it.—_Could_ the dog break it?”
Pollio reflected on _that_ for a while. Towzer was not as heavy as
Beppo. No, Towzer couldn’t break a thill: Mr. Littlefield would know
better than that.
“Well, p’rhaps the hens roosted on the thill, and broke it.”
This was such a silly idea, that Pollio shook his head impatiently.
“He don’t hear one word we say,” remarked Posy to Hop-clover, after
they had asked him half a dozen questions, and received no answer.
“He has felt real bad ever since he laughed in meeting. I ’spect he’s
afraid Teddy will hear of it; but _I_ sha’n’t tell.—Look up here,
Pollio: don’t you be afraid. _I_ sha’n’t tell Teddy.”
Pollio made no reply even to this. The two little girls gave him up
then, and went to keeping house very cosily in the wheelbarrow.
“Well, I don’t know what Mr. Littlefield _will_ think,” pursued the
unhappy boy. “But he won’t think ’twas _me_; for nobody saw me but the
girls, and _they_ didn’t hear it crack. I’m _so_ glad they didn’t hear
it crack!”
By this time it seemed as if he could not possibly stay in the barn
another minute. The more he thought about the carriage, the worse he
felt.
“Come, girls, let’s go somewhere else,” said he, rushing out with a
sort of war-whoop.
The girls were having a very interesting time, nursing some ears of
corn through the “yellow-fever;” but at Pollio’s call they deserted
their poor sick children, and followed him. He led them a very
roundabout chase, never stopping long enough to look at any thing, or
to let them have any sort of a good time.
He was trying to run away from something. What was it?
From _himself_.
But, quick as his legs were, they were not quick enough for that.
Pollio Pitcher was _always_ close behind him: he couldn’t get away from
Pollio Pitcher.
“Seems to me I never saw him act so,” said Hop-clover, puffing for
breath as he darted off, and rolled over and over in the grass. “I’m
getting real lame, running round so long; and I’m afraid we sha’n’t get
back before supper.”
You must pardon Hop-clover for thinking a good deal about her supper.
Perhaps you would think as much about it as she did, if you were in
the habit of feeling hungry half the time.
“Well, we’ll go back now if Pollio will,” said Posy, though she wanted
to pick flowers. “Come, Pollio.”
“Oh, go ’long! I’ll come when I get ready,” said he, climbing a tree,
and dangling from a limb.
They went; and, the moment they were out of hearing, he began to make
strange noises,—hooting, barking, crowing, groaning. He thought it
would be some relief, but it wasn’t: there was only one way to obtain
relief, and that was to tell Mr. Littlefield the truth.
“What, tell him I broke his chaise? I needn’t, and I sha’n’t! He won’t
like me any more if I do. He doesn’t like me much now, ’cause I laughed
in meeting.”
Pollio writhed and twisted. If the squirrels and tree-toads had
stopped to watch him, they would have thought he was crazy. He talked
aloud too; but he spoke his bad thoughts, and kept his good thoughts to
himself.
“I won’t tell! Catch me telling! Do I want him to think my father’s got
a ‘youngster’ for a boy?”
Then he pulled up a tuft of grass, and threw it at a toad.
But, all the while, the other half of his thoughts was good. The
angels knew it; for they had charge of Pollio. If you had been there,
you couldn’t have heard the still small voice, deep down in his soul,
saying,—
“Think I’d be so mean as _not_ to tell?”
But the angels heard it, and smiled. They knew it was hard work for
the little fellow to make up his mind, and that was why he scolded
and scowled. Mr. Littlefield was fond of him, and Pollio liked to
be liked. It did require courage this time to tell the truth and be
despised. Of course the good Quaker would say,—
“Well, Napoleon, if this is the way thee behaves, I don’t want thee to
come to my house visiting again.”
Ah, well! but you needn’t think Pollio wasn’t going to walk up to his
duty like a man. What is the use of a father and mother, and uncle and
aunt, to tell you what is right, if you won’t do it? He wasn’t a coward
and a liar: if he had been, I wouldn’t have written this story about
him; but I must confess a snail could have walked faster than he did
going back to the house.
“Well, well, Napoleon! Thee came pretty near losing thy supper,” said
Mr. Littlefield, smiling, as Pollio came slowly toward him, and pulled
him by the sleeve.
Supper! Why, his throat was so full of lumps that a crumb would have
choked him! Not a word could he speak as he dragged his friend along to
the stable.
The worst was over now; for, the moment Mr. Littlefield saw the broken
carriage, he knew the whole story.
I cannot say he wasn’t vexed. Pollio had proved more troublesome than
he had expected,—chasing the cows, putting the wheelbarrow, rake, and
hoe out of place, and now meddling with this new carriage.
But Friend Littlefield knew how to rule his own spirit: he would not
speak a word when he was angry. Instead of speaking, he waited, and
looked at Pollio, who was trying to double himself into a hard knot.
The sight of the child’s misery moved him to pity; of course it did,
for Mr. Littlefield couldn’t bear to see even a fly unhappy.
“Well, Napoleon: so my new carriage is broken. Who broke it?”
“I did.”
“How?”
“Jumping.”
“Did John see thee?”
“No, sir.”
“Did anybody else see thee?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what made thee come and tell?”
“’Cause—’cause”—
“Did thee do it _because it was right_?”
The tone was so gentle, that Pollio ventured to look up; and the old
gentleman was beaming down on him so kindly, that he couldn’t bear it
another minute.
“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry!” sobbed he, throwing both arms round one of the
Quaker’s knees.
“Sorry for what? Sorry thee told?”
“_No, sir!_ I wouldn’t have _not_ told for any thing in this world!”
cried Pollio, hunting for his handkerchief.
But, before he had found it,—and of course it wasn’t in his pocket, for
he had thrown it at a tree-toad,—Mr. Littlefield had caught him up in
his arms, and was giving him a good hugging.
“Thee is one of the Lord’s own little ones,” said he, kissing him on
both cheeks. “Thee didn’t do right to meddle with my chaise,—I won’t
uphold thee in that,—but thee did nobly to tell the truth. The Lord
bless thee and keep thee! Why, Napoleon, I never liked thee half so
well as I do this minute!”
How did Pollio feel then? I suppose he never was so surprised in his
life. The Quaker had to give him the use of his handkerchief for about
two minutes; and after that the shower cleared off, and a rainbow
shone in his eyes. The lumps had gone out of his throat, the ache had
gone out of his heart, and the whole world looked so beautiful, that he
wanted to shout and turn somersets all the way to the house.
Such a supper! Why, Mrs. Littlefield had warm biscuits and honey, just
as if she knew they were the very things Pollio liked best. And after
tea Mr. Littlefield took him on his knee, and told him a bear-story,
which was so funny that I wish I could tell it myself, only I can’t
make you laugh as the Quaker would have done.
“THE CUB THAT WAS WHIPPED.
“Once a man was out hunting; and, as he was climbing a steep
hill, he met a little cub. He thought maybe it had no father
and mother, and he would like to carry it home. But, when
he took it up in his arms, the cub cried out and made such
a noise that its mother heard it from the top of the hill,
and came tumbling down, heels over head, to see what was the
matter.
“The man dropped the cub in a moment, and ran and hid behind
a tree; for he had left his gun in the valley, and dared not
meet the bear without it. He lay very still while the bear
hunted everywhere to see what it was that had been troubling
her cub. He was _so_ afraid she would find him! But she
could not smell him, for the wind was the wrong way; and she
could not see him, for the tree hid him completely.
“At last she gave it up, and thought the cub had been crying
out for fun, and just to tease her.
“But oh, she was so angry! And what do you think she did to
teach her child better manners? She caught up that little
cub, and whipped it as hard as she could with her paw! The
poor thing cried just like a baby, and the man could not
help laughing as he lay there behind the tree. He pitied the
little creature, for it did not deserve the whipping; but it
certainly was very funny.
“When the bear had punished it as long as she thought
proper, she growled as if to say, ‘Don’t you ever let me
know of your doing this again;’ and then she and her baby
trotted off to their den, and the man hurried home as fast
as he could.”
Mr. Littlefield said this was a true story, for the hunter had told it
to him with his own lips.
The rest of the visit was lovely. The carriage was mended next morning,
and in the afternoon the children were to start for home. Hop-clover
had one of the late chickens in a little box of cotton-wool, and a cup
of dough with which to feed it on the way. She thought she could keep
the chicken in the back-room at home, and, when the nights grew colder,
it should sleep with her in her own bed.