THE FAMOUS PEPPER BOOKS
BY MARGARET SIDNEY
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND HOW THEY GREW
Illustrated by HERMANN HEYER 12mo Cloth $1.50
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS MIDWAY
Illustrated by W. L. TAYLOR 12mo Cloth $1.50
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS GROWN UP
Illustrated by L. MENTE 12mo Cloth $1.50
PHRONSIE PEPPER
Illustrated by JESSIE MCDERMOTT 12mo Cloth $1.50
THE STORIES POLLY PEPPER TOLD
Illustrated by E. B. BARRY and JESSIE MCDERMOTT 12mo Cloth $1.50
THE ADVENTURES OF JOEL PEPPER
Illustrated by SEARS GALLAGHER 12mo Cloth $1.50
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS ABROAD
Illustrated by FANNY CORY 12mo Cloth $1.50
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AT SCHOOL
Illustrated by HERMANN HEYER 12mo Cloth $1.50
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND THEIR FRIENDS
Illustrated by EUGENIE M. WIREMAN 12mo Cloth $1.50
BEN PEPPER
Illustrated by EUGENIE M. WIREMAN 12mo Cloth $1.50
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
BOSTON
[Illustration: BEN AND POLLY HELD THEIR BREATH. WHAT IF THEY SHOULDN’T
FIT!--_Page 43._]
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS
IN THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE
BY
MARGARET SIDNEY
AUTHOR OF “FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND HOW THEY GREW,”
“FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS MIDWAY,” “FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS
GROWN UP,” “BEN PEPPER,” “A LITTLE MAID OF
CONCORD TOWN,” “TWO LITTLE FRIENDS IN
NORWAY,” ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED BY HERMANN HEYER_
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
PEPPER
TRADE MARK
Registered in U. S. Patent Office.
COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY HARRIETT M. LOTHROP.
PUBLISHED, AUGUST, 1907.
_All Rights Reserved._
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS
IN THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
PREFACE
“What ever became of Polly Pepper’s famous Chicken Pie, and also
Phronsie’s red-topped shoes?” the friends of the “Five Little Peppers”
keep asking. “We have searched through all the Pepper Books, and cannot
find them. Please give us those two stories again.”
At last all these requests are granted in this book, containing, first
of all, those two stories that make the very beginning of all the
records of the Pepper Family. Indeed, there wasn’t any Pepper Family
before they were written; nor any Little Brown House, not a sign of
one; nor any Badgertown even, till Margaret Sidney one day wrote “Polly
Pepper’s Chicken Pie” and sent it to the _Wide Awake Magazine_.
And no one could be more astonished than was she--for the record was
so simple--when the editor wrote for another one just like it. So
“Phronsie Pepper’s New Shoes” was written.
And then--well, the editor wrote that the _Wide Awake_ must have enough
stories for one year, to be connected. So Margaret Sidney had to go
regularly after that to the “Little Brown House” and write down all
the records just as Mrs. Pepper and the Five Little Peppers told them
to her, and then those insatiable editors wrote that they must have a
book--nothing more nor less--because the children’s letters to them
from all over the country demanded it. So that was the way it all
began. And of course the two separate stories--the _motif_, as it were,
for the book--had to be left out.
So here they are now in the post of honor--leading off in the very
front of the volume, as is quite proper; the other stories (which are
all just newly written expressly for this book) following humbly after
in the wake of Phronsie’s red-topped shoes.
MARGARET SIDNEY.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. POLLY PEPPER’S CHICKEN PIE 1
II. PHRONSIE’S NEW SHOES 22
III. THE LITTLE TIN PLATE 46
IV. IN DEACON BLODGETT’S BARN 78
V. BAKING DAY 101
VI. THE LITTLE WHITE CAT 134
VII. SPENDING THE DAY AT THE BEEBES’ 163
VIII. AT THE PETERS FARM 203
IX. OVER AT GRANDMA BASCOM’S 239
X. THE STAGE RIDE 262
XI. A LITTLE YELLOW CHICKEN 293
XII. AT THE PARSONAGE 317
XIII. COMPANY AT THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 357
XIV. IN DOCTOR FISHER’S GIG 397
ILLUSTRATIONS
BEN AND POLLY BOTH HELD THEIR BREATH.
WHAT IF THEY SHOULDN’T FIT! (Page 43) _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
SO POLLY HAD HER FLOWERS AFTER ALL, AND SHE
DRESSED THE PIE GAYLY WITH THEM 20
EVERY ONE OF THE FOUR PAIRS OF HANDS WAS
GATHERING UP THE PIECES, OH, SO FAST! 74
“O DEAR, THAT’S MY FAULT!” CRIED BEN, IN
GREAT DISTRESS 124
“LET ME SEE--I WANT TO SEE ‘FROM A
FRIEND’!” SCREAMED JOEL 198
AND THERE WAS PHRONSIE FAST ASLEEP 254
“YOU MUST TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT, JOEY” 306
“OH!” SCREAMED SOMEBODY 394
I
POLLY PEPPER’S CHICKEN PIE
To begin with, it was the most remarkable chicken that was to have made
the famous pie for Thanksgiving. But alas! A sad mishap befell the
Pepper family.
In the first place none of the family ever knew where it came from.
Ebenezer, or Ben, as he was usually called, found it one day in a
swamp, down by the meadow as he was digging sweet-flag to sell, in
order to get some money to buy a pair of boots for the coming winter.
It was not hurt, only it couldn’t get out. The wonder is, how it
ever got there. However, Ben didn’t stop to think of that; he must
set to work to get Master Chick out. So, forgetting flag-root in his
eagerness, he took an old fence rail, and by dint of poking and urging
it, and tumbling around in the bog till he was pretty wet himself, he
at last had the satisfaction of obtaining his prize.
It proved to be a fine black chicken, a shanghai, and grasping it
tightly under one arm, its eyes protruding with fright, Ben flew home,
and bursting into the door of the Little Brown House, astonished them
all by thrusting the long-legged black fowl before their faces, nearly
upsetting Polly as he did so, who was helping her mother pull out the
basting-threads of the coat Mrs. Pepper had just finished on the edge
of the twilight.
The chicken gave a shrill scream, and this was the first introduction
to its future home.
“Goodness me, Ben!” ejaculated Polly, “you scared me ’most to death,
and you’ve broken my box.”
“What is it?” exclaimed Mrs. Pepper; “is it a crow?”
“Ho! Ho! Crow, Mother?” replied Ben, holding the chicken firmly by
one leg, “It’s the--well, the most beautiful bird you ever saw! Hey,
Polly, look!” he flapped the shanghai over Polly’s brown head as she
disconsolately groped around on the kitchen floor for her scattered
spools, and the cover of her cherished box.
“I don’t care for any old birds, Ben Pepper. See there!” and she
brought to light from under her mother’s chair the dilapidated cover.
“Oh, Polly, I’m real sorry. Come, I’ll give you half of the chicken.
See, he’s real big, and won’t he grow into a buster! And then,
perhaps,--hooray, Polly; why, then we’ll have him for Thanksgiving, and
you can make your pie, you know.”
“Will you really, Ben?” relented Polly, as she sat on the floor.
“Yes, certain true, black and blue!” solemnly said Ben.
“Hooray, then!” screamed Polly, “and, Bensie, I’ll make the crust
awfully thick, and it’ll be ’most all drumsticks,” and she danced a
whirligig in the middle of the old kitchen floor.
“Queer kind of crust, I should think; drumstick crust,” retorted Ben.
“Oh, you Benny goose!” flung back Polly, as she went up to hug her
mother’s neck; “Mammy, when _is_ Thanksgiving? Is it more than six
weeks, anyway, before it comes?”
“Let me see,” said Mrs. Pepper, laying down her work. “Oh, yes, it’s
July now. Yes, you’ll have to wait four months. But perhaps you can’t
have it at all, for if the chicken belongs to anybody round here you
must give it back. Let me see it, Ben,” and his mother grasped the leg
of the bird, which all this time was squawking dismally, and amid the
groans from Ben, and the wails from Polly, she repeated: “yes, if you
can find out where it belongs, you’ve got to carry it back.”
“What, and have no chicken pie!” exclaimed Polly. “Why, we _can’t_,
Mother, we’ve waited so long for our pie, and I’ve never tasted one. We
can’t give it back!”
“For shame, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, sternly, “the chicken doesn’t
belong to you, and I should rather you’d never taste a morsel of
chicken pie than to get one underhand. But put him away now, children,”
she said in a kinder tone, as she saw the sorrowful faces before her;
“he can sleep in the box the gray goose had in the shed, for to-night
anyway, and then in the morning we’ll send him home if he’s got any to
go to.”
“And we won’t have anything left but the old gray goose,” mourned
Polly; “I wish the old thing was dead, I do!”
“Why, Polly Pepper! And then we wouldn’t have anything,” said Ben,
preparing to take his chicken out to its quarters for the night.
“Well, I don’t care,” said Polly, as she followed; “I’m tired of seeing
her round, anyway.”
Now, all this time, the younger Peppers were away by chance from the
old kitchen, or there would have been more of an uproar still, over
the advent of the chicken. The two small boys were busy on the edge
of Farmer Brown’s cow-yard, where in a dirty pool of water they were
having the highest glee over the sailing of a boat, composed of one of
Polly’s old shoes with a rag for a sail. Well was it for the chicken
that they were missing at the reception, else it would have been almost
torn to death with delight. And Sophronia, or Phronsie, had been put to
bed early this afternoon, so she was tucked away fast asleep under the
gay, patched bedquilt of the old crib.
There was no father in this Pepper household. He died when Phronsie was
a baby, and Mrs. Pepper struggled along bravely, making coats to put
bread into her own and her children’s mouths. And the children, healthy
and rugged, and happy-go-lucky, came up or “scrambled up,” as Mrs.
Pepper said, and fairly made the little old brown house ring with their
cheery life.
Polly was ten, and Ben one year older, and it was the one great
ambition of their lives “to help Mother.” The only thing in which Ben
could really boast superiority over Polly, aside from his being a
boy while she was only a girl, was the fact that once on a great and
memorable visit with his father to a neighboring farm, he had eaten a
piece of chicken pie; oh, so perfectly splendid! And to Polly, who had
never tasted or even seen one, he dilated upon it, till she was nearly
wild with curiosity and longing at the delightful vision he brought up.
“Oh, Ben, was it good?” she would say the five-hundredth time, as in
some interval when work “slacked up,” perhaps when they crouched at
dusk on the kitchen floor, the wink of fire from the old stove lighting
up their absorbed little faces, they imagined or played they had all
their fancied dreams or wildest wishes realized.
“Yes, you better believe!” Ben smacked his lips; “seem’s if I taste it
now!”
“Well, how _did_ it taste?” questioned Polly, still for the
five-hundredth time.
“Oh, like,--well, like everything nice; there was fat, and wing, and
oh, the wishbone, Polly, and a thick crust, oh, thicker’n my hand, and
the juice was _prime_, and, well, it was all the nice tastes together
you ever had in your life, Polly Pepper!”
“O dear!” Polly would sigh, “don’t you s’pose we’ll _ever_ have one,
Ben? I could make one, I know; I can ’most see one now, you’ve told me
about it so many times.”
And Polly would shut her eyes, and give herself up to the delicious
thought till she had to hop up to put the children to bed, or to help
Mother in the many ways in which she knew so well how to save her
steps. And now here was a fine chicken come right to their very door!
The Pepper family had no cow, nor pig, nor even a chick. The only thing
of life in the animal kingdom belonging to the household was an old
gray goose; too old and tough to benefit any one by her death. She was
just as cross as she could be, or at least she might have amused the
children and been of some comfort. She had grown for ever so long in
her present quarters, wandering around the poor Little Brown House and
shed, picking up a scanty living and taking thanklessly all the bits
that the children still conscientiously fed her.
Polly and Ben had glorious visions of the day when they would “buy
Mammy a cow,” and many were the talks and plans as to exactly what kind
it should be. But nothing ever came their way, until this black chicken
appeared right in the old kitchen, and all for Thanksgiving, too! That
is, if they could keep him; for Polly and Ben, albeit the conflict
within, conscientiously obeyed the commands of their mother and made
inquiries far and near as to the ownership of Master Shanghai. Nobody
knew anything of him, and he seemed indeed to have dropped down from
the clouds. Clearly he was to remain at the Peppers’, and, as day after
day passed by and they were not forced to give him up, their spirits
rose, until the gayety over the future festival assumed the jolliest
aspect. They already saw in imagination the glorious pie completed, and
decking the festival board which Polly declared “must be trimmed with
flowers.”
“Whew! Where are you going to get flowers?” demanded practical Ben.
“I don’t care; we must!” persisted Polly. “Folks always have them at a
party, and we’ll get them someway; you’ll see.”
But although Ben always stanchly pinned his faith to whatever Polly
said, on this occasion he only gave a little sniff. It was too good to
be true.
So time passed on. The chick was fed, often by the scrimping of
Polly’s, or Ben’s, or Joel’s, or David’s, or little Phronsie’s plate,
or, as it frequently happened, by all of them, each stealing out
secretly to do it. Consequently he grew and throve famously, his thin
frame filling out, until he enjoyed his new quarters so well that
he confided in a burst of delight one day to the old gray goose his
pleasure and delight at the attention he was receiving.
“Humph!” said the old goose, with a knowing look, “you don’t know as
much as you will in a short time, say in November.”
Now what these mysterious words of the cross old goose meant, or even
what November was, the chicken was unable to tell, having never in his
short life seen a November; so he went to work, digging and scratching
over the old stony ground, and soon forgot all about it.
But as time passed on, the hints of the goose grew broader and deeper,
till at last the shanghai, politely but plainly one day, asked her
to explain and tell him exactly what she did mean. This was the week
before Thanksgiving, a cold, dreary afternoon, and the two inhabitants
of the old worn shed were perched on a rail shivering with the cold,
and engaged in a conversation that caused Shanghai to shiver even more
with fright. Inside the house, the fun had commenced.
The plans were all made, it is true, weeks before; but there remained
that mysterious consulting and “talking over” which is half the
pleasure, and at last it was decided that Ben could actually go up to
the store to-night when he carried home Mr. Atkins’s coat, and buy half
a pound of raisins for the pudding. For Mrs. Pepper, seeing the joy and
excitement of the children, scrimped and twisted her scanty earnings
till she could contribute to the feast, and “you shall have the
pudding, children,” an announcement which was received with a perfect
babel of delight. And Joel stood on his head in the corner, and waved
his feet in the air, unable to express his joy in any other appropriate
way.
Now, nothing remained but to kill the black chicken, which Ben was
to do on the morrow morning, for Polly declared, as that would be
Saturday, it must be done that day, “and then we shan’t have to think
it’s got to be done, over Sunday, you know, Bensie, dear.”
The feathers, David said, must be for a pillow to put at the mother’s
back when she sewed; a proposition that made Mrs. Pepper beam an
appreciative smile, for Davie was “Mother’s boy.”
“And, oh, Ben, you can’t think how perfectly elegant the crust is going
to be! Mamsie, now, don’t I know?” and Polly began a rapid jargon of
the directions her mother had given her of the way they made chicken
pies when she was a girl.
Poor woman! Very few had come in her way during her married life.
Thankful enough was she when bread and milk were plentiful; and of late
years mush and brown bread took the place of more elaborate fare.
“Oh, and I say,” broke in Joel, “I’m going to have the wishbone--so
there!”
“No, you mustn’t, Joel; Davie’s younger,” said Polly, decisively.
“Well, Phronsie’s youngest,” retorted Joel.
“Yes, you’re right there,” declared Ben. “Phronsie, you’re the girl for
the wishbone. Do you hear, Puss, and you must wish with me,” tossing
her up in the air.
“No, no, I spoke for you, Phronsie,” screamed Joel. “Say you’ll wish
with me.”
“What is it, Ben?” said little Phronsie; “what is a wissbone?”
“Oh, you little goose,” began Joel, but Polly gave him a pinch to make
him stop.
“Let her alone, Joel,” said she. “Phronsie, you’ll see when
Thanksgiving comes, and that’s next week. Come and see, now, if the
flour is all right.”
And Polly spun along to the little old cupboard in the corner, the
whole troop at her heels, to inspect the precious materials. The flour
had been measured out certainly a week or more, and there it stood in
the bag in the old yellow pudding-dish. Everything was in readiness.
There was the lard near by in a cracked bowl, and to the five pairs of
happy, expectant eyes directed to these festive preparations, no sight
could have been more delightful.
“Well, children,” said Polly, as she shut the cupboard door fast with
an important air, “we must get up early in the morning, there’ll be so
much to do. Now, Phronsie, it’s time for you to go to bed.”
“Oh, no, I’m not one bit tired,” protested Phronsie, in an injured
tone. But while Polly went to bring the little flannel nightgown to
undress her by the kitchen fire, Phronsie’s little yellow head bobbed
ominously, and she nearly fell off her stool, so that Ben had to carry
her in his arms into the bedroom, after all.
All this while, in the thick dreary November twilight, the old gray
goose and the black chicken were talking busily. The old goose was
so jealous and determined to make the last hours of the chicken very
miserable, that she dilated at length and with great exactness on the
dreadful fate that awaited him on the morrow; and painted in fearful
words the awful ending of being baked in pieces in a pie!
“I’ve seen ’em!” she declared, with the air of one who knew what she
was talking about. “Year after year, hens and chickens, yes, and geese,
too, stepping around in the morning, oh, so happy and smart, and then
at evening they would go past here to market all stiff and stark, with
their heads off, and Mr. Brown’s boy holding ’em by their legs! All for
pies, and so that people may eat themselves sick. And they call that a
Thanksgiving!”
How the chicken shook! It almost fell from its perch; but it was very
dark, so the old goose couldn’t see very well. Shanghai wouldn’t, for
all the world, have had her jealousy rewarded by a sight of the terror
she had inspired, so he controlled himself like a brave little fellow,
and although his heart was beating dreadfully, he commanded his voice
enough to ask, “Well, why weren’t you, then, baked in a pie along with
the others?”
“What,--why--well,” stammered the goose, “they were going to kill me
time and again, but, well, the fact is, they thought so much of me they
couldn’t bear to.”
In spite of its fright, the black chicken couldn’t help laughing softly
to himself as he sat there on the rail.
“Well, come, you’d better go to bed,” snapped the old goose; “they’ll
come for you bright and early in the morning. I heard ’em saying so.”
“In that case,” declared the black chicken, drawing himself up on his
long legs, “they won’t find _me_ here; that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“Why, where will you go?” demanded the old goose, sticking out her long
neck in amazement.
“Oh, I’m going to set out for my fortune,” gayly replied the chicken.
“At any rate, I can’t fare worse than to be baked in a pie. _Baked in
a pie_, forsooth! I think I see myself staying here for that! No, good
night, Mrs. Goose. Thank you, for all your kindness; I’m off!”
“Yes, and be stuck again in a bog for your pains,” scornfully hissed
the old goose, seeing it was useless to remonstrate further. The black
chicken had hopped off from the rail, and, its long legs going at a
pretty smart pace down the hill, it was soon out of sight.
Brightly rose the sun next morning, clear and cold. The air smelt
of everything spicy and suggestive of the approaching holiday. Ben
sharpened the old hatchet, the other children running away, for at the
last minute they declared they didn’t want the chicken killed. They’d
rather go without the pie. But Mrs. Pepper and Ben talked until they
made them see it was no worse than if they had bought the chicken.
Fowls had to be killed and eaten, and they couldn’t afford to keep the
black chicken any longer. And the mother stopped Phronsie’s screams as
she ran to hide her head in her lap, and wiped away the tears that ran
down the little cheeks. Joel and David relented at last, and joined
Ben as he hurried out of doors. And Polly, as she began to wash the
breakfast dishes to be ready to help pick the chicken, tried to be gay,
and to hum a scrap of a song to reassure Phronsie, when Joel burst into
the old kitchen and after him, little Davie.
“’Tisn’t there!” shouted Joel. “No, ’tisn’t either!” gasped little
David.
Polly whirled around with the dish-cloth in her hand, and stared.
“What?” she exclaimed.
“No, ’tisn’t, I say,” screamed Joel, and then he began to cry as hard
as he could.
“Oh, Joe, what _is_ the matter?” implored Polly, and then Mrs. Pepper,
thinking that Joel was hurt, dropped her work to hurry over. And Ben
came running in, his ruddy face quite white, and his blue eyes big with
distress.
“Come, boys, quick, and help me look for him,” and he seized Joel’s
arm. “The chicken’s gone,” he explained to the distressed group.
Joel gave a louder scream at that.
“Stop, Joel,” said Polly. “Oh, isn’t it under the shed, Ben?” and she
rushed out, dish-cloth in hand, followed by Mrs. Pepper and all the
others.
“I don’t believe he’s there,” said Ben, gloomily, and so it proved.
Neither there, nor in any other hiding-place, no matter how long and
thoroughly they searched, could they see the black chicken. There was
the old gray goose as usual, stalking around and stretching her long
neck to see everything, while the children flew hither and thither
calling the chicken. They searched adjoining meadows, and little David
ran down to the brook to see if he had fallen in there.
At last, toward noon, tired and hot, they were obliged to give up all
hope. And a most distressed little bunch of children went slowly into
the Little Brown House; and oh, dismal enough, a pouring rain set in,
splashing the small-paned window as if crying with them.
“Don’t you see you’re making Mamsie feel bad?” whispered Polly,
hoarsely, to Joel, and she pointed over to the corner where Mrs. Pepper
was trying to sew.
Little David, at that, went behind the door and struggled to keep
back the tears. “I can’t help it,” sniffled Joel; “now we can’t,--we
can’t,--”
“Be still,” said Polly, pulling his sleeve, and turning her back on the
old cupboard, where the flour bag stood up so smartly, all ready in
the old yellow bowl. “Oh!” Then she gave a jump into the middle of the
floor.
“Oh, what is it?” they all screamed. Little Davie ran out from behind
the door to hear.
“Why,” and Polly’s brown eyes grew very big, “oh, let’s have the old
gray goose!”
“The old gray goose!” they all echoed, dreadfully disappointed, while
Joel cried harder than ever, and little Davie slipped off toward the
door again.
“I shouldn’t think you’d say so,” said Ben, in disapproval, and
wondering at Polly, for she always helped out in any trouble.
“Well, now, I think Polly’s plan is a very good one,” said Mother
Pepper, over in her corner. “You can’t get the chicken, and you must
have your pie; it’s as good as commenced, and the old goose ought to be
killed anyway; she’s getting so cross, it isn’t safe to have her around
after she bit Sally Brown the other day. So, as Polly says, why not try
it? There’ll be a pie anyway.”
“Oh, Mamsie!” cried Polly, flying over to her with rosy cheeks to throw
her arms around her neck. “I’m so glad you think it’s right to try it,”
smothering a sigh at thoughts of the pie they might have had.
“Indeed, I do, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, with a little pat on the brown
head; “there, child, now run off to your work,” and she picked up her
needle to make it fly faster than ever.
“It won’t be chicken pie,” said Joel, disconsolately, who had wiped his
black eyes at these first signs of cheer.
“Well,” said Ben, stoutly, and swallowing hard, “if we can’t have
chicken pie, why, we must take the next best, and that’s goose,” and he
pretended to laugh heartily at his joke.
“And,” said Polly, running back to the little bunch of Peppers in the
middle of the kitchen, for Davie wisely concluding since Mamsie thought
Polly was right, everything was coming out well somehow, had hurried
back to the others, “it’s all we’ve got left; but why didn’t the old
goose run away, I wonder!”
The idea of the old gray goose running away, set them all into such a
fit of laughter, that when they came out of it, the affair was as good
as settled. The chicken pie was to be goose pie, and such a goose! The
tables were turned decidedly; the old goose, huddling into the shed
from the November rain and chuckling to herself, had called down on her
own head a sure retribution.
The old gray goose was killed. Polly went bravely to work as if the
pleasure of making the most beautiful chicken pie in all the world was
before her. And the “children,” as Polly and Ben always called the
three younger ones in the Pepper brood, laughed and sang and danced
about, through all the preparations when they couldn’t help them
forward, and almost forgot they had ever intended to have a chicken pie.
And they had a pudding on Thanksgiving Day. Oh, yes, and a famous one
it was! And at the last minute, old Mrs. Beebe, whose husband kept a
little shoe-shop in Badgertown Centre, stopped in their old wagon, with
some beautiful asters.
“Here, children, ’s some posies for your table. I’ve got more’n I want;
I’m real sorry you had such a time about your pie.” And afterward, in
the midst of the festivities at home, she broke out, “I declare, I was
’most beat to see them little dears behave so nice, and flyin’ round
pretendin’ they’d rather have a tough old goose than not.”
[Illustration: SO POLLY HAD HER FLOWERS AFTER ALL, AND SHE DRESSED THE
PIE GAYLY WITH THEM.--_Page 20._]
So Polly had her flowers after all, and she dressed the pie gayly with
them, stifling a sigh as she put them over the old goose; and they
laughed and ate, to be sure, not so much as if tender chicken had been
on their plates. However, it turned out better than they had expected,
Polly having persistently boiled it before it was cut up to be baked
in the pie. And so they hurried over that part of the repast; they
were all in such a hurry to get to that elegant pudding. That was just
magnificent, and done to a turn; and to Joel’s great delight, fairly
beaded with plums. Wasn’t it splendid, though!
But at last the feast was all over, and they finally pushed back their
chairs, leaving the biggest part of the goose pie untouched.
“Now,” said Phronsie, “where’s my wissbone, Polly? I want my wissbone,
I do.”
“Oh, darling,” cried Polly, catching her up from the high-chair,
“you’ll have to wait for next Thanksgiving for that. ’Tisn’t our fault
you can’t have it, Phronsie; the black chicken ran away with it.”
II
PHRONSIE’S NEW SHOES
Polly was working hard to make the fire burn. Something was the matter
with the old stove that morning. There had been a big crack for some
time at the back that let in the air alarmingly; but Ben had stuffed
this up with putty the week before, and it had done very well; but just
as Polly had washed up the breakfast dishes this morning, and was going
to put her pans of bread into the oven, out tumbled the putty, the old
black stove grew cold, and everything came to a standstill. The truth
was, the poor old stove was about worn out.
“O dear!” said Polly, “now what’s going to be done! Why couldn’t it
have waited, and Ben’s away, too!”
She flew around for something to stop up the hole with; she couldn’t
find any putty, of course, but nothing else appeared. So she got down
on the floor before it and rattled the dampers, and put in more wood.
She was kneeling in front of it, her face very red with her exertions,
and trying to push a refractory smouldering log of wood into a more
“burnable” position, when Phronsie emerged from the bedroom with a very
injured expression. “Oh, Polly, I’m so hungry!”
“Why, Phronsie,” said Polly, giving the log a push, “you can’t be.”
“Oh, but I am, Polly,” said Phronsie, shaking her head decidedly. “I
know I am very hungry.”
“Well, wait just a bit, dear--oh, why won’t you stay where you ought
to! (this to the log). You won’t act so when Ben comes, old log! Yes,
Phronsie, in a minute!”
“Oh, let me get it, Polly,” said the little girl, eagerly. “Let me, do!”
“Do you think you can?” said Polly, resting a minute, her black hands
stuck straight out before her as she sat on the floor.
“Oh, yes! just as nice,” said Phronsie; “it’s only some bread, Polly.”
Phronsie’s delight was to be thought big enough to help, to go to the
bread-pail that hung under the little old steps that ran down into
a small shed or provision room where the Pepper family always kept
their slender stock of eatables. “Provision Room” was a good name for
it, Polly had once said, because “there always ’s plenty of room _for_
provisions, even if there are no provisions.” Polly knew there were
some good bits from breakfast that Phronsie could easily get, so she
said “yes” rather absently, and Phronsie trotted off.
As she passed the cupboard door, she spied the old bread-knife lying
on the shelf. “Suppose,” thought Phronsie, “I should have to cut some
bread--I know how--I do truly. I better take the knife, I think.” So
she reached up, took the knife, and proceeded to go down the rickety
steps. Now, why she should have stumbled this particular morning is
more than anybody can tell. Yet, she certainly did; and the first thing
Polly heard was a knock, then a rolling, then a sharp and loud cry.
“Oh, what _is_ the matter, Phronsie dear! I’m coming!”
Springing up, leaving the stove door wide open, she flew over the old
steps, finding Phronsie in a little screaming heap at the bottom.
“Oh, darling baby! dear little Phron! don’t cry!” said Polly, gathering
her up. “There, there.”
Sitting on the lowest step with her in her arms, she saw the knife off
at some little distance, where it fell on the floor. “Oh, Phronsie, you
_didn’t_ take the knife! Oh!” she added faintly, as she saw a stream
of blood roll over Phronsie’s pink apron, and great dabs on her face.
White as a sheet, Polly never knew how she looked Phronsie over; but
she soon saw the trouble came only from her little fat thumb, which,
after the first fright, Phronsie protested was the only place that
“hurt.”
Strange as it may seem, Phronsie had rolled over and over the steps,
with the knife in her hand, and sustained no injury beyond a rather
deep cut in her thumb, which, however, bled enough to have caused
greater fears. Polly sopped up the tears from the child’s bloody little
face, and rolled the poor thumb in her handkerchief. Then she set
Phronsie down, pulled out her feet, felt of her joints, and made her
get up and walk back and forth. She drew a long breath. “Well,” she
said in the greatest relief, “there aren’t any bones broken anyway. Oh,
Phronsie, do you feel bad anywhere else?”
“No,” said little Phronsie, “only my thumb.” And she stuck up the
little dingy wad, and when she saw it, began to cry again.
“There, there, Polly’s darling! now, let’s see what we can do!” Polly
cooed away as she waddled up the steps with Phronsie in her arms.
The first thing that met her view, was the old black stove, now utterly
hateful, with the fire all out. “Oh, you old ugly thing!” said she,
“think what you’ve done this morning!” And then she set herself to work
over Phronsie.
In the first place, she knew she must get some court-plaster, for the
cut was bleeding pretty fast. “Now, Phronsie, you sit just as still
as everything.” Polly had put her in Mammy’s old rocking-chair. “And,
childie, you can have this.” A most magnificent thing it seemed to
Phronsie, and it stopped her tears at once, for it was a piece of cake,
rather hard to be sure, but still beautiful. Polly had saved it up,
since it had been given them, as a treat, and the children were going
to have it this very night.
There wasn’t any court-plaster in the house, but she knew old “Grandma
Bascom” had some. Her cottage was just down at the end of the lane;
so leaving Phronsie munching her cake, she sped over, and rushed in
without knocking, for the old lady was deaf, and wouldn’t have heard,
anyway. “Oh, if you please, Grandma, Phronsie’s got hurt! May I have
some court-plaster?”
“Why, for the land’s sake! your ma’s got hurt, did you say?” said the
old lady, stopping her sweeping in the middle of the floor, and leaning
on the broom.
“No, marm; _Phronsie_!” screamed Polly in the old lady’s ear. “Mamsie’s
away.”
“She is, though?” said Grandma, kindly; “now that’s too bad; ’n what
did you say you want?”
“Court-plaster,” said Polly, “and could you hurry?--for her thumb’s
bleeding so.”
“Yes, yes, to be sure,” said the old lady, laying down her broom, and
waddling to the cupboard. She brought a big cracked sugar-bowl to the
table, then adjusted her spectacles, and diving down into the depths
brought up paper after paper of herbs, salve, etc., till Polly thought
she would go wild.
“Oh, I don’t believe you’ve got any,” she said.
“Yes, yes, I have, child; don’t be so fast; I remember where I put
it; ’twan’t in this bowl, after all! I give some to Jane Dusenberry’s
folks, when her pa got cut with a scythe. You know Jane?” And Grandma
paused, and rested both hands on the bowl to relate the dreadful
accident.
“Yes, yes,” said Polly, “but I can’t leave Phronsie. Oh, I can get it
for you, if you’ll only tell me where it is.”
“Hadn’t you better run right home, and stay along of Phronsie, dear,
and I’ll step over and bring it soon’s I get on my cap, and,” looking
around the room, “get fixed up just a mite!” said the old lady.
“If you please, I must have it now,” said Polly, in utter dismay, who
knew what Grandma’s “settling her cap,” and fixing up, meant.
So Mrs. Bascom finally produced a roll of ancient court-plaster out of
some unseen drawer in the cupboard, the requisite amount was carefully
cut off, and Polly bounded over to poor little Phronsie, whose supply
of cake had given out, and who, consequently, as she sat curled up on
the old chair, was surveying the poor little bandaged thumb ruefully.
The cut was soon nicely stuck together; her dirty little pink apron
taken off; herself washed, and the tangled yellow curls all brushed and
stroked by Polly’s kind hands. And then Polly began to look around. Her
mother, she knew, wouldn’t be back until night. She had a chance to
make some jackets for the minister’s boys, so she was at the parsonage
for the day. Ben was chopping wood, one of the odd jobs he picked up
now and then; he might be in any time, it only depended on the length
of the job. Where Joel and David were, Polly, for the life of her,
couldn’t have told. Their whereabouts were often shrouded in mystery.
In the midst of it, just as Polly was saying, while she gave the last
curl a brush, “There, dearie, you’re all right again; now I must get at
my old stove, hateful thing!” the door opened and in walked Ben. “Oh,
Ben!” she cried, and she almost burst into tears, “I’m so glad you’ve
come!”
And Phronsie, with a most important air, began to announce, “I’ve cut
my thumb, oh, and it bled; see, Bensie, see!” And the child held up the
wounded little hand carefully wrapped up in a clean, old handkerchief.
“Whew!” whistled Ben, as he stood still. “What’s been happening? What
is it, Polly?”
“Oh, Ben, such a fall!” answered Polly, kissing Phronsie tenderly;
and she then gave him the whole account, interspersed with Phronsie’s
corrections, when she considered anything left out.
Ben petted Phronsie to her heart’s content, patted the poor little hand
sympathetically, and tried to think of something he could give her to
show his sorrow. But he could think of nothing, till Polly leaned over
and whispered something in his ear.
“The very thing!” he shouted.
“Sh! sh! but isn’t it?” said Polly, skipping, “if Mammy’ll only say
yes!”
“What is it, Ben?” said Phronsie. “I’m big enough now to know secrets,
and besides, I’ve cut my thumb.”
“I know, Pet, and you wait a little,” said Ben, “and you’ll know.
Halloa, what’s the matter with your stove, Polly?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Polly, despairingly. “It _won’t_ burn! the
putty fell out, Ben, and I’ve put in wood, but it won’t do anything;
and there’s my bread, see! it’ll be spoilt, and what’ll we do, then, I
wonder!”
“Shan’t we have anything to eat then, Polly?” said little Phronsie,
with big eyes.
“Yes,” said Ben, quickly, “I’ll go out and bring home lots of
chipmunks, Phronsie, a hundred, say, and we’ll hang ’em up all round
the kitchen, and they’ll last us a year.”
“I don’t think I should like chipmunks, Ben,” said the child, gravely.
“Oh, Ben, do stop laughing,” said Polly, “for it is really dreadful if
we can’t eat the bread.”
Ben was already on his knees before the stove. He fussed and worked
over it, and had recourse to his putty again, which Polly remarked
might stay as long as he was putting it in; and finally the old stove
concluded to make the best of it, and try again. So in a short space
of time there was a bright, cheerful fire crackling and snapping, the
bread was in the oven, and Polly was flying around making up for lost
time.
About dinner-time, Joel and David made their appearance, as hungry as
two little beavers. Polly’s bread wasn’t done, so they had to content
themselves with the old crusts in addition to their hasty-pudding. What
a fuss they made over little Phronsie! Everything had to be gone over
again for their benefit, the handkerchief to be taken off, and the
thumb exhibited, and Joel felt very bad because Polly wouldn’t allow
him to pull up the court-plaster to see exactly what kind of a cut it
was. “Just one little end, Polly, I should think you might; it’ll stick
down again just as easy.” But Polly was firm.
Phronsie was the pet of the household. Anything harming her hurt them
all. Into each heart she crept, though in a different way, making a
place not filled by any other. She was the baby; and to see Phronsie
hurt, almost took away the boys’ appetites, the most touching way
in which they could show their grief. After dinner, Joel rehearsed
Phronsie’s adventure, trying to roll down the old steps, just as she
said she did. “Phoh! it don’t hurt any,” he said.
“Well, but take the knife, Joe,” said Davie, “take the knife; that’ll
hurt, I guess.”
“No,” said Ben, “we’ve had enough cuts to-day; don’t let’s make any
more trouble for Mamsie. What’ll she say now, I wonder?”
Nightfall brought Mrs. Pepper, tired with her toil; but oh! so
thankful, while she held her baby in her lap, that the kind Father in
Heaven had watched over the Little Brown House in her absence.
There was nobody to little Phronsie’s mind like her mother. Cuddled
up there to her warm breast, while Polly got the cup of tea that had
been kept warm for Mamsie by the stove, she told over in childish way
the story that Polly had already rehearsed so fully to the mother’s
anxious ears, not forgetting--and here the child hung her head--the
recital of taking the bread-knife and the sad consequences ensuing.
And then it all came out--Polly’s and Ben’s secret--and after its
disclosure Phronsie was decidedly glad that she had been hurt.
For some time, ever since Phronsie could remember, she had been
promised a pair of new shoes, very new, for her own; just as soon as
the mother could get together money that could be spared for their
purchase. She had never had a pair really bought for her. Joel’s and
David’s were generally so worn and holey, long before there was a
chance of their outgrowing them, that there was no hope from that
quarter.
Once, Mrs. Pepper had made a mistake in buying a pair for David. They
proved to be much shorter than at first supposed, and put him in so
much pain when wearing them that they were put by for Phronsie; the
beauty of them was gone, however, before David complained of them.
And once a lady in the village gave Mrs. Pepper a half-worn pair
of her little daughter’s; so that no “new shoes” had ever come to
Phronsie,--that greatest delight in a child’s life.
For a long time then she had had the promise. It seemed to her
interminable, but she waited patiently; only sometimes when she got
to thinking of them, it seemed as if she couldn’t wait any longer.
And Polly caught her one day saying to Seraphina, her doll, when she
thought no one was near:--
“Well, do you suppose I’ll _ever_ get my new shoes? Not till I get to
be a big woman, I guess!”
Polly couldn’t stand that, and she privately told Ben that they must
contrive some way and get them soon. And now Ben’s wood-choppings had
helped some, and Mrs. Pepper had been able to get more work than usual,
so that Polly, during that dismal morning, had been thinking perhaps
now they could do it. And when would they ever want to do more for poor
little Phronsie! She wouldn’t be able to play for some time, for the
cut would be very painful. Oh, if Mammy would only say yes!
And Mrs. Pepper had said “yes!” and the children had shouted and
shown in different ways their delight; only Phronsie, the one most
interested, sitting there in her mother’s lap, had just clasped her
little hands together as tight as she could for the thumb, and given an
ecstatic long sigh.
So it was all settled--“really and truly settled,” as Phronsie said.
To-morrow Polly and Ben should take her to the town to be fitted, if
Mr. Brown would let them have his wagon.
“Oh, mayn’t we go, too?” cried Joel; “we can sit in behind. Say, now,
Mammy, mayn’t we?”
“Do, Mammy!” said David.
“Well, I don’t see why not, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Pepper; “’Twon’t cost
anything; the wagon’s going anyway, and the horse is strong--if you’ll
be good, Joey.”
“Oh, won’t I, though!” said Joel, giving his mother a hearty kiss,
while little David beamed his satisfaction.
Ben ran over to Deacon Brown’s to ask him about the horse and wagon.
The answer was all right, for the Deacon wanted him to do an errand
in town; so the wildest hilarity reigned in the Pepper household that
night.
“Oh, Ben, will they be red-tops, do you think?” whispered little
Phronsie, privately.
“Yes, I guess so, Puss,” whispered Ben, back again, inwardly resolving
if there _was_ a pair of “red-topped” shoes in the store, that were
otherwise just right, Phronsie should have them.
So on the morrow, after they had their early dinner, the old wagon was
driven up to the door with a flourish by Ben, who guided the ancient
but tough old roadster with a dignity befitting a better horse. Joel
and David had already secured reserved seats, having run over ahead to
the Deacon’s shed and got in first. And there they sat, dangling their
legs over the back of the wagon as they laughed and crowed in utter
delight.
Phronsie stood in the doorway holding Polly’s hand. It was a decidedly
solemn undertaking to her, this setting out on this great and weighty
expedition, and the child’s heart was about as full as it could hold of
anticipation and happiness. Oh, the pains that had been taken to get
her ready! Ben said that Polly began before they got up in the morning.
At any rate, everything had been brushed, patted and pulled into place
on Phronsie a dozen times by each member of the family before they were
quite satisfied. But, at last, they had acknowledged that nothing more
could be done; and, as Polly tied the waves of yellow hair back with
a little blue bow, Mrs. Pepper stepped off, set her head on one side
critically, and said:--
“Well, I’m sure, child, if you only behave as well as you look, you’ll
do!”
And then Phronsie was told to go and sit in her little chair and not
move till it was time to put on her hood and sack. Any other child than
Phronsie would have hated all this fuss and trouble, but to her it was
only part of the extreme delight; so she stuck out the patched, worn
little shoes before her, and thought of the new ones.
“Oh, Ben’s coming, Polly!” called Mrs. Pepper, from the window where
she sat sewing. “He’s just driving down the hill! Hurry, child! I’ll
put on Phronsie’s things.”
“Yes, Mamsie,” said Polly, from the bedroom, in a great twitter, “I’m
coming.”
And now they were all ready, and Mrs. Pepper on the steps gave her
last injunction to Polly, who held tightly the old leather purse,
with the precious money, in her hand,--“to be sure and take the right
change,” and “to get them plenty broad” (not the change, but the
shoes), and “not to let anything happen to Phronsie;” “oh! and not to
get them ‘rights and lefts,’ you know, but ‘evens,’ Polly,”--all of
which directions she had given carefully before. All this made great
confusion, of course, but it only added to the general delight, while
Joel and David were screaming in chorus for them to “come or they’d be
late!”
But at last they were off, and Mrs. Pepper from the doorstep shaded
her eyes with her hands--perhaps the sun was too bright for them. Her
precious load of little ones; might she only have more sunshine to put
into their lives! Well, at least, they should enjoy this, bless them!
Merry was the ride to town. Once Polly was afraid she had dropped
the old purse when she leaned over to tie Phronsie’s tippet a little
tighter, and they were all aghast for a minute at this tremendous
fright; but, on Ben’s pulling up the old horse, she found it in her lap
safe and sound. So they were merrier than ever out of contrast, and
Deacon Brown’s horse so far overcame his usual melancholy manner as to
quite enjoy the jolly crowd behind him, and to gallop and plunge in
quite a festive manner along the road.
At last they turned into the village street and came in sight of the
shops. Then it was that Phronsie sat straight up and began to look
eagerly from one side to the other. They passed the milliner’s, gay
with ribbons and spring bonnets, and two or three other stores of
various descriptions, until they came to a little unpretending shop,
crowded in between two others, over whose green door hung the modest
sign of “J. Beebe, Boots and Shoes.”
When Phronsie caught sight of the little window strung with shoes of
every size, from the littlest wee ones up, she cried out, “Oh, there
’tis, Ben! there ’tis! Oh, do stop!” long before they reached it.
“Yes, yes, child,” said Polly, “Ben’s going to. Joe, now you mustn’t!
You know you told Mamsie you’d be good.” For Polly saw premonitory
signs of Joe’s giving one of his awful whoops to announce their arrival.
The whoop died away in Joe’s throat as he reflected he never should get
another chance to come “to town” with Polly, who was quite fastidious
as to manners, if he indulged too boisterously now.
So they bundled out and up the steps, Joel quite gallantly opening the
door for his sisters, to atone; while Ben fastened the horse to the
well-worn post.
Old Mr. Beebe, smiling at the thought of customers, came, rubbing his
hands, out from his little room at the back that served his old wife
and himself as both parlor and kitchen. Oh, how magnificent it all
looked to Phronsie! Oh, so many shoes, and such beautiful ones! Where
did all the people live who could want so many! Great green things,
that she found afterward were boxes, had shoes and slippers hanging
and dangling to them; and then, away up by the top of the shelf were
boots,--oh, as big as Ben’s!--and all around the little dingy room
were rubbers, shoes, and slippers wherever there was a spot big enough
to contain them. And, over and above it all, such a lovely smell of
leather. Well, it was the most delightful place!
“And now, my little dears, what can I do for you to-day?” said old
Mr. Beebe, pleasantly looking from one to another of the happy group,
including Ben who had now joined them.
“If you please,” said Polly, with quite a matronly air, “it’s for
Phronsie.”
“Is it, though?” said the old man, “then we must get her a nice
pair, don’t you think?” And he beamed at her so kindly over his old
spectacles that he quite won her heart over again, for the Pepper
children were always delighted when an errand took them to his little
shop; he was such a kindly, fresh, little old man.
“Now if you’ll sit right down here, my little girl, we’ll see what we
can do for you.” And he brought a little wooden chair and placed it in
the middle of the room.
Obediently, Phronsie sat down and confidently put her rusty little
patched shoe upon Mr. Beebe’s knee.