PEGGY
"Muther say, please, sir, send her four eggs' worth of salt pork, and two
eggs' worth of pepper, and five eggs' worth of molasses. And she say I
can have pickle with the last egg."
The eyes which had been critically searching the pickle-jar on the
counter as the eggs were carefully taken out of a basket looked
confidently in Mr. Blick's face, and a red little tongue licked two red
lips in quivering expectation of the salty sourness awaiting them.
"Please, sir, I'd like that one." A dirty little fore-finger pointed to
a long, fat cucumber lying slightly apart from its fellows. "That's the
one, Mr. Blick. No, not that one--/that/ one!" and the finger was
pressed resolutely against the jar. "And would you please, sir, give it
to me before you weigh out the things?"
"Oh, Peggy dear, what a little pig you are! The very biggest in the jar,
and such a wicked-looking pickle, Peggy! Why not get an apple,
instead?"
Peggy turned joyously at the sound of the voice behind her. "Oh, Miss
Mary Cary, I'm so glad it's you. I thought it was Miss Lizzie Bettie
Pryor!"
Mr. Blick laughed. The relief in Peggy's voice was so unqualified that
the man, standing in the door watching the little group, laughed also.
Miss Cary turned toward him. "This is Peggy, John--my little friend,
Peggy McDougal. Wipe your hands, Peggy, and speak to Mr. Maxwell,
who has come from New York to see Yorkburg, and--and the places he
used to know."
Peggy wiped her hands carefully on the handkerchief held out to her,
then advanced toward the man, still standing in the doorway, but now
with his hat in his hand.
"How do you do, Mr. John Maxwell from New York?" she said,
gravely; in her eyes critical inspection of the face before her. "I
know about you. Muther says you used to live in Yorkburg, but your
muther didn't like it. I hope you like it, and will stay a long time
and come again. Miss Mary Cary says it's nicer than New York."
John Maxwell took the offered hand as ceremoniously as it was given.
"Thank you! I do like Yorkburg, and I hope to come again." He laughed
amusedly in the upturned eyes which were searching his. "It is nicer
than New York. Miss Cary is quite right."
"New York's bigger, ain't it?"
"Yes"--hesitatingly--"some bigger. But I don't believe there's
anything there like you--"
"Plenty more here like me."
"How many?"
"Hundreds, I reckon. Yorkburg's most all children and old maids,
muther says. We've got nine children--four girls and five boys. The
last one was a girl, which would have made us even, but it died. Billy
give it a piece of watermelon rind to play with and it et it. But,
Miss Mary, muther /did/ say I could have a pickle, she did."
And Peggy turned to Miss Cary, anxious entreaty in her eyes.
"I don't want an apple--I want a pickle. And it won't make me sick.
There's seven of us to have a bite, and one bite wouldn't give anybody's
stomach a pain. Oh, Miss Mary, you ain't Miss Lizzie Bettie Pryor.
Please don't tell me not to get it. Please don't!" And the little
fingers twisted and untwisted in tragic intensity of appeal.
"I ought to tell you." Miss Cary looked doubtfully at the pickle-jar.
"But if you get it will you promise not to ask for another for a long,
long time? They are almost poisonous. Mr. Blick, I wish you wouldn't
keep them. They are such a temptation to the children. Isn't there
anything else you could keep instead?"
"Yes'm, plenty of things. But that's all I would do. I'd keep 'em. I
tell you times ain't like they was, Mary Cary, and if you don't sell
what people want to buy, they'll buy from the man who sells what they
want. And then what would Mrs. Blick and the babies do?"
Mr. Blick's bright little black eyes beamed first at Miss Cary and then
at the gentleman in the door, but, neither venturing an answer, he cut
off a piece of pork and wrapped it carefully. "Not being in the
missionary business, I have to meet the times, for if we don't stand up
we set down, and folks walk right along over us and don't know we're
there. I don't approve of pickle, or cocoanut, either, as for that"--he
tapped a jar filled with water, in which soaked broken pieces of the
fruit of the tree forbidden by most Yorkburg mothers--"but business is
business, which I ain't attendin' to or I'd be takin' your order 'stead
of wastin' your time." And again the black little eyes gleamed like
polished chinquapins sunk in a round red peach.
"Oh no! Peggy was here first and her mother is waiting for her. You give
her what she came for while I look around for what I want."
Mr. Blick, knowing further words were unwise, began patiently to do up
the eggs' worth of pork and pepper and molasses, and John Maxwell,
watching him to see in what proportions they would be meted out, grew
as interested as Peggy, whose shrewd little eyes had so early been
trained in weights and measurements that she could tell quickly the
number of eggs required for an ounce or quarter of half a pound of the
purchase to be made. Putting the packages in a basket, she turned; then,
remembering a final order, stood again at the counter.
"I forgot, Mr. Blick. Muther say won't you please send her nine of them
little blue-and-red-and-white birthday candles? She wants 'em for the
twins' birthday. It comes on the Fourth of July; they will be nine on
the Fourth, Washington and Jefferson will, and muther's been wanting
ever since they been born to celebrate their birthday, but suppin'
always happened; somebody was sick, or Wash and Jeff been fightin', so
she couldn't in conscience give 'em a party. But the last time 'twas her
fault--she mashed her finger; so she say she thinks she'll have it now
if'n it is May 'stead of July, cause there ain't nothing the matter, and
she knows there will be if she waits till the right time. She say she'll
send the eggs for the candles as soon as Grandpa Duke and Miss Florence
Nightingale lays 'em. She knows Mis' Blick likes their eggs best. It
will take a dozen, won't it?"
John Maxwell turned toward Miss Cary, his forehead wrinkled in
puzzled inquiry. "In the name of chicken-science, what is she
talking about? If I oughtn't to ask, don't tell me, but--"
"It's a new world I told you you'd be finding." Mary Cary laughed,
running her hand through a peck measure of black-eyed peas. "And
where but in Yorkburg will eggs serve for currency?"
"But when Grandpa Duke lays the eggs? What does she mean?"
"That the big black hen was a present from Mr. Duke, Mrs. McDougal's
father, and named in honor of him. All Mrs. McDougal's hens are
named--honorably named. Her roosters, also. But having few roosters
and admiring many men, she bestows on her lady chickens the names of
distinguished gentlemen. It's her only way of keeping in touch with
great people, she says. You must know Peggy's mother. She is one of
my good friends. Would you like to go to the party?"
Before he could answer: "Peggy!" she called--"Peggy, come here and
tell us when the party takes place."
Peggy, package-laden, came slowly toward the door near which Miss
Cary and John Maxwell were standing. The top end of the precious
pickle had been bitten off, and Peggy's face, wrinkled in distorted
enjoyment of its salty sourness, was endeavoring to straighten
itself before making answer.
"Oh, Miss Mary Cary, /will/ you come to the party? Will you?
There's going to be flags and poppers and lemonade and--and a lot of
things. Muther say she's been intendin' to give a party ever since
she's been married, but she ain't ever had a minute to do it in. The
reason she is goin' to give it to the boys is because they was born the
same day the United States was. They'll be nine on the Fourth of July
and the United States will be--" She shook her head. "I don't know how
old the United States is, but muther say being born when they was, and
being named for Presidents, she's bound to teach us patriotics, and a
party is the best way she knows of. She'd give it to me or Teeny if our
birthdays stood for anything, but they don't. I'm ten, goin' on eleven,
and ain't anybody yet remembered when my birthday comes."
Peggy was red in the face and out of breath. The eagerness of her
invitation had dried her throat, which needed moistening. Ducking her
head, she bit off the other end of the pickle and, in an effort to
swallow naturally, blinked furiously.
"That's all and no more," she said, nodding explanatorily at Miss Cary.
"I always take the two ends. They're toughest, and you can chew 'em
longest. The other children get the middle," and she put said middle
carefully between the pork and pepper. "If you don't want me to, I
won't eat another for--for how long mustn't I eat it, Miss Cary?"
"For six months." Miss Cary's voice made effort to be severe. "They
will ruin you. They really will. But run along and tell your mother
we are coming to the party. What time did you say it was to be?"
"I didn't say. Muther ain't said herself yet. She say out of nine you
can always count on suppin' happenin' that oughtn't, specially when five
is boys. But I reckon it will be about four o'clock, and she thinks
Friday will be the day. If muther can get 'em all washed and keep the
lemonade from being drunk up she will have it at four. If'n she can't
she will have it when she can. But please 'm, oh /please 'm/ be
sure and come!"
She started down the street, then turned, as if suddenly remembering,
and came back to the man still standing in the door, watching her with
amused eyes.
"Muther will be glad to have you come, too," she said, nodding gravely,
"Mr.--Mr.--what did you say your name was?"
"Maxwell." And again the hat was lifted.
"Maxwell," she repeated. "I hope you will come, too. I don't know
whether muther knows you or not, but if you was Satan himself she
would be glad to see you--if'n you was a friend of Miss Mary Cary."