over her face.
“I don’t know,” said Ben, honestly, “but she’ll feel very bad, I do
know that, unless you put your biscuits just in that very spot.” He
pointed to the little place in the centre of the pan left for them.
Phronsie gave a long sigh. She wanted dreadfully to put her little
biscuit in next to Polly’s and have it bake alongside of hers. Still,
it never would do to have Polly feel very bad, as Ben said she would,
so she reached out her hand and laid the little dough-pat just where
she was told to.
“Now that’s a good child,” said Ben, with an approving pat on her pink
apron.
“And when they are done,” said Polly, waving the bread-pan on her way
to the oven, “we’ll--”
“Take care, Polly,” warned Ben, “or you’ll spill them--”
“Why, we’ll spread them all out and have our party, and eat them all
up,” sang Polly, gayly; “but first we must clean all our baking things
away.”
VI
THE LITTLE WHITE CAT
Phronsie was crying bitterly. Everything had gone wrong in the Little
Brown House that morning. In the first place, it was snowing,--not a
cheery, white fluffy shower, but a sour, comfortless downpour just on
the edge of becoming a drizzling rain, that sent the chill in between
the clapboards and under the old door-sill, and made Polly run every
few minutes to put more wood in the stove. And as luck would have it,
this was the very morning when the stock in the wood-box ran low. Ben,
just before he hurried off to work, told Joel to be sure and fill it
up, but Joel, frantic with delight at the approach of what he persisted
in calling a snow-storm, had rushed off with little Davie, dragging
their home-made sled of rough boards merrily after them, and forgot all
about it.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Polly, in vexation, as she poked the fire up and
put on a fresh stick; “there are only two more left,” with an anxious
glance into the big box back of the stove.
“I’m so cold,” said Phronsie, laying Seraphina down on the floor and
coming up to Polly, and she held up her fat little hands.
“Goodness me, so you are, Pet,” said Polly, feeling of them in great
concern; “well, you must have on Mamsie’s shawl.”
So Polly ran into the bedroom, Phronsie following quickly, and humming:
“I must have on Mamsie’s shawl. Yes, I am, Polly, so cold”--in great
glee at the mere mention of Mamsie’s shawl.
“Now pin it,” she said, standing on tiptoe as Polly got it out of the
bureau drawer. It was a little brown and black plaid woollen one that
the parson’s wife had given Mrs. Pepper to lay over her shoulders when
she sat by the west window to sew on cold winter days. So Polly took
one of the biggest pins sticking up in the red-flannel cushion on the
top of the bureau and drew the little shawl together, making it fast
around Phronsie’s neck.
“There, now, Pet,” she said, giving her a kiss, “Mr. Jack Frost will
have to go away, for you’ve got on Mamsie’s shawl.”
“Mr. Jack Frost will have to go away, for I’ve got on Mamsie’s shawl,”
echoed Phronsie, and folding her arms closely together so she could hug
the little shawl the tighter, she ran out into the kitchen after Polly,
who was now busy over the stove again.
“Misery me--now there’s only one stick left.” Polly was cramming in
some wood, and she set the cover back in a great hurry. “Now I’ve got
to go out to the woodpile and get some more. You keep away from the
door, Phronsie; I’ll be back in a minute.” And she threw on her sack
and hood and dashed out of doors.
But she didn’t come back, and it seemed to Phronsie it was too long to
expect any one to wait. She couldn’t see the woodpile from the window,
although she plastered her little face against it and tried as hard as
she could to find out what Polly was doing.
“I must get Polly,” at last she decided, so she went over to the door
and opened it, huddling up into Mamsie’s little shawl as the wet,
clinging snow struck against her.
But Polly was nowhere to be seen, and Phronsie, stumbling over to the
woodpile and peeping behind it, couldn’t find her anywhere.
“Polly--Polly,” she called in a grieved little voice, but there wasn’t
a sound except the soft dropping of the wet snow that was almost like
rain. And presently Phronsie’s tears were falling fast and she could
hardly see because of them.
“Well--well!” It was Doctor Fisher coming around the side of the
Little Brown House because he had been to the big green door and there
was nobody to say “come in.” He had a bag in his hand that he was
carrying carefully. “Child, what are you doing out here?” he cried, in
astonishment.
“Polly isn’t anywhere,” wailed Phronsie, running over to him with the
tears streaming down her face.
“_Polly isn’t anywhere!_” repeated the little doctor in astonishment.
“Take care, child,” holding the bag at arm’s length in one hand, while
he gathered Phronsie within his other arm. “Oh, yes, she is. We’ll find
her just in one minute. Now, then, I must get you into the house.”
“Will you find Polly?” cried Phronsie, looking up through her tears,
as the little doctor, the bag in one hand, hurried her along with the
other.
“Yes, sir--ee!” declared Doctor Fisher, nodding so violently that his
big spectacles tumbled down to the end of his nose; “wait a minute.”
He released Phronsie and set them straight. “Now, then, Polly!” he
called in a loud voice.
But of course there wasn’t any Polly to answer, and Phronsie was just
going to burst into another wail, when a funny little noise struck her
ear and she paused in astonishment.
“I don’t suppose you know what I’ve got in this bag,” said Doctor
Fisher, artfully, as he set it on the floor, then got down on his knees
beside it.
But Phronsie couldn’t get her mind off from Polly, so she turned a
sorrowful little face to the window.
“Please get Polly,” she begged.
“Yes, yes, all in good time,” responded the little doctor in a cheery
fashion, as if it were the easiest thing in all the world to get Polly;
“but you must see what is in my bag first, because, you see, I don’t
know what will happen if I don’t let her out soon. She may die,” said
the little doctor in an awful whisper, as he untied the bag, put in his
long fingers and drew carefully out a fluffy white kitten, who blinked
on being drawn out to the light, and then said very indignantly,
“_Fuff--siss!_”
“There--there!” exclaimed the little doctor, holding the fluffy little
ball very gingerly, with a great regard for possible claws, while
Phronsie squealed with delight. “Oh, give her to me--I want her!”
holding out both hands from beneath Mamsie’s little plaid shawl.
“Well, you shall have her, for I brought her to you,” said Doctor
Fisher, depositing the fluffy little ball in Phronsie’s arms. “Take
care, now, or she may scratch you. Such a piece of work as I had to get
her here.”
“_Fuff--siss!_” said the little white kitten again, just as there was
a rattle at the door, and Polly came in quite slowly, because her arms
were full of wood, and she couldn’t walk fast.
“Oh, Polly!” screamed Phronsie, “you’ve come back!” And she hurried
over to her, kitten and all, the little doctor following quickly.
“See--see!” said Phronsie, dreadfully excited, and holding up the
fluffy white ball that was spitting dreadfully, while little Doctor
Fisher precipitately seized every bit of the wood out of Polly’s arms
and dumped it in the big wood-box back of the stove.
“Now, says I,” he exclaimed, with a quick eye at the stove, “I guess
some of those sticks want to go in here.” And in a minute he had the
cover off, and before long the wood was crackling merrily away, and
Polly was rubbing her cold hands together, thinking how good it was to
be in such a nice warm place.
“And so you’ve been out working at the woodpile,” said the little
doctor, with a keen glance at her red cheeks.
“Oh, I didn’t get it at the woodpile,” said Polly, flinging off her
hood. “Isn’t that the dearest little kitten in all this world!” she
cried, rapturously.
“You didn’t get it at the woodpile!” said Doctor Fisher, straightening
up to look at her in astonishment. “Where in the world, Polly--” he
began.
“Oh, Grandma Bascom gave it to me,” said Polly, with a little laugh.
“You see Ben split her wood all up--a whole lot of it--for her, and
ours is too big, and I couldn’t find the hatchet, and--”
“No, no, I should think not,” assented the little Doctor Fisher,
hastily. “Well, now, you are all right, Polly,” with a glance at the
stove.
“We’re all right,” said Polly, with a merry little laugh and skipping
around the kitchen, Phronsie huddling up the white fluffy kitten
tightly, and flying after her.
“And if you are a good girl,” said the little doctor, opening the door
and looking back at Phronsie, “why, then the little white cat shall
stay with you always.”
“The little white cat shall stay with me always,--he said so,” declared
Phronsie, trying to keep up with Polly’s flying steps.
“Yes; isn’t he good to bring you that dear sweet kitty!” exclaimed
Polly, seizing it to give it a good hug, whereat the small fluffy ball
said “_Fuff--siss!_” again very loudly.
“O dear me!” exclaimed Polly, drawing back; “I didn’t hurt you, you
funny little thing, you; you needn’t scream at me so.”
“She’s only talking, Polly,” said Phronsie, anxiously watching Polly’s
face.
“Talking?” said Polly, with a little laugh; “well, never mind, I guess
she won’t hurt me, Pet.”
“She won’t hurt you, Polly,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow hair
positively; “I won’t let her.”
“And did you ever see such a nice place as this!” said Polly, glancing
approvingly around the old kitchen and over to the stove where little
winks of the bright fire could be seen, and the wood was crackling
away as hard as it could. “Phronsie, I don’t believe ever anybody had
such a dear Little Brown House as this is--ever in all this world!”
“It’s my Little Brown House,” said Phronsie, coming to a sudden stop
and looking all about her very intently, “and I shall live here
forever.”
“Well, come on,” said Polly, every nerve tingling for another spin,
she was just beginning to feel so nice and warm and cosey, and holding
out her hands. So Phronsie, although she would have preferred to sit
quietly and play with her new treasure, hugged it up tighter to her
little bosom and let Polly dance her about to her heart’s desire, the
little white cat spitting and mewing her discontent, until the two
children, tired out, sat down, flushed and panting, to rest.
And just at that moment the door opened and in plunged little Doctor
Fisher, his spectacles gleaming behind a big armful of wood.
“Oh--oh!” cried Polly and Phronsie together, as they rushed across the
kitchen to him.
“It was such good fun!” declared the little doctor, depositing the big
armful with a rattle and a clatter in the wood-box. His eyes sparkled,
and a smile of great satisfaction spread all over his face. “You can’t
think!”
“You’ve split up all that wood!” exclaimed Polly, in dismay, going back
of the stove to peer into the big box; “and where did you find the
hatchet?” rushing back to him.
“Oh, that’s telling,” laughed Doctor Fisher.
“And Ben won’t like it, to have you do this, because you have to work
so hard to cure sick folks,” said Polly, with a very flushed face.
“Ben isn’t to know anything about it,” retorted Doctor Fisher.
“He would have filled it,” began Polly, and the rosy color flew all
over her face deeper yet, “only--” And then she stopped suddenly at the
thought that she would have to tell about Joel.
“Ben’s all right,” declared the little doctor, with emphasis. “Now,
Polly, don’t think anything more about it.”
“You see, Joel--” And Polly clasped her hands. She had almost let it
out, for Ben mustn’t be blamed unjustly--O dear, what could she do!
“And because Joel ran off and forgot to fill the box,” said little
Doctor Fisher, gayly, “is that any reason, I should like to know, why
I can’t have the fun of splitting up a few sticks? Well, Phronsie--”
and he whirled around to her; “don’t you want to know where I got that
little white cat for you, before I go, hey?”
“She’s my little white cat,” declared Phronsie, too excited to think of
anything except that the kitten was really hers.
“Yes, I know,” Doctor Fisher nodded at her; “well, now, I’m going to
tell you how I got her. Polly, you come over and hear it, too.”
So Polly obediently went over. “Oh, you’ve been so good, dear Doctor
Fisher; you’ve saved my eyes, and given me my stove, and now you’ve
brought Phronsie a little white cat.” Polly clasped her hands tightly
together. Oh, if she could only do something for him!
“Well, now, let’s hear how I got that little white cat,” said Doctor
Fisher, briskly. He never could bear to be thanked, but he was very
much gratified, all the same, at Polly’s words. “You couldn’t guess,
children,” he cried, with great animation.
“Phronsie,” said Polly, “he’s going to tell how he got your little
white cat.”
At that Phronsie was greatly excited, and she piped out, “Oh, tell me!”
“Why, I didn’t get her at all,” said Doctor Fisher.
“You didn’t get her at all--” repeated Polly, in amazement.
“No,” the little doctor burst into a laugh at her face; “that is, I
didn’t go after her. She came to me.”
“She came to you!” echoed Polly. “Oh, do tell us, Doctor Fisher,”
hanging on every word breathlessly.
“Why, you see I had been around considerably on my calls yesterday,”
said Doctor Fisher; “never had so many it seemed to me; so I got home
late and I had bundles in the top of the gig--had it pushed back, you
know. And after I had Dobbin out of the shafts, and in his stall, I
just reached in to get the parcels, and the first thing I knew--see
there!” The little doctor held up one hand, and there was a long, red
scratch running halfway across it.
“O dear me!” cried Polly in great distress.
“That’s the first thing I knew about that little white cat,” said
Doctor Fisher, ruefully; “although I’d been on the lookout for a kitty
for Phronsie, and a white one, I never expected she’d come to me. But
there she was, as fine as a fiddle, and she sprang up on top of those
bundles. I’d waked her up, you see,--and she puffed up twice her size
and hissed and spit and scratched at me like all possessed!” He threw
his head back, and laughed long and loud at the remembrance.
“And didn’t you find out where she came from?” cried Polly, with big
eyes. Phronsie, divided between her joy at the story and her sorrow at
the long scratch on Doctor Fisher’s hand, only hugged the little white
cat tighter without a word.
“No, not a bit of it. You see I’d been in so many places yesterday, how
could I?” said Doctor Fisher, wrinkling his brows. “I suppose Miss Puss
thought my gig-top was about as nice a place to sleep in as she ever
saw--so in she went without asking anybody’s leave--”
“Phronsie, just think--your little white cat walked right into Doctor
Fisher’s gig-top,” laughed Polly, her worry over the wood dropping off
for a moment. “Oh, how funny!”
“How funny!” laughed Phronsie, and the little doctor laughed. And the
door swung open suddenly, and in burst Joel, staggering under a load of
wood very much too big for him, and after him panted little Davie, and
he had an armful, too.
“Oh, Joel,” exclaimed Polly, dashing over to him.
Joel’s face was very red, but it wasn’t from carrying the load of wood,
and he couldn’t drop it into the wood-box, because that was full, so
down it went with a clang on the kitchen floor.
“I didn’t mean--oh, I--O dear me! Polly, I didn’t mean,” he blubbered.
Then he broke down and ran into Polly’s arms to hide his tears.
“Oh, I know--I know,” said Polly, soothingly, and rubbing his stubby
head. “Oh, Davie, put down your wood, do,” for little Davie seemed to
be paralyzed, and stood quite still in his tracks.
“And I forgot,” sniffled Joel, perfectly oblivious of Doctor Fisher and
everything else. “O dear me, and Ben told me.” Here he gave a fresh sob.
“Well, Ben thought there was some wood split,” said Polly, with another
pat on his black hair. Still, in her own mind, she was very much
perplexed. When did Ben ever forget anything like that? “Never mind;
we’ve ever so much now,” she added, brightly.
“But there was lots,” declared Joel, lifting his head to look at her,
“lots and lots all ready, and Ben told me--” Here he burst out crying
again, and down went his head.
“Joel, stop crying,” said Polly, getting her hand under his chin. But
he burrowed deeper yet into her gown, mumbling, “I forgot--”
“Where was the wood?” demanded Polly. “Joel, you must tell me this
minute.”
“In the ‘Provision Room,’” wailed Joel. “O dear me!”
“In the ‘Provision Room,’” repeated Polly, faintly.
“Yes, Ben put it in there to have it dr--dry,” whimpered Joel; “in the
Cubby Hole--O dear me!”
There was a broken place on the outside of the “Provision Room,” called
by the children the “Cubby Hole,” and Ben had tucked the split wood
in there, telling Joel to fill the box behind the stove; then he had
hurried off to work for Deacon Blodgett.
“Well, never mind,” said Polly again; “don’t cry, Joel, you didn’t mean
to forget.”
“No, he didn’t,” said little Davie, who had set down his wood on the
floor by the side of Joel’s armful, to come anxiously up to Polly’s
side. “He didn’t mean to, Polly.”
“I know,” said Polly, nodding over to him, “and we have plenty of wood.
See there, boys,” she pointed over to the big box.
“Where’d you get it?” Joel raised his head to sniff out the words
between his tears.
“Oh, Doctor Fisher brought in the most of it,” said Polly.
“No, I didn’t,” said the little doctor, who had heard every word, and
whirling around toward them. “Polly brought in the first lot.”
“O dear me!” exclaimed Joel at that, ready to burst into fresh sobs,
for the boys never allowed Polly to bring in any wood, each one vying
with the others to be the first one to fill the big box.
“Oh, no,” said Polly, so anxious to keep Joel from feeling badly, she
forgot she was contradicting. “I only brought in a little, Joey; Doctor
Fisher brought in all the top part.”
“Well, now,” said the little doctor, cheerily, “the wood’s here, and,
although it was very bad of you, Joel, to go off and forget what Ben
told you,--I’m not denying that,--it didn’t hurt Polly half as much
to bring it in, as to see you cry. Come, wipe up; you’re ’most a man,
Joel.” And that long speech over, Doctor Fisher whipped out his big
bandanna and mopped Joel’s red face from top to bottom.
“_Fuff--siss--meow!_”
“What’s that?” cried Joel, emerging from the big handkerchief with dry
and shining cheeks, and pricking up his ears. Little Davie whirled
around to listen, too.
“Oh, that?” said the little doctor, bursting into a laugh; “well--run
over and ask Phronsie. Good-by, children,” and he skipped to the door
and hurried out to climb into his gig and rattle off.
Joel plunged over to Phronsie, little David racing after. “Give her to
me, Phron,” screamed Joel, catching sight of the little white ball.
The kitten, quite accustomed now to Phronsie’s fat little arms, had
snuggled down, thinking it wasn’t such a very bad place, after all,
that she had come to, but at Joel’s loud cry she sprang upright and
glared at the two boys,--the very things, if the truth must be told,
that she had fled from when she jumped in that old gig standing in the
front of her home down in the Hollow.
“Oh, Joel, don’t--you’re scaring her to death,” said Polly, while
Phronsie screamed in dismay, and struggled, her face very pink, to hold
the little cat.
“Phoh! I ain’t scaring her,” said Joel, poking his stubby black head up
closer.
“Don’t, Joey,” begged David, trying to pull him back, but the little
white cat, considering it wiser all around to look out for herself,
struggled out of Phronsie’s arms and leaped across the kitchen floor,
and in a minute there she was, perched up on top of the old corner
cupboard and glaring down at them out of two big, angry eyes.
“Now see what you’ve done, Joel,” exclaimed Polly, in vexation. “There,
Phronsie, don’t cry; your kitty can’t get away.”
Phronsie, since Polly said so, stopped her screams, and running over to
the cupboard,--“Come back, my little white kitty,” she begged, holding
up her arms.
But the little white cat looked down at her, as much as to say, “No,
indeed, you don’t catch me as long as those dreadful boys are there.”
“I’ll get her,” shouted Joel, running across the kitchen to the old
table and preparing to drag it over.
“Stop, Joel!” commanded Polly, running after him.
“I’m going to put a chair on it; then I can reach her,” screamed Joel,
with a very red face, tugging away at the table.
“No, no, you mustn’t, Joe,” commanded Polly.
“O dear,--dear!” Little Davie was wringing his hands helplessly and
turning first to Phronsie and then to Joel in distress.
“We must just let her alone; she’ll come down herself by and by.” Polly
ran over to say this to Phronsie.
“But I want my little white kitty now, Polly, I do,” said Phronsie, in
a sorrowful little voice.
“I know, Pet, it’s too bad she’s up there--but she’ll come down by and
by,” said Polly, reassuringly, and craning her neck at the little white
cat, who sat serenely on her perch. “Let’s go off and play something,”
she proposed suddenly.
“Oh, I couldn’t play, Polly,” said Phronsie, reproachfully. “I want my
little white cat.”
“Well, I could get her,” declared Joel, in a loud, wrathful tone, “if
Polly’d let me; just as easy as pie--”
“Well, I’m not going to have you tumbling off from that chair on top of
the table,” declared Polly, firmly. “Besides, Joe, the kitty wouldn’t
be there when you’d climbed up.”
“Then I’d jump down and catch her here--gee--whiz!” said Joel, slapping
his little brown hands smartly together and stalking up and down in
front of the old cupboard.
“Well, you mustn’t try,” said Polly. “Now, Davie, you and I will play
with Phronsie, if Joel doesn’t want to. Come on, Pet. Oh, wait a
minute; you must take off Mamsie’s shawl.”
“Oh, I don’t want to take it off, Polly,” cried Phronsie, edging off
and clutching the little plaid shawl with both hands.
“Yes, you must,” said Polly; “you’ll get so hot.” So the little shawl
was unpinned and laid carefully on the table. “Now, then, come on,”
said Polly.
“I don’t want to play, Polly,” said Phronsie again, and surveying her
with very disapproving eyes.
“Oh, yes, come on, Pet,” said Polly, cheerily, holding out her hands,
“and you too, Davie.”
So Phronsie, who never really thought of disobeying Polly, went slowly
over to Polly; and having Davie on her other side with a very solemn
face, as he much preferred to see how things were coming out with Joel,
Polly spun out with the two children into the middle of the kitchen
floor.
“Now let’s play ‘Ring--around a rosy,’” she said, gayly; “come on.”
“I want to play ‘Ring around--a--rosy,’” cried Joel, in a loud voice.
“Ring a--round--a rosy,” sang Polly, skipping off bravely. “Take care,
Phronsie;” for Phronsie’s gaze was fastened on the little white cat,
who sat up stiffly on the top of the old cupboard, with her tail lashed
around her legs, and staring down at them. “You almost tumbled on your
nose, then, child.”
“I want to play ‘Ring a--round--a--rosy,’ I say,” screamed Joel, as the
little circle swept by in the middle of the floor as fast as they could
go, and singing at the top of their voices.
“Joel wants to come--Polly, stop,” begged little Davie, breathlessly,
as they whirled around.
“O dear me!” panted Polly, and stopping suddenly--“do you really want
to play, Joel?” she asked, “really and truly?”
“Yes, I do,” said Joel. “Oh, Polly, let me,” and he rushed up to crowd
into the ring.
“Then you may, if you really and truly want to, Joel,” said Polly;
“there, now, says I, take hold of Davie’s hand.”
Little Davie, only too glad to have Joel in the ring, joyfully tried to
seize his brown little hand.
“I want to take hold of Phronsie’s,” said Joel, pulling away, “and
yours, Polly,” running over to get into that part of the little ring.
“No, no,” protested Phronsie, hanging to Polly’s hand for dear life.
“No, you can’t, Joel,” said Polly, decidedly; “that is Phronsie’s
place. Come the other side.”
“I’ll let him take my place,” said little Davie, swallowing very hard,
for he very much wanted to hold Phronsie’s hand, but he dropped it at
once, to let Joel slip into the ring.
“Oh, Davie, that is so good of you!” exclaimed Polly, beaming at him,
but she didn’t look at Joel, as he seized Phronsie’s hand. “Well, now,
come on,” sang Polly. “Ring--a--round--a rosy.” And off they skipped.