his chair, and was just slipping into her own, when out jumped the
stage-driver from his seat and picked it off, going up to the old
gentleman at the head of the table. “Thank ye, sir, kindly, but all
th’ same, it’s me that’s goin’ to get a new cap fer Ben Pepper, seein’
his’n has blew off from Joel’s head while he’s my comp’ny,” and he was
just going back to his place when a frowsy-headed stable boy walked
right into the dining room without waiting to ask any one’s leave.
“He said,” pointing with his thumb out toward the road, “I was to give
you this to once’t. You dropped it when you was chasin’ th’ cat, and
him an’ his dog found it,” and he held out Ben’s cap.
XI
A LITTLE YELLOW CHICKEN
“Polly,” said Phronsie, “I wish we could have cake every day.” She held
carefully, a small bit saved after nibbling slowly around the edge of
the piece in her hand, “Why can’t we, Polly?”
“Why can’t we what, Phronsie?” Polly, rushing around the old kitchen,
the dish-cloth, which she had forgotten to put down, still in her hand,
picked up a small bowl from the table and, knocking off a spoon that it
had concealed, sent it clattering to the floor. “O dear me, I do wish
Joel would ever put his things up,” she exclaimed in vexation.
“I’ll pick it up,” cried Phronsie, forgetting her cake-crumb so that
it went flying off to the floor, too. “Let me, Polly, do,” she begged,
running over to the table.
“Oh, no, never mind, Pet,” exclaimed Polly, very much ashamed of her
impatience; “there, I have it,--well, oh, what did you want, Phronsie?
O dear me,” she cried again, “I wonder when these old dishes will ever
be done!”
“I’ll do them,” cried Phronsie, running after her eagerly as she bore
them off to the big pan of water waiting for them, the dish-towel
flapping from Polly’s arm; “please, Polly, I’m so big; do let me.”
“Nonsense, you’re no bigger’n a chicken,” exclaimed Polly, merrily
setting down Joel’s mush-bowl and spoon among the other things the
Pepper family had used at their simple breakfast.
“I’m not a chicken,” said Phronsie, in a grieved little voice, and
standing quite tall.
“Oh, yes, you are,” declared Polly, gayly. Then, as she caught sight of
Phronsie’s face, she turned her back on the big dish-pan, and seized
her for a good hug. “A sweet, puffy little chicken,--there, and there,
Phronsie Pepper!”
“Am I just like Mrs. Henderson’s chickens?” asked Phronsie, slowly, a
light breaking over her face.
“Yes, as like as two peas,” declared Polly, shaking her head decidedly.
“Oh, you can’t think, Phronsie. You’re just exactly like one of Mrs.
Henderson’s chickens, every single bit.” With that she gave her another
hug.
“Am I like the little yellow one, Polly?” asked Phronsie, as Polly at
last set her free, and flew off to her long-delayed dish-washing, only
to find the water cold. “Am I, Polly?”
“Eh, what?” asked Polly, wrinkling up her brow in dismay. “Now what
shall I do,--that old stove!-- And the fire’s out, of course. O dear
me, Pet, what is it?”
“Am I like the little yellow one, Polly?” asked Phronsie, thrusting her
face in between Polly and the dish-pan. “Am I, Polly?”
“The little yellow what?” asked Polly, all her thoughts on her delayed
morning work, and her hurry to pull out all those basting-threads on
the coats Mamsie had just finished for Mr. Atkins, to surprise Mrs.
Pepper when she had come home from Deacon Blodgett’s where she had gone
to help in the spring cleaning.
“You said I was like Mrs. Henderson’s chickens,” said Phronsie, her
lip beginning to tremble, “and can’t I be like the little yellow
one? Please make me, Polly.” A big tear she was trying to keep back
wouldn’t stay in its place, but ran down over the round cheek.
“Dear me, yes, of course, you can be like the little yellow chicken,
Phronsie,” promised Polly, bursting into a merry laugh, and throwing
her arms around her again, quite in dismay at the tear. “Now, then,
just think, Phronsie, how cunning he was when he hopped all around
after his mother, and--”
“Just like this,” laughed Phronsie, her tears all gone; and tumbling
to all fours, she began to bob over the kitchen floor as a very fat,
yellow chicken would be supposed to get along on its quite new little
legs.
“Hah--hah!” scud,--scud, scamper,--and two boys came bounding in. “See
Phronsie!” screamed Joel to little David, who came plunging after.
“I’m Mrs. Henderson’s little yellow chicken,” announced Phronsie,
lifting a flushed face, and having very hard work to keep her pink
apron from tripping her up.
“Hoh,--hoh, come on, Dave,” screamed Joel, flinging himself flat on
the floor; “we’ll be the old hens. No, I’m going to be the rooster.
Cock-a-doodle-doo!” With that he gave a terrible crow, and sprawled
after Phronsie.
Little David, who very much wished to be the rooster, smothered a sigh,
and immediately became one of Mrs. Henderson’s old gray hens. And being
perfectly familiar with their proceedings from the many visits the
children had been allowed to make to the parsonage hen-coop, he was
soon clucking at a great rate, and following Joel and Phronsie about
till the old kitchen rang with the noise of a farm-yard.
“Goodness me!” cried Polly, turning away from the dish-pan where she
was trying to believe the water was hot enough to make the dishes as
nice as usual. “Oh, what fun!” She rested her hands for a moment on the
rim. Dear me, didn’t she just long to be down on the floor, and be an
old hen with the others rampaging around the kitchen! But Mamsie was
coming soon, and there were those basting-threads,--and beside, the
dish-water would then be cold as a stone. It would never do to even
think of it. So she flew back again, and made a great bustle with the
cups and bowls and spoons trying to shut out the delightful noise. This
was the reason she didn’t hear what followed.
“Oh, whickets!” Joel couldn’t help saying what Mamsie had reproved him
for. Here was what looked like a piece of cake. It couldn’t be, really,
for cake didn’t come to the Pepper household often enough to be found
on the floor. But it surely looked like it; and Joel lost sight of
the fact that he was a rooster, and rubbed his eyes. Yes, it surely
was, and white cake, too, with even a bit of sugar frosting clinging
to it. And yes, really and truly, there was half a raisin hiding in
the corner. And Joel forgot still more that he was Mrs. Henderson’s
rooster, and he sat down and gobbled up the bit, wishing that his
farm-yard would always yield such rich pickings. If it would, he’d be
willing to be a rooster forever.
“Let’s play Mrs. Henderson is going to feed us now,” David was saying,
over in the other corner, to the little yellow chicken.
“Yes,” gurgled Phronsie, in delight; forgetting how tired she was, if
only Mrs. Henderson was going to give them all their breakfast, and
beginning to hop again.
“Look at Joel,” cried Davie, pointing a finger over where the rooster
still sat, absorbed in the delightful memory of swallowing that
cake-bit. Then the old gray hen flapped over there followed with very
uneven plunges by the little yellow chicken who tried desperately to
keep up. “We’re going to have some corn,” he shouted. “Hurry up, Joe,
Mrs. Henderson’s coming with our breakfast.”
Joel at that was brought to. “Huh!” he sniffed, “I’ve had cake,” just
as Phronsie came tumbling up, a very sorry looking, hot little chicken.
She heard the word “cake.” “Oh, Joel,” she cried in a pleased little
voice, and, trying to sit straight, only succeeded in rolling over in a
heap. Both boys hopped over to her and pulled her up.
“Oh, where is it, Joey?” she cried, holding out both hands.
“Where’s what?” cried Joel, “--oh, the corn. Come on, Dave, Mrs.
Henderson’s calling us. Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Away he hopped, and David,
supposing Phronsie in the merry chase, hopped after, flapping his wings
and calling to his chickens in just that motherly way he had admired so
often in the parsonage old gray hens. Phronsie left alone, sat quite
straight for a moment, then, despairing of being heard in the babel,
began to search diligently for the precious cake-bit, that had been
slowly saved till the last, because of that very corner of frosting and
that half a raisin.
“Where’s Phronsie?” cried David, missing her from the corn breakfast.
Joel whirled around, sending keen glances over the old kitchen. “There
she is,” spying her pink apron back of Mamsie’s big calico-covered
rocking-chair. “Come on, Phron,” he called.
Phronsie put out a worried little face around the calico valance. “I
can’t find it,” she said.
“She’s lost something,” said Davie. With that he forgot he was an old
gray hen, and sprang to his feet and ran over. Joel preferred to still
be a rooster, so he hopped after, reaching the spot to hear David say,
“She says she’s lost some cake.”
“Cake?” cried Joel, tumbling back to sit on his heels, and his black
eyes stuck out.
“Yes,” said Davie, but he looked puzzled enough. “Oh, Phronsie, when
did you have any cake?” he demanded incredulously. “We never have cake,
you know. You’re playing.”
“No,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head very positively; “I did
have some, really and truly. Polly gave it to me, and I lost it.” With
that she began to feel carefully along the depths of the chair valance.
“O dear me!” it wasn’t in the least like a brave “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
that the big rooster now emitted, as Joel roared out something, and
flew for Polly.
“Take care, Joe!” she warned, with her hands full of the dishes she
was just going to pile on the shelves. “You ’most knocked off Mamsie’s
cup!” and she turned pale with fright.
“I’ve eat it up!” wailed Joel, burying his black, stubby head in
Polly’s apron.
“No, you haven’t broken it,” cried Polly, “don’t worry, Joe, I didn’t
mean to scare you.”
“It’s eat, and I can’t give it back,” screamed Joel, burrowing deeper
into her apron, thereby making all the dishes in Polly’s hands tremble
violently.
“Joe Pepper,” cried Polly; “stop this minute. O dear me, every single
thing will be smashed! What will Mamsie say?” At mention of Mamsie,
Joel, although he still wailed on, stopped his struggling so that she
was able to set the dishes safely on the table. “Now, see here.” She
grasped his two shoulders and made him turn his face. “O dear me, what
is the matter?” she cried aghast.
“I’ve eat it,” cried Joel, breaking into a roar, and not looking up,
his black eyes raining tears.
“Eat what?” cried Polly, in great distress. “Stop screaming, Joe, and
tell me this minute. What have you done?” She gave a great gasp, and
instinctively turned a quick eye over to the corner where she could see
David and Phronsie moving about, probably still as chickens, and not
disturbed by Joel’s roars, supposing it a new phase of his playing at
being a rooster.
“Oh, I’ve eat it,--don’t you understand, Polly?” screamed Joel, in a
fresh burst, and stamping in his impatience; “and I can’t give it back.”
“Eat what?” demanded Polly, in bewilderment.
“The cake!” roared Joel. This time it was so very loud, no one could
possibly think it was a rooster. So little Davie cried joyfully, “Oh,
he’s found it, Phronsie,” and they both scuffed over.
“Oh, don’t let her come,” screamed Joel, in terror, and trying to hide
behind Polly’s apron. But it was too late.
“He’s found it!” piped Phronsie, in a gleeful little voice, and holding
up both hands. “Oh, give it to me, Polly, do.”
“Oh!” screamed Joel, huddling around Polly’s other side, and twirling
her apron.
“Take care, Joe, you’ll break the strings,” she warned. “Now, children,
you two go and sit down,” pointing to the wooden chairs ranged against
the wall every day after breakfast was over, and the floor swept up,
“just a minute, and I’ll come over to you.”
“But I want my cake, Polly, I do,” said Phronsie, reproachfully, and
very much astonished at this delay, for Polly always attended to her at
once. “Please, Polly, give it to me now,” she begged.
At this, Joel, on Polly’s other side, began to struggle in and out the
apron depths worse than ever.
“Joe, be still,” commanded Polly, in her sternest tones. “If you don’t,
you will have to go into the ‘Provision Room.’”
At these dreadful words little Davie’s cheek turned quite pale.
What had Joel done? But Phronsie’s mind was all on her cake, and
she continued to gaze at Polly in grieved astonishment, and to beg,
“Please, Polly, give it to me now.”
“See here, Phronsie,” said Polly, at her wit’s end what to do; “you
must be a good girl now, and do just as I say, else Mamsie will be so
sorry when she comes home; so you must go and sit down in that chair
till I go over to you.”
To make Mamsie sorry was as much worse than the loss of any cake could
possibly be, and Davie saying, “Yes, come, Phronsie,” and taking her
fat little hand, the two children went over to the spot indicated, and
climbed up to the chairs just as Polly had told them to; little David
with an awful feeling at his heart that Joel was in trouble.
“Now, Joel,” said Polly, mustering up as much cheer as she could, “you
and I will go to the ‘Provision Room’ and--”
The two children over on their chairs with their ears pricked up for
every word, heard “Provision Room,” and Davie screamed out, “Oh, don’t
make him go there, Polly!”
“Oh, we’re going together,” said Polly, cheerfully, getting hold of
Joel’s hand. “Joey has something he is going to tell me.”
“Ow!” exclaimed Joel, shrinking deeper into the apron.
“So come along, Joey.” And away they went, Joel wiping off the tears on
the back of one grimy hand while Polly held fast to the other.
“There, now.” Polly sat down on the little stool in the middle of
the old “Provision Room,” where, whenever the children were very
naughty, Mother Pepper always had them sit alone until such time as she
considered the punishment should be over. “You must tell me all about
it, Joey.” He had flung himself down on the earth floor, and buried his
head in her lap.
“I tell you I’ve eat it,” said Joel, in smothered gasps. “O dear me,
boo--hoo!”
“Eat what?” asked Polly, still not understanding.
“The cake! I didn’t know it was Phronsie’s,” mumbled Joel, in a fresh
burst. “Oh! And it was on the floor, and--and-- O dear me! I was Mrs.
Henderson’s-- O dear me.”
“Yes, I know,” said Polly, quickly, glad to help him over the hard
places, “one of the hens.”
“No, not the hen,” snorted Joel, in scorn, and raising his black head;
“Dave was that, and I was the rooster--that big one, you know, Polly.”
“Yes, I know,” nodded Polly, quite pleased that he could be diverted
even for a moment; “and so you picked up the cake from the floor. Was
that it, Joe?”
“Yes,” down went Joel’s head again. “I didn’t know it was Phronsie’s,
and now I can’t give it back,” he wailed, in a fresh burst.
“Um, mm--” Polly was lost in thought for a minute. What could she do to
make up for this dreadful loss? She never could get another piece of
cake to replace it. Such windfalls as this one, which Mrs. Atkins had
given her the other day, didn’t happen often. And Polly, remembering
how she had turned back on her way home from her errand to the store,
when the wife of the storekeeper who lived in the ell, had rapped with
her thimble on the window, and then with the words, “I had comp’ny to
tea las’ night, an’ I want you should have this to eat on th’ way home,
child,” she had put the precious portion in Polly’s hand, and Polly
had run every speck of the way home, deciding to put it away to give
to Phronsie sometime when it should most be needed, for the bit wasn’t
large enough to be divided between the three “children,” as Polly and
Ben always called the others. And now, only to think what trouble had
come from it all!
[Illustration: “YOU MUST TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT, JOEY.”--_Page 305._]
“I’ve eat it,” Joel kept saying, in a steady refrain, and feeling it
very cold comfort indeed to be brought to the “Provision Room,” by
Polly, with no help to give. “O dear me!” he wailed on.
“I’ll tell you, Joel,” Polly exclaimed, and she gave a little jump from
the stool so suddenly, that he nearly tumbled over on his back, “what
you can do. It will be splendid, I think. Now, understand, Joel, you
oughtn’t to have eaten up that cake when you found it. I gave it to
Phronsie.”
“Where’d you get it?” demanded Joel, in great surprise.
So Polly related the whole story of the cake, only taking breath when
Joel blurted out, “I wish Mrs. Atkins had given you a bigger piece.”
“For shame, Joe,” reproved Polly, sitting down on the stool again, and
taking both of his hands in hers. “She was very good to give me this.
Yes, you shouldn’t have eaten it up when you found it, but brought it
to me. Never mind if you were the big rooster, the cake didn’t belong
to you. But now it is eaten up, why, it must be made up to Phronsie in
some way. And I’ll tell you how; but you’ve got to work because you ate
the cake, you know.”
Joel nodded his black head and wiped off the last tear. Since Polly was
going to fix it, it was going to be all right, and Phronsie would be
pleased. “Tell on, Polly,” he begged eagerly.
“Well,” said Polly, “you know Phronsie has been wanting a little pie
ever since Mr. Beggs, the ragman, gave her that cunning little tin
plate with the letters all around the edge. Now, if Mamsie will let us
use the flour, I’ll--”
“You’ll bake her one,” cried Joel, in glee. “Oh, hooray!” he jumped to
his feet and shouted.
David with Phronsie, their hands folded in their laps, sitting up
stiffly on their chairs in the old kitchen, gave a great sigh of relief
at that shout. Everything was quite right with Joel once more, to be
sure.
“Well, but,” said Polly, “you’ve got to work, you know, Joel.”
“I’ll make the pie,” declared Joel, turning a somersault, “and roll out
the crust, and everything.”
“Oh, no, Joe,” cried Polly, in horror; “the very idea! Why, you never
made a pie in your life.”
“But I’m going to this time,” declared Joel, pausing on the edge of
another somersault, and cocking up one black eye at her. “You said so
yourself, Polly Pepper, that I’d got to work; so there, now.”
“But I didn’t mean in that way, Joel,” said Polly. “O dear me!”
“Well, how will I have to work, then?” demanded Joel, getting up to his
feet and regarding her with disfavor.
“Well, you know you ought not to have eaten up that cake,” said Polly,
emphatically; “so, of course, you must work to pay it back. So you will
have to pick berries, because there isn’t anything to make a pie of but
berries. And you must pick them.”
“O dear me, I don’t want to,” grumbled Joel, who had his own ideas of
what he intended to do the rest of that day. And no berries could be
found nearer than a mile-and-a-half hot walk.
“For shame, Joe,” cried Polly, hotly, “you’ve eaten up Phronsie’s cake,
and the only thing in this world I can think of to pay her back is to
make her a pie on her own little new tin plate, and she can’t have it
if you don’t go after the berries.”
“I’ll go,--I’ll go,” promised Joel, in alarm, his only fear now being
that something would happen to prevent Phronsie from being paid back
for her lost piece of cake, “but Dave’s got to go with me to pick the
berries.”
“No, he hasn’t, Joel,” said Polly, firmly; “not unless he really wants
to. And you must pick all the berries for Phronsie’s pie, anyway, and
what Davie picks, if he really wants to go, must be brought home to
Mamsie.”
So Joel, quite relieved that Phronsie was really to have her pie, if
Mamsie would let them have the flour, and quite as sure that Davie
would go to pick berries if invited, pranced off at Polly’s heels out
of the “Provision Room.”
But the story was not told to Phronsie that day, for just as Polly ran
over the rickety little steps into the old kitchen, a rap on the green
door was heard. “There’s our Mr. Beebe,” screamed David, craning his
neck to look out of the window. And Phronsie clapped her hands, and
then they all rushed to the door. And there on the big flat stone was
good Mrs. Beebe, and coming slowly up the path was Mr. Beebe, and there
was the big black cloth bag hanging on Mrs. Beebe’s arm, and Joel smelt
doughnuts before she ever got into the kitchen.
“You dear, precious, little creeters, you!” exclaimed old Mrs. Beebe,
as they all surrounded her. “Get her Mamsie’s chair, Joel, do,” said
Polly, “and I’ll untie your bonnet.”
“Let me,” begged Phronsie, standing on tiptoe, and putting up both
hands. “I want to, dear Mrs. Beebe, I do.”
“So you shall,” said old Mrs. Beebe, smiling at her.
“Oh, Phronsie, you can’t do it,” said Polly in dismay.
“Oh, yes, I can,” declared Phronsie; “I want to, I do.”
“And so you shall, honey-bird,” declared Mrs. Beebe. So Phronsie was
lifted up to the old lady’s lap, where she was kept from slipping off
by Polly holding on to her, while she fumbled among the black ribbon
strings, every minute getting them more mixed than ever; Mrs. Beebe
smiling above them, and protesting she wouldn’t have any one but
Phronsie Pepper untie them for the world.
“O dear me!” said Polly, the color rushing all over her round cheek.
“Do let me help you, Phronsie. Joel, you come and hold Phronsie on to
Mrs. Beebe’s lap. Now, Pet, I’ll show you how.”
“No, no,” protested Phronsie, shaking her yellow head, “my dear sweet
Mrs. Beebe wants me to untie it, and I must do it all by myself.”
“She’s mussing them dreadfully,” Polly felt obliged to whisper over
Phronsie’s head into Mrs. Beebe’s ear, but the old lady only smiled and
said, “Never mind, I’ll run a hot flat-iron over ’em when I get home.”
All this time Mr. Beebe had found a chair for himself, and sat down,
blowing his nose on his big bandanna, and alternately entertained by
little David and Joel, who ran back and forth from him to Mrs. Beebe,
as the untying of the bonnet was in progress.
“She never’ll get it done,” grumbled Joel, unable to keep his eyes
from the big black bag that still dangled from Mrs. Beebe’s arm. It
bulged generously, and the smell of its contents was getting into the
very corners of the old kitchen. At last the bonnet was lifted from
the old lady’s head, and Polly bore it carefully off to lay on the big
four-poster in Mamsie’s bedroom.
“There, I did do it all myself,” announced Phronsie, clasping her hands
in much satisfaction, as she slipped to the floor.
“So you did, dear.” Old Mrs. Beebe beamed at her and leaning over her
she imprinted a kiss on the pink cheek. “Well, now, don’t you want to
see what I’ve brought for you?” and she slipped the handles of the bag
from her arm, and opened its mouth.
“Yes, I do,” said Phronsie, “very much indeed, dear Mrs. Beebe.”
“Bless your heart, you shall, and Joel and David, too,” said Mrs.
Beebe. It was impossible for Joel to get closer to her than he at
present was, and little Davie was wedged in the other side of Phronsie,
as Polly came back from the bedroom.
“Now come, Polly,” said old Mrs. Beebe, as she drew out from the bag
a big clean cloth that, unrolled, displayed a good half dozen of the
sugariest doughnuts of most ample proportions, “there’s just one
apiece, and one for your Ma,” she announced in huge satisfaction.
Old Mr. Beebe sat and laughed and mopped his face with his big bandanna
all through the scene that ensued, as the children sat down on the
floor and at once began work on their doughnuts, Polly first running to
the closet to lay the two for Mamsie and Ben on a clean blue plate, and
to shut the door fast.
“Oh, it’s so good of you, dear Mrs. Beebe,” she cried, dancing back to
whisper this into the old lady’s ear.
“Well, now, you sit down and eat yours, Polly, child,” said old Mrs.
Beebe. But first Polly had to run over to old Mr. Beebe’s chair because
he nodded to her mysteriously and beckoned with a long finger.
“I’ve got some pep’mint sticks in my pocket,” he announced in a loud
whisper, when she reached his side, “but Ma kinder thought ’twas better
fer you to give ’em to th’ children to-morrow, an’ not on top o’ th’
doughnuts,” and he smuggled a wad into her hand. So Polly had to run
off and slip that into the cupboard, too. Oh, such richness, and
lasting over until to-morrow! “Did ever anybody have such a dear, good
Mr. Beebe, and such a dear, good Mrs. Beebe as we have!” cried Polly,
to herself as she tucked away her treasures. At last, there she was on
the floor with the others and in the midst of the doughnut feast. And
wasn’t it a feast, though!