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FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND THEIR FRIENDS
By MARGARET SIDNEY
AUTHOR OF "FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS ABROAD," "A LITTLE MAID OF CONCORD TOWN,"
"SALLY, MRS. TUBBS," ETC.
Illustrated by Eugenie M. Wireman
[Illustration: "What are you doing, Phronsie, sitting down in the middle
of the stairs?"--(See page 46.)]
To my daughter Margaret,
who to her friends embodies
"Polly Pepper" in her
girlhood, I dedicate most
lovingly this book.
PREFACE.
There were so many interesting friends of the Five Little Peppers,
whose lives were only the faintest of outlines in the series ending
when Phronsie was grown up, that a volume devoted to this outer
circle has been written to meet the persistent demand.
Herein the author records many happenings that long ago Ben and Polly,
Joel and David told her. And even Phronsie whispered some of it
confidentially into the listening ear. "Tell about Rachel, please,"
she begged; and Margaret Sidney promised to write it all down some
day.
And that day seems to have arrived in which it all should be recorded
and the promise fulfilled. For the Five Little Peppers loved their
friends very dearly, and were loyal and true to them. And hand in
hand, the circle widening ever, they lived and loved as this history
records.
MARGARET SIDNEY.
CONTENTS
I. A FIVE-O'CLOCK TEA
II. PHRONSIE
III. CLEM FORSYTHE
IV. MISS TAYLOR'S WORKING BEE
V. "SHE'S MY LITTLE GIRL"
VI. GRANDMA BASCOM
VII. THE DISAPPOINTMENT
VIII. THE GARDEN PARTY
IX. THE TEN-DOLLAR BILL
X. TROUBLE FOR JOEL
XI. RACHEL
XII. DOINGS AT THE PARSONAGE
XIII. "SHE'S GOING TO STAY HERE FOREVER"
XIV. "CAN'T GO," SAID JOEL
XV. UP IN ALEXIA'S PRETTY ROOM
XVI. THE ACCIDENT
XVII. JOEL'S ADVENTURE
XVIII. THE COMFORT COMMITTEE
XIX. JOEL'S NEW FRIEND
XX. THE COOKING CLUB
XXI. OF MANY THINGS IN GENERAL
XXII. RACHEL'S VISIT TO MISS PARROTT
XXIII. THE OLD PARROTT HOMESTEAD
XXIV. RACHEL'S FUTURE
XXV. JACK PARISH
XXVI. MR. HAMILTON DYCE A TRUE FRIEND
XXVII. A PIECE OF GOOD NEWS
XXVIII. THE LITTLE STONE CUPBOARD
ILLUSTRATIONS
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, PHRONSIE, SITTING DOWN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STAIRS?"
FIVE-O'CLOCK TEA
"BUT THIS IS TEN DOLLARS," SAID JOEL
"ON, LARRY," SAID MISS TAYLOR GENTLY, BENDING OVER HIM
"YES, SIR," CALLED JOEL BACK, FROM THE ALCOVE
THE UNLUCKY OAR WAS SEIZED BY THE TRIUMPHANT CREW
"I USED TO PLAY WITH IT," SHE SAID SOFTLY
HE STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LITTLE SHOP
I
A FIVE-O'CLOCK TEA
"I wish," said Phronsie slowly, "that you'd come in, little girl."
"Can't." The girl at the gate peered through the iron railings, pressing
her nose quite flat, to give the sharp, restless, black eyes the best
chance.
"Please do," begged Phronsie, coming up quite close; "I very much wish you
would."
"Can't," repeated the girl on the outside. "Cop won't let me."
"Who?" asked Phronsie, much puzzled and beginning to look frightened.
"Perlice." The girl nodded briefly, taking her face away from the iron
railings enough to accomplish that ceremony. Then she plastered her nose up
against its support again, and stared at Phronsie with all her might.
"Oh," said Phronsie, with a little laugh that chased away her fright,
"there isn't any big policeman here. This is Grandpapa's garden."
"'Tain't, it's the perliceman's; everything's the perliceman's,"
contradicted the girl, snapping one set of grimy fingers defiantly.
"Oh, no," said Phronsie, softly but very decidedly, "this is my dear
Grandpapa's home, and the big policeman can't get in here, ever."
"Oh, you ninny!" The girl staring at her through the railings stopped a
minute to laugh, covering both hands over her mouth to smother the sound.
"The perlice can go everywheres they want to. I guess some of 'em's in
heaven now, spyin' round."
Phronsie dropped the doll she was carrying close to her bosom, to
concentrate all her gaze up toward the sky, in wide-eyed amazement that
allowed her no opportunity to carry on the conversation.
"An' I couldn't no more get into this 'ere garden than I could into
heaven," the girl on the outside said at last, to bring back the blue eyes
to earth, "so don't you think it, you. But, oh, my, don't I wish I could,
though!"
There was so much longing in the voice that Phronsie brought her gaze down
from the policemen in their heavenly work to the eyes staring at her. And
she clasped her hands together tightly, and hurried up to lay her face
against the big iron gate and close to that of the girl.
"He won't hurt you, the big policeman won't," she whispered softly. "I'll
take hold of your hand, and tell him how it is, if he gets in. Come."
"Can't," the girl was going to say, but her gaze rested upon the doll lying
on the grass where it fell from Phronsie's hand. "Lawks! may I just have
one good squint at that?" she burst out.
"You may hold it," said Phronsie, bobbing her head till her yellow hair
fell over her flushed cheeks.
The gate flew open suddenly, nearly overthrowing her; and the girl, mostly
all legs and arms, dashed through, picking up the doll to squeeze it to her
neck so tightly that Phronsie rushed up, quite alarmed.
"Oh, don't," she cried, "you'll frighten her. I'll tell her how it is, and
then she'll like you."
"I'll make her like me," said the girl, with savage thrusts at the doll,
and kissing it all over.
"Oh, my, ain't you sweet!" and she cuddled it fiercely in her scrawny neck,
her tangled black hair falling around its face.
"Oh, dear!" wailed Phronsie, standing quite still, "she's my child, and
she's dreadfully frightened. Oh, please, little girl, don't do so."
"She's been your child forever, and I've never had a child." The girl
raised her black head to look sternly at Phronsie. "I'll give her back; but
she's mine now."
"Haven't you ever had a child?" asked Phronsie, suddenly, two or three
tears trailing off her round cheeks to drop in the grass, and she drew a
long breath and winked very fast to keep the others back.
"Not a smitch of one," declared the other girl decidedly, "an' I'm a-goin'
to hold this one, and pretend I'm its mother."
Phronsie drew a long breath, and drew slowly near.
"You may," she said at last.
The new mother didn't hear, being hungrily engaged in smoothing her child's
cheeks against her own dirty ones, first one side of the face and then the
other, and twitching down the dainty pink gown, gone awry during the
hugging process, and alternately scolding and patting the little figure.
This done, she administered a smart slap, plunged over to the nearest tree,
and set the doll with a thud on the grass to rest against its trunk.
"Sit up like a lady," she commanded.
"Oh, don't!" cried Phronsie, quite horror-stricken, and running over on
distressed feet. "She's my child," she gasped.
"No, she's mine, an' I'm teachin' her manners. I ain't through pretendin'
yet," said the girl. She put out a long arm and held Phronsie back.
"But you struck her." Phronsie lifted a pale face, and her blue eyes
flashed very much as Polly's brown ones did on occasion.
The new mother whirled around and stared at her.
"Why, I had to, just the same as you're licked when you're bad," she said,
in astonishment.
"What's 'licked'?" asked Phronsie, overcome with curiosity, yet keeping her
eyes on her child, bolt upright against the tree.
"Why, whipped," said the girl, "just the same as you are when you're bad."
Phronsie drew a long breath.
"I've never been whipped," she said slowly.
"Oh, my Lord!" The girl tumbled down to the grass and rolled over and over,
coming up suddenly to sit straight, wipe her tangled black hair out of her
eyes, and stare at Phronsie. "Well, you are a reg'lar freak, you are," was
all she could say.
"What's a 'freak'?" asked Phronsie, actually turning her back on her child
to give all her attention to this absorbing conversation, with its most
attractive vocabulary.
"It's--oh, Jumbo!" and over she flopped again, to roll and laugh. "Well,
there!" and she jumped to her feet so quickly she nearly overthrew
Phronsie, who had drawn closer, unable to miss a bit of this very strange
proceeding. "Now I'm through pretending an' I haven't got any child, an'
you may have her back." She wrung her grimy hands together, and turned her
back on the object of so much attention. "Take her, quick; she's yours."
Phronsie hurried over to the doll, sitting up in pink loveliness against
the tree, knelt down on the grass, and patted her with gentle hand, and
smoothed down her curls. A curious sound broke in upon her work, and she
looked up and listened. "I must go back," she whispered to her child, and
in a minute she was running around the figure of the girl, to stare into
her face.
"Ow--get out!" cried the girl crossly, and she whirled off, pulling up her
ragged dress to her face.
"I thought I heard you cry," said Phronsie in a troubled voice, and
following her in distress.
"Phoo!" cried the girl, snapping her fingers in derision, and spinning
around on the tips of her toes, "'twas the cat."
"No," said Phronsie decidedly, and shaking her head, "it couldn't be the
cat, because she doesn't hardly ever cry, and besides she isn't here"--and
she looked all around--"don't you see she isn't?"
"Well, then, 'twas that bird," said the girl, pointing up to a high branch.
"Ain't you green, not to think of him!"
"I don't _think_ it was the bird," said Phronsie slowly, and peering
up anxiously, "and he doesn't cry again, so I 'most know he couldn't have
cried then."
"Well, he will, if you wait long enough," said the girl defiantly.
"Chee, chee, chee," sang the bird, with delicious little trills, and
shaking them out so fast his small throat seemed about to burst with its
efforts.
"There, you see he couldn't cry," began Phronsie, in a burst of delight;
"you see, little girl," and she hopped up and down in glee.
"He's got the 'sterics, an' he'll cry next, like enough," said the girl.
"What's 'the 'sterics'?" asked Phronsie, coming out of her glee, and
drawing nearer. "Oh, I see some tears," and she looked soberly up into the
thin, dirty face, and forgot all about her question.
"No, you don't, either." The girl twitched away angrily. "There ain't never
no tears you could see on me; 'twas the cat or the bird. Ain't you green,
though! You're green as that grass there," and she spun round and round,
snapping her fingers all the while.
Phronsie stood quite still and regarded her sorrowfully.
"Don't you believe I cried!" screamed the girl, dashing up to her, to snap
her fingers in Phronsie's face; "say you don't this minute."
"But I think you did," said Phronsie. "Oh. I'm very sure you did, and you
may hold my child again, if you only won't cry any more," and she clasped
her hands tightly together. The other girl started and ran toward the big
iron gate.
"Oh, don't!" Phronsie called after her, and ran to overtake the flying
feet. "Please stay with me. I like you; don't go."
The girl threw her head back as if something hurt her throat, then leaned
her face against the iron railings and stuck her fingers in her ears.
"Don't! lemme alone! go 'way, can't you!" She wriggled off from Phronsie's
fingers. "I'll lick you if you don't lemme be!"
"I wish you'd play with me," said Phronsie, having hard work to keep out of
the way of the flapping shoes all down at the heel, "and you may have
Clorinda for your very own child as long as you stay--you may really."
"Ow! see here!" Up came the girl's face, and with a defiant sweep of her
grimy hands she brushed both cheeks. "Do you mean that, honest true, black
and blue?"
"Yes," said Phronsie, very much relieved to see the effect of her
invitation, "I do mean it, little girl. Come, and I'll tell Clorinda all
how it is."
"I'm goin' outside to walk up and down a bit. Bring on your doll."
"But you must come here," said Phronsie, moving off slowly backward over
the grass. "Come, little girl"--holding out her hand.
"Now I know you didn't mean it," said the girl scornfully. "You wouldn't
let me touch that nasty old doll of yours again for nothin' you wouldn't,"
she shrilled at her.
"Oh, yes, I would," declared Phronsie, in great distress; "see, I'm going
to get her now," and she turned around and hurried over the grass to pick
Clorinda off from her resting-place and run back. "There, see, little
girl," she cried breathlessly, thrusting the doll into the dirty hands;
"take her now and we'll go and play."
For answer, the girl clutched the doll and sped wildly off through the
gateway.
"Oh!" cried Phronsie, running after with pink cheeks and outstretched arms,
"give me back my child; stop, little girl."
But there wras no stop to the long, thin figure flying down the path on the
other side of the tall hedge. It was a back passage, and few pedestrians
used the path; in fact, there were none on it this afternoon, so the
children had it all to themselves. And on they went, Phronsie, with but one
thought--to rescue her child from the depths of woe such as being carried
off by a strange mother would produce--blindly plunging after.
At last the girl with the doll stopped suddenly, flung herself up against a
stone fence, and drew a long breath.
"Well, what you goin' to do about it?" she cried defiantly, clutching the
doll with a savage grip.
Phronsie, too far gone for words, sank panting down to the curbstone, to
watch her with wild eyes.
"You said I might take her," the girl blurted out. "I hain't took nothin'
but what you give me. I want to play with her to my home. You come with me,
and then you can take her back with you."
"I can't," said Phronsie, in a faint little voice. Her cheeks were very
red, and she wiped her hot face on her white apron. "You must give me
Clorinda, and I must go home," and she held out a shaking hand.
But the girl danced off, and Phronsie, without a thought beyond the rescue
of her child, stumbled on after her, scarcely seeing one step before her
for the tears that, despite all her efforts, now began to stream down her
round cheeks.
At last, in trying to turn out for a baker's boy with a big basket, she
caught her foot and fell, a tired little heap, flat in a mud puddle in the
middle of the brick pavement.
"My eye!" cried the baker's boy, lifting her up. "Here, you girl, your
sister's fell, ker-squash!"
At this, the flying girl in front whirled suddenly and came running back,
and took in the situation at once.
"Come on, you lazy thing, you!" she exclaimed; then she burst into a laugh.
"Oh, how you look!"
"Give me back--" panted Phronsie, rubbing away the tears with her muddy
hands, regardless of her splashed clothes and dirty shoes.
"Keep still, can't you?" cried the girl, gripping her arm, as two or three
pedestrians paused to stare at the two. "Come on, sister," and she seized
Phronsie's hand, and bore her off. But on turning the corner, she stopped
abruptly, and, still holding the doll closely, she dropped to one knee and
wiped off the tears from the muddy little cheeks with a not ungentle hand.
"You've got to be my sister," she said, in a gush, "else the hoodlums will
tear you from neck to heels." And seizing Phronsie's hand again, she bore
her off, dodging between rows of dwellings, that, if her companion could
have seen, would have certainly proved to be quite novel. But Phronsie was
by this time quite beyond noticing any of the details of her journey, and
after turning a corner or two, she was hauled up several flights of rickety
steps, strange to say without the usual accompaniment of staring eyes and
comments of the various neighbors in the locality.
"There!" The girl, still clutching the doll, flung wide the rickety door.
"My, ain't I glad to get here, though!" and she drew a long breath,
releasing Phronsie's hand, who immediately slid to the floor in a collapsed
little heap. "Well, this is my home--ain't it pretty, though!"
Phronsie, thus called on for a reply, tried very hard to answer, but the
words wouldn't come.
"You needn't try," said the girl, slamming the door, "'tain't likely you
can praise it enough," and she broke out into a hard, sarcastic laugh,
which shrilled its way out of the one window, whose broken glass was
adorned with nondescript fillings.
"See here now, you're all beat out," she exclaimed suddenly; then rushing
across the room, she dragged up a broken chair, and jammed it against the
door. "There now, we're by ourselves, an' you can rest."
"I must go home," said Phronsie faintly, and holding up her tired arms.
"Give me my child; I must go home."
"Did you think I didn't know what was proper?" cried the girl scornfully,
and tossing her head. "I'm going to have five-o'clock tea 'fore you go.
There, I'm a lady, an' a swell one too, I'd have you know."
She ran over to the corner of the slatternly room, and set the doll on a
bed, over which were tossed the clothes in a dirty heap, Phronsie following
every movement with anxious eyes.
"Now she's my child, remember," she said, turning her sharp, black eyes on
the small figure huddled up on the floor, "as long as she stays here."
Then she hurried about, twitching a box out here and there from a cupboard,
whose broken door hung by one hinge.
"Here's my silver spoons--ain't they beautiful!" she cried, running up with
a few two-tined forks and a bent and battered knife. These she placed, also
the cracked cups, with great gusto, on the rickety table, propped for
support against the wall, as one of its legs was gone entirely and another
on the fair road to departure.
"'Tain't stylish to have yer table agin the wall," she broke out, "at a
five-o'clock tea; I know, 'cause I've peeked in the windows up on the
avenoo, an' I've seen your folks, too." She nodded over at Phronsie. "I
know what I'll do." She tossed her head with its black, elfish locks, and
darted off in triumph, dragging up from another corner a big box, first
unceremoniously dumping out the various articles, such as dirty clothes, a
tin pan or two, a skillet, an empty bottle--last of all, a nightcap, which
she held aloft. "Gran's," she shouted; "it's been lost a mighty long time.
Now I'm goin' to wear it to my five-o'clock tea. It's a picter hat, same's
that lady had on to your house once--I seen her." She threw the old
nightcap over her hair, tied the ragged strings with an air, and soon, by
dint of pulling and hauling, had the table in the very center of the
apartment, the box securely under its most delicate and unreliable portion.
"There--my! ain't we fine, though!" She surveyed her work with great
delight, her hands on her hips. "Now, says I, for our ice cream an' cake,
with white on top, an' choc'late."
She gave a flirt of her ragged gown and darted here and there with her
elfish movements; and presently a cold potato, shivering in its skin, a
slice or two of hard, moldy bread, and some turnips and carrots, uncooked,
were set about the dirty table, with empty spools in between. "Them's the
flowers," she explained, as she put the last-mentioned articles in their
places. "Now it's all ready, except the choc'late." And waving an old tin
coffeepot, whose nose was a thing of the past, she filled it at the faucet
over the wooden sink, and put it down with a flourish at one end of the
table. "Now we're ready, an' I'm the beautiful lady up to your house--I
seen her, once when I was peekin' through the fence"--she nodded shrewdly,
her little eyes snapping--"her an' your sister."
[Illustration: Five O'Clock Tea]
"Oh, I want Polly," broke out Phronsie, with such a wail, as she sat, a
frozen little heap, not daring to stir, that the girl screamed out:
"Well, I'm goin' to take you to her, when I've given you my five-o'clock
tea; that is, if you don't cry. An' I ain't goin' to be the beautiful lady
up at your house; I'll be Mrs. somebody else. No, I'll be a Dukess--the
Dukess of Marlbrer--I've seen her in the paper. Oh, you've got to have the
best chair," and she dragged up the sole article of furniture of that name,
minus its back, away from the door; then helping Phronsie up from the
floor, she wiped off the tears on her pinafore, no longer white, and soon
had her installed on it. "Now you're comp'ny." Thereupon she ran and
fetched the doll from the bed, and put her on a small, old barrel, from
which the articles were dumped out, and, with a box for her back, Clorinda
was soon in great state on one side of the feast. The Dukess then slipped
into her own seat, an inverted tub, somewhat low, to be sure, but still
allowing the view of the festive cup to be seen. "She's my child, now. Will
you have some choc'late?"--with a winning smile that ran all over her dirty
face and wrinkled it up alarmingly.
"Oh, no, she's my child," protested Phronsie, the tears beginning again.
"I mean till I get through my five-o'clock tea," cried the girl; "can't you
understand? Then she'll be yours, an' I'll take you home. Will you have
choc'late?--you must, Lady--what's your name, anyway?" she demanded
abruptly, bringing her black eyes to bear on Phronsie.
Phronsie could hardly stammer it out for the tears she was choking back.
"Oh, my eye, what a name!" laughed the Dukess, in derision. "Well, you can
be Lady Funsie--Fornsie--whatever you call it. Now, will you have some
choc'late? 'Taint perlite not to answer."
"I'd rather have some milk," said Phronsie faintly, "if you please."
"Oh, 'tain't no trouble," said the Dukess airily, quirking out her little
finger with grace; and poising the tin coffeepot with an elegant air, she
inverted it over a cracked cup, which, when generously full of water, she
passed to her guest. "Help yourself to th' cakes. Lady Fonsie," she said
graciously, "an' what beyewtiful weather we are havin'!"
Phronsie put forth a trembling hand, as it seemed to be expected of her,
and took the cup of water, spilling about half of it, which ran off the
table-edge and down her little brown gown, the Dukess greeting this mishap
with a shout of laughter, checking it suddenly with a start and a dismayed
glance in the direction of the broken window.
"It's time fer you to talk some," she said. "You should say, 'Yes, I think
so, too.'"
"I think so, too," murmured Phronsie, viewing her cup of milk gravely.
"An' you must say, 'I think, Dukess, you have the most splendid milk.'"
"It isn't milk," said Phronsie gravely, and she turned serious eyes on the
lady of quality opposite.
"Oh, yes, it is," said the Dukess, "an' you orter go on an' say, 'An' all
them perfectly beyewtiful flowers, I never see any so fine!'"--pointing to
the empty spools in between the eatables.
"But they aren't flowers," said Phronsie.
This occasioned so much discussion that there was no lack of conversation,
and was the reason that steps over the stairway were not heard. The door
was thrown open, and an old, stout, sodden woman, in a dirty, green shawl
and battered bonnet stood transfixed with amazement in the entrance. She
hadn't a pleasant eye beneath her straggling, white hair, and her first
words were not altogether agreeable nor appropriate at five-o'clock tea.
"So this is the way," she said gruffly, "when I sends you out, Rag, to pick
up somethin' you eat me out o' house an' home with brats you bring in"; for
she hadn't seen through the dirt on Phronsie's face and clothes what manner
of child was present.
The Dukess twitched off the nightcap, and sprang up, upsetting the tin
coffeepot, which rolled away by itself, and put herself over by Phronsie,
covering her from view. In passing, she had grasped the doll off from the
barrel and hidden her in the folds of her tattered gown with a quick, sharp
thrust.
"'Tain't nothin' 'f I do have some fun once in a while, Gran," she
grumbled. She pinched Phronsie's arm. "Keep still." And while the old woman
swayed across the room, for she wasn't quite free from the effects of a
taste from a bottle under her arm, which she couldn't resist trying before
she reached home, Phronsie and Rag were working their way over toward the
door.
"Stop!" roared the old woman at them, in a fury, and she held up the
nightcap. Involuntarily Rag paused, through sheer force of habit, and stood
paralyzed, till her grandmother had come quite close.
"Hey, what have we got here?" She eyed Phronsie sharply. "Oh, well, you
ain't acted so badly after all; maybe the pretty little lady has come to
see me, hey?" and she seized Phronsie's small arm.
"Gran," cried Rag hoarsely, waking up from her unlucky paralysis, "let her
go; only let her go, an' I'll--I'll do anythin' you want me to. I'll steal,
an' pick an' fetch, and do anything Gran."
The old woman leered at her, and passed her hand to the beads on Phronsie's
neck; and in doing so she let the little arm slip, that she might use both
hands to undo the clasp the better. One second of time--but Rag, knowing
quite well what could be done in it, seized Phronsie, rushed outside,
slammed the door, and was down over the rickety stairs in a twinkling,
through the dirty courtyard and alley--which luckily had few spectators,
and those thought she was carrying a neighbor's child--around a corner,
darting here and there, till presently she set Phronsie down, and drew a
long breath.
"Oh, my eye!" she panted, "but wasn't that a close shave, though!"
II
PHRONSIE
"There now, here you are!" There was a little click in the girl's throat.
Phronsie looked up.
"Yes, and your child, too." Clorinda and all her pink loveliness was thrust
into her own little mother's arms, and the sharp, black eyes peered down
upon the two. "I've brung you home, and you're on your own grassplot,
same's you were." Still she stood in her tracks.
"I'm sorry I brung you to my house; but you've had a five-o'clock tea, and
now you're home, an' got your child." Still she did not stir.
"Well, I've got to go. Say, don't you call no one, nor tell no one, till
I've had time to shake my feet down street." She thrust out one flapping
shoe, then the other, gave a scornful laugh, and brushed her hand across
the sharp eyes. "Promise now, black and blue, 'I promise true, hope to die
if I do'. Hurry up! Do you promise?" she cried sharply.
"Yes," said Phronsie, hugging Clorinda tightly.
"All right. Now for Gran!" She shut her teeth tightly and was off and
through the big gateway.
"I've got my child," said Phronsie, putting up a sleepy hand to pat
Clorinda's head, but it fell to her side, while her yellow hair slipped
closer over her flushed cheek. She tried to say, "Clorinda, we've got home,
and my foots are tired," swayed, held her child tighter to her bosom, and
over she went in a heap, fast asleep before her head touched the soft
grass.
Polly Pepper, hurrying home from Alexia's, ran in by the gateway, and down
by a short cut over the grass, her feet keeping time to a merry air that
had possessed her all the afternoon. "How fine," she cried to herself, "our
garden party will be!--and we've gotten on splendidly with our fancy things
this afternoon. It will be too perfectly elegant for--" the flying feet
came to a standstill that nearly threw her over the sleeping figure, the
doll tightly pressed to the dirty little pinafore and the flushed cheeks.
"Oh, my goodness me!" cried Polly, down on her knees. "Why, Phronsie, just
look at your pinafore!" But Phronsie had no idea of looking at anything,
and still slept on.
"Dear me!" exclaimed Polly, in consternation, "whatever in the world has
she been doing! Well, I must get her up to the house."
"Hullo!" It was Jasper's voice. Polly flew up to her feet and hulloed back.
He took a short cut, with a good many flying leaps, across the grass. "Oh,
Polly, I've been looking for you!"
"Just see there." cried Polly, pointing tragically to the little heap.
"Well, dear me!" said Jasper. "Why, Polly"--as his eyes fell on the soiled
pinafore and the little face where the tears had made muddy streaks.
"I know it," said Polly. "Did you ever in all this world, Jasper! What do
you suppose she has been doing?"
"Oh, making mud pies, perhaps," said Jasper, unwilling to worry Polly;
"don't look so, Polly. Here, we'll carry her to the house."
"Lady-chair," said Polly, the worry dropping out of her eyes at the fun of
carrying Phronsie in. But Phronsie was beyond the charms of "lady-chair" or
"pick-a-back," her yellow head bobbing so dismally when they lifted her up,
that Jasper at last picked her up in his arms, and marched off with her.
"You bring the doll, Polly."
So Polly ran along by his side with Clorinda dangling by one arm.
Mother Fisher said never a word when she received her baby, but wisely
soothed and washed and tucked her away in bed; and little Doctor Fisher, as
soon as he got home, viewed her critically through his big spectacles, and
said, "The child is all right. Let her sleep." Which she did, until every
one of the household, creeping in and out, declared she could not possibly
sleep any longer, and that they must wake her up. This last was from Polly.
"What do you suppose it is, Mamsie?" she asked, for about the fiftieth
time, hanging over Phronsie's little bed.
"Nothing," said Mrs. Fisher, with firm lips. Polly must not be worried by
unnecessary alarm, and really there seemed to be nothing amiss with
Phronsie, who was sleeping peacefully, with calm little face and even
breath. "It's the best thing for her to sleep till she's rested."
"But what could have tired her so?" said Polly, with a puzzled face.
"That's just what we can't find out now," said her mother, diving into her
basket for another of Van's stockings. "Oh, here is the mate. When she
wakes up, she'll tell us."
"Well, Joanna is going, isn't she, Mamsie?" asked Polly, deserting the
little bed to fling herself down on the floor at Mrs. Fisher's feet, to
watch the busy fingers.
"Yes, she is," said Mother Fisher decidedly.
"I'm so very glad of that," said Polly, with a sigh of relief, "because you
know, Mamsie, she might go off again and leave Phronsie when she ought to
be watching her."
"Say no more about it, Polly," said her mother, setting even, firm
stitches, "for Mr. King is very angry with Joanna; and you needn't be
afraid that Phronsie will ever be left again, until we do get just the
right person to be with her. Now you better go out and forget it all, and
busy yourself about something."
"I've got to practice," said Polly with a yawn, and stretching her arms. "I
haven't done a bit this whole afternoon, and Monsieur comes tomorrow."
"Best fly at it, then," said Mrs. Fisher, smiling at her. So Polly, with a
parting glance at the figure on the little bed, went downstairs and into
the big drawing-room, wishing that Phronsie was there, as usual, where she
dearly loved to stay, tucked up in a big damask-covered chair, one of her
dolls in her arms, waiting patiently till the practice hour should be over.
But when Phronsie at last turned over, and said without a bit of warning,
"I want something to eat, I do." with an extremely injured expression,
Mother Fisher was so thankful that she had no time to question her, if,
indeed, she had considered it wise to do so. And Sarah was called, and
laughed with delight at the summons, and ran off to get the tray ready,
Phronsie watching her with hungry eyes in which the dew of sleep still
lingered. But old Mr. King was not so patient.
When he saw, as he soon did, his visits to the side of the little bed being
as frequent as Polly's own, that Phronsie was really awake and sitting up,
he could keep still no longer, but putting his arms around her, fumed out:
"Oh, that careless Joanna! Poor lamb! There, there! Grandpapa will take
care of his little girl himself, after this."
"I'm hungry," announced Phronsie, looking up into his face. "Indeed I am,
Grandpapa dear, very hungry."
"Oh, to think of it! Yes, Pet"--soothing her. "Where is that Sarah? Can't
some one get this poor child a bit to eat?" he cried irascibly.
"Sarah will hurry just as fast as she can," said Mrs. Fisher, coming up
with a dainty white gown over her arm. "Phronsie must be a good girl and
wait patiently."
Phronsie wriggled her toes under the bedclothes.
"I wish you'd take me, Grandpapa dear," she said, holding up her arms.
"So I will--so I will, Pet!" cried old Mr. King, very much delighted; and
lifting her up to rest her head on his shoulder, he walked up and down the
room. "There, there, dear! Oh, why doesn't that Sarah hurry!"--when in
walked that individual with a big tray, and on it everything that a hungry
child could be supposed to desire. But Phronsie had no eyes for anything
but the glass of milk.
"Oh, Grandpapa," she piped out at sight of it, "Sarah's got me some milk,"
and she gave a happy little crow.
"So she has," he laughed as gayly, "Well, now, we'll sit right down here
and have some of these good things," and, Mrs. Fisher drawing up a big easy
chair in front of the table where Sarah deposited the tray, he sat down,
with Phronsie on his knee. "Now, child----"
"Oh, Grandpapa, may I have the milk?" she begged, holding out a trembling
hand.
"Bless you, yes, child." He put the glass into her hand. "Take care,
Phronsie, don't drink so fast."
"Honey will choke herself," cried Sarah, in alarm, holding up warning black
fingers. "Oh, my! she's done drunk it mos' all up a'ready."
"There, there, Phronsie!" Grandpapa took hold of the glass.
"Phronsie," said Mother Fisher, and it was her hand that took the glass
away from the eager lips. "You must eat a roll now, or a little bit of
toast."
"But I want some more milk," said Phronsie, and her lips quivered.
"Not yet, Phronsie." Mother Fisher was cutting up the toast, and now held
up a morsel on the spoon. "See how very nice it is."
"We'll play it is five-o'clock tea," said old Mr. King, at his wit's end to
bring the smiles into her face. Phronsie turned and gave him one look, then
buried her face in his waistcoat and cried as hard as she could.
"There, there!" The old gentleman got up to his feet and began to pace the
floor again, his white hair bent over her face, his hand patting her back
gently. "Don't cry, poor little lamb." And as a sudden thought struck him,
"Just look at your mother, Phronsie; you are making her sick."
Up popped Phronsie's yellow head, the tears trailing off from the round
cheeks till they fell on the floor. There stood Mother Fisher, quite still.
"I'm sorry, Mamsie," said Phronsie, and she put out a little hand, "I'll
eat the toast." So down old Mr. King sat again, with her on his lap, and
Mother Fisher cut up more toast, and Phronsie opened her mouth obediently,
and after the first mouthful she smiled: "I like it, I do." And Mother
Fisher smiled too, and said, "I knew you would, Phronsie." And Grandpapa
laughed, he was so happy, and Sarah kept crying, "Bress de Lawd! yer maw
knew best." And pretty soon Mrs. Fisher nodded to old Mr. King, and he
said, "Now for the rest of the milk, Phronsie," and the glass was put into
her happy hand.
And then more toast, and more laughing, for Grandpapa by that time told a
funny story, and everything got so very merry that the gayety brought all
the rest of the houseful of children up to see if Phronsie were really
awake.
"Why didn't you tell us before?" cried Joel, in a dudgeon, revolving around
the table. "She's been eating ever so long, and we thought she was asleep."
"That's the reason she's had a little peace," retorted the old gentleman.
"Catch them telling you, Joe!" said Percy Whitney, glad to pitch in with a
word.
"Well, you didn't know it, either," said Joel, in great satisfaction. "Say,
Phronsie, where were you all this morning?"
"Ugh!" cried Van, with a warning dig in his ribs.
"Let me alone," cried Joel, squaring around on him savagely.
"Look at Phronsie's face," said Percy, with a superior manner, as if no one
needed to tell him when to speak.
Polly was on her knees cuddling up Phronsie's toes, and begging to feed
her, when she felt her give a shiver, and try to hide her face on her neck.
"Don't, Joey," begged Polly. But Joel, not hearing her, and hating to be
dictated to by Percy, cried out persistently:
"Say, Phron, what were you doing all the morning?"
Phronsie at this gave a loud sob. "Take me, Polly," was all she said. So
Polly sat down on the floor, and Phronsie snuggled up closer into her neck,
and was rocked back and forth to her heart's content, while Joel, perfectly
aghast at the mischief he had done, was taken in tow by Mother Fisher, to
sob out, his head in her lap, that he "didn't mean to, he didn't mean to."
"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed old Mr. King, in dismay, "this is a pretty state
of things! Polly, my child"--he leaned over her--"can't you think up
something to get us out of it?"
"I'm going to talk about the garden party," cried Polly, an inspiration
seizing her. "Oh, Phronsie, now you must sit up; you can't think what plans
we have for it." But Phronsie burrowed deeper in her nest.
"If you don't sit up, Phronsie," said Polly quite decidedly, "I shall have
to put you off from my lap, and go out of the room."
"Oh, no, no, Polly!" cried Phronsie, clutching her around the neck.
"Yes, I shall, Phronsie," declared Polly, in her most decided fashion, "so
you must sit right up, and hear all about it. Now, Jasper, you begin."
So Phronsie sat up and let Polly wipe her face; and then she folded her
hands in her lap, while Jasper began:
"You see that we thought that we'd take the Wistaria arbor, Father, if
you'd let us, for our post office. May we?"
"Yes, yes, certainly," said the old gentleman, who would have been quite
willing to promise anything just then.
"Oh, that's no end jolly!" cried Jasper, throwing back his dark hair from
his forehead with a quick thrust. "Now we can do splendidly. Polly, only
think!" His eyes shone, and Polly screamed out, "Oh, Grandpapa, how
lovely!" and the others joined in, not quite knowing what they were so
happy about, until Joel popped up his head from his mother's lap to hear
what all the noise was about over there.
"I'm going to be postmaster," he announced, wiping the tears off with the
back of his hand, and plunging across the room.
"No, sir-ee!" declared Ben, seizing his jacket-end, "don't think it, Joe.
Jasper is going to fill that important office."
"Yes, Jasper is," shouted Percy and Van together, delighted at anything
that could keep Joel out. Davie stood perfectly still in the midst of the
uproar.
"Why couldn't Joey be a letter carrier, to help give out the letters?" he
said at last, in the midst of the noise. "Couldn't he, Ben?" and he ran to
twitch that individual's sleeve.
"Hey--what?"
"Couldn't he be the one to give out some of the letters, and help Jasper?"
asked David anxiously.
"I don't know--yes, maybe"--as he saw David's face fall. "You best ask
Jasper, he's to be the postmaster."
So David ran over and precipitated himself into the middle of the group,
with his question; when immediately the rest began to clamor to help Jasper
give out the letters, so the babel was worse than at first.
Phronsie by this time was begging with the others, while she sat straight
in Polly's lap, with very red cheeks and wide eyes. Now she slipped out,
and rushed up to Jasper.
"And I, too, Japser; I want to give out letters, too," she cried,
dreadfully excited.
"So you shall, Pet," he cried, seizing her to toss her up in the air, the
others all circling around them, Phronsie's happy little crows going up
high above the general din.
"Well, I think if we are going to have such a fine post office, we'll have
to work pretty hard to write the letters," said Polly, after they had
sobered down a bit.
"Ugh!" cried Joel with a grimace, "I'm not going to write a single scrap of
one."
"Indeed you are," retorted Polly; "everybody has absolutely got to write
some letters. Why, we must have a bushel of them."
"Oh, Polly Pepper!" cried the others, "a bushel of letters!"
"And no one can have a letter who doesn't write some," announced Polly
firmly--"the very idea! So we must all work like everything to get ready
for the post office."
III
CLEM FORSYTHE
Phronsie sat on the stairs, halfway down the long flight. It was the same
staircase on which Jasper had found her, with Polly waiting patiently on
the lower step, when she first came to Grandpapa King's. Now she held
Clorinda in her arms, tightly pressed to her bosom.
"I do wish," she said softly, "that I could see my poor little girl, I do."
Clorinda not replying, Phronsie smoothed down the pink gown.
"It wasn't very nice at that little girl's house"--and a troubled
expression swept over her face--"but the little girl was nice, and she
hadn't any child."
Clorinda's countenance expressed no sorrow, but stared up at her mother
unblinkingly. Phronsie bent over and dropped a kiss on the red lips.
"Maybe she'll come again some day, if I watch by the big gate."
"My goodness me!" Polly, running along the upper hall, peered over the
railing. "What are you doing, Phronsie, sitting down in the middle of the
stairs?"
"I'm thinking," said Phronsie, looking up.
"Well, I should say!" cried Polly, running down to sit beside her. "Oh,
Pet, I've an invite for you." She seized Phronsie's hand and cuddled it in
both of her own. "It's perfectly splendid."
"What's an 'invite'?" asked Phronsie, coming slowly out of her thoughts, to
peer into Polly's face.
"Oh, I forgot, Mamsie didn't want me to say that," said Polly, with a
little blush. "Well, it's an invitation, Pet, and to Miss Mary Taylor's, to
go with us girls this afternoon to work on our fancy things for the fair.
Only think of that, Phronsie Pepper!" And Polly threw her arms around the
small figure, and hugged her, to the imminent danger of both falling down
the rest of the flight.
"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Polly, "we almost went over."
"Can I really go, Polly?" cried Phronsie, as soon as she could get her
breath, "when you all take your bags and work on things?" She set Clorinda
carefully down on the stair above, and stood up to look into Polly's face.
"Yes, child. Take care, you'll tumble over backward," warned Polly, with a
restraining hand. "And oh, Phronsie! I'm going to make you a little silk
bag, and you can take your pin-cushion to work on."
This was such a height of bliss that it quite overcame Phronsie, and she
sat down on her stair again to think it over. To have a little silk bag to
hang on her arm to carry her work in, just as Polly and the other girls did
when they went to each other's houses with their fancy work, was more than
she ever imagined was coming to her till she got as big as they were. And
to put her "cushion-pin" in it, and go to Miss Mary Taylor's with them all,
sent her into such a dream of delight that she sat quite still, her hands
in her lap.
"Don't you like it, Pet?" cried Polly, disappointed at her silence.
Phronsie drew a long breath, then stood up and began to hop up and down on
her stair.
"Oh, Polly," she cried, clapping her hands, "I'm going to have a little
silk bag, I truly am, Polly, all my own--oh!"
"My goodness me, Phronsie!" cried Polly, seizing her arms, "you'll roll
down and break your neck, most likely."
"And I'll take my cushion-pin"--Phronsie leaned over and put her face close
to Polly's cheek--"and I'll sew on it for the poor children, I will," and
she began to hop up and down again.
"Take care, and stop dancing," laughed Polly.
"And it shall be a pink bag," said Phronsie, dreadfully excited; "make it a
pink bag, do, Polly."
"Oh, I don't know that I can do that," said Polly slowly, "because you know
I took my piece of pink ribbon Auntie gave me, for that sachet case I'm
making for the fair. But never mind, child"--as she saw a sorry little
droop to Phronsie's mouth--"I'll find another somewhere, and it will be
nice, even if it isn't pink."
"It will be nice," echoed Phronsie confidently, as long as Polly said so,
and she clasped her hands.
"And come on, Pet, we'll go and find the ribbon and make the bag now, so as
to be all ready." Polly flew up from her stair. "Pick up your doll, and
give me your hand. Here we are!"--as they ran up to the top.
"I very much wish you wouldn't call her my doll," panted Phronsie, as they
reached the last step; "she's my child, Polly."
"I know; I won't forget," laughed Polly. "Now, says I, Phronsie, for my
piece-box!"
The invitation of Miss Mary Taylor to all the girls who were getting up the
fair for the poor children's week, plunged them into such a state of
excitement that those who had been lagging over their fancy work now
spirited up on it, or ran down-street to get more materials and begin anew.
One of these was Clem Forsythe.
"Oh, dear me!" cried Polly, looking up from the floor of her room, where
Phronsie and she had thrown themselves, the piece-box of ribbons between
them, "here comes Clem up the drive; now I 'most know she wants me to help
her on that sofa-pillow," and she twitched a square of yellow silk into a
tighter tangle. "How in the world did that spool get in here?" she
exclaimed, in vexation.
"I'll get it out, let me," begged Phronsie, dropping a fascinating bunch of
gay ribbons she was sorting in the hope of finding a pink one.
"Oh, you can't, child," cried Polly, her impatient fingers making sad work
of the snarl. "There, I'll break the old thing, there's no other way"--as
Clem ran over the stairs and into the room.
"Oh, I'm so glad to find you!" panted Clem. "Dear me! what _are_ you
doing?" And not waiting for an answer, she plunged on: "I stopped at
Alexia's--thought you might be there. And she's just as mad as can be
because I was coming over here for you. You see, her aunt has something for
her to do this morning. I'm tickled to death that for once I got ahead of
her. Whew! I'm so hot! I ran every step of the way." She threw herself down
on the floor beside the two. "My, what a sight of ribbons, Polly Pepper!"
"I'm going to have a silk bag, Clem," confided Phronsie, dropping the
little bunch of ribbons in her lap, to lean over to look into the tall
girl's face, "and I'm going to take my cushion-pin in it."
"Are you, really?" said Clem. "Oh, Polly, you see, I want you to----"
"Yes, I am." Phronsie nodded her yellow head. "Polly is going to make it
right now, she is."
"Is she? Oh, dear!" Clem gave a groan. "Oh, Polly, I did want you to----"
"You see, I promised her this," Polly was guilty of interrupting. "She's
been invited to Miss Mary's this afternoon with us girls, and she wants a
silk bag to carry her work in, too, the same as we big girls have, don't
you, Pet?" Polly stopped long enough in the final tussle with the snarl to
set a kiss on Phronsie's round cheek.
"Yes, I do, Polly," laughed Phronsie, with a wriggle of delight, "and I'm
going to carry my cushion-pin in it, I am."
"So you see I can't help you on your sofa-pillow, Clem," said Polly
hurriedly, feeling dreadfully ashamed to have to say no.
"Oh, I don't want any help on it," said Clem; "I finished that old thing,
Polly."
"Finished your sofa-pillow, Clem!" Polly dropped her snarl in her lap.
"Why, how could you?--and you hadn't the dog worked, except one leg, and
none of the filling in."
"Oh, I don't mean I finished it in that way," said Clem carelessly. "I mean
I'm done with it forever. I just hate that old dog, Polly, and so I gave
the whole thing to our second girl, and she's going to work it for
Christmas and send it to her mother."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Polly, "and now you won't give anything to the fair,"
and her mouth drooped sorrowfully.
"Oh, yes, I will, too," declared Clem cheerfully; "I'll give something ten
times better than that old dog sitting up on a cushion. And nobody would
have bought it when it was done, except my mother--I'd made her--so what's
the use of finishing it? Anyway, I've given it to Bridget; and now I'm
going to make the most elegant thing--you can't guess, Polly Pepper."
"What is it?" cried Polly, with sparkling eyes.
"Oh, that's telling," said Clem, in a tantalizing way. "You must guess."
"Polly," said Phronsie, with a gentle little twitch on her arm, "can you
find any pink ribbon?"
"Yes, yes; I mean no, not yet," said Polly, in a preoccupied way, her eyes
on Clem's face. "Oh, I can't guess; it might be anything, you know, Clem."
"But it isn't; I mean it's something," declared Clem, in great triumph.
"Oh, do hurry, you're so slow, Polly; it's too elegant for anything!"
Polly leaned her face in her hands, and her elbows on her knees. "Mm,
mm--oh, I know!" She brought up suddenly, nearly overthrowing Phronsie, who
had bent anxiously over her. "Take care, Pet, I came near bumping your
nose. It's a workbag."
"A workbag!" exclaimed Clem, in great scorn. "Well, I guess not, Polly
Pepper. What I'm going to make is ever so much better than an old workbag.
Guess again."
At the mention of the workbag, Phronsie had gently pulled Polly's arm. But
Polly was too deep in thought to notice, and she wrinkled her brows, and
bent her head again in her hands. What could it possibly be that Clem was
to make?
"Well, I think it is a sachet bag, then," she said at last.