picked up the old hair-brush and the yellow hair was brushed, and the
two sunbonnets tied on. Then Polly, feeling very important, locked the
old green door and put the key in her pocket, and with a long breath
of delight ran down the path after Doctor Fisher and Phronsie. “We are
really and truly going to ride in his gig,” she kept saying, over and
over, to herself.
“You see,” said the little doctor, when they were at last in the depths
of the roomy old gig, and Dobbin was jogging down the country road,
“I thought I’d go over to Miller’s Corners this morning, because it’s
such a fine day. ’Tisn’t very important, only the old lady expects me
to call sometime this week.” And he was just turning off, when a man on
horseback, who seemed very much in a hurry, clattered up, calling out
long before he got there, “Hey, Doctor--I want you.”
“Now, what can have happened,” exclaimed the little doctor, peering out
with visions of dreadful accidents flying through his mind, as the man
and the horse bore down upon the gig. “Well, what’s wanted?”
“Mis’ Granniss has got hurt,” said the man, pulling up his beast so
suddenly it seemed as if he must go over on his nose. “She hollered to
me as I was goin’ past to tell you.”
“Sho--now, that poor woman!” exclaimed Doctor Fisher.
“Yes,” said the man; “she fell over her stove, an’ I guess she’s pretty
bad.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The little doctor leaned over and
took up the whip and gave Dobbin a cut, who, realizing from past
experience a situation that required it, struck out his long legs so
bravely that Phronsie, crowded into the middle of the seat, crowed
gleefully at the pace, as she clung closely to Polly with both hands.
Doctor Fisher, slipping to the edge of the old leather seat, gripped
the reins tightly. “I have to, Dobbin,” he said; “you must excuse
me,” whenever he applied the whip, and at last, after many turns down
the country road and an occasional uphill, there they were at their
destination, and Dobbin gladly stopped to draw breath.
“You can play about here, children,” said Doctor Fisher, as he tied
Dobbin fast to the worm-eaten post, and seized his medicine bag. So
Polly and Phronsie hopped out of the gig, as the little doctor pranced
off around the side of the house to the back door, this being evidently
the best and quickest way to get into the house.
Polly drew a long breath and looked around. There wasn’t anything very
pretty about the place; everything was so run down at the heel. Even
the old shed tacked on to the weather-beaten dwelling had almost split
apart from its connection, as if to say, “I’d rather stand alone.”
And off on one side of the tiny yard where the grass sent up only
occasional green spears, was a heap of broken bottles, and old tin
cans, and other refuse that seemed to have been there for years and
years.
“O dear me!” said Polly, under her breath. “Isn’t it beyewtiful,”
hummed Phronsie, perfectly delighted; “he said we might play here,
Polly.”
Polly was just going to say, “Oh, we can’t play in this dirty place,
Phronsie,” when she remembered Mamsie’s words,--“Make the best of
everything,”--so she brightened up. “Let’s go over there, Phronsie,”
pointing across the road to a couple of old oak trees.
“No, no,” said Phronsie, shaking her head, “I want to stay here, Polly,
I do.” And she seized Polly’s hand to drag her along. “Oh, there’s a
kitty!” And she dropped the hand and ran off.
“Don’t touch her, Phronsie,” called Polly, racing after, but too
late!--Phronsie already had in her arms a mangy, yellow cat, very
dirty, and with big green eyes, now at their widest with fright.
“She’ll bite you,” screamed Polly. “Put her down, child,” as she got up
to Phronsie’s side.
But Phronsie only hugged the dirty cat closer. “She won’t bite me,” she
said. “Polly, she truly won’t,” as a small boy in a ragged pair of blue
cotton overalls dashed out of the doorway and over the broken steps.
“You put down my cat, you girl, you!” he cried, with a fierce jump
at Phronsie, who was quite willing now to drop the yellow cat. But
unfortunately the cat’s long claws of one leg caught in Phronsie’s
pinafore and in trying to get away from the dirty hands of the boy,
toward whom she seemed to have very little love, she put her claws on
Phronsie’s neck, and as she leaped over her shoulder, there was a long
red mark left to show where she had sprung off.
“Now, you see, you’ve driven off my cat!” screamed the boy, anger all
over his dirty little face, as the yellow cat leaped over the refuse
heap and disappeared into a patch of scrub oaks.
“Oh, Phronsie,” exclaimed Polly, in distress, “just look at your neck,”
which was quite impossible for Phronsie to do, as the long scratch was
up over the little pink pinafore ruffle. But it was there, Phronsie
knew quite well, as it began to sting and ache. “It hurts, Polly,” she
said, putting up her hand to it, as she huddled up next to Polly’s gown
to get away from that dreadful boy.
“I know, child,” said Polly, soothingly; “well, Doctor Fisher will fix
it when he gets through in the house.”
“He ain’t ever goin’ to get through, the doctor man ain’t,” said the
boy, quite ready to hold conversation, visitors being few and far
between. “Mother’s got hurt, an’ he’s fixin’ her up.”
“Your mother’s got hurt?” repeated Polly, her eyes widening in
sympathy. “O dear me, how?”
“Um--” the boy snapped his small mouth together impressively, “she fell
over the stove, she an’ the baby, but--”
“Oh, Polly, there’s a baby!” screamed Phronsie, coming out suddenly
from the folds of Polly’s brown gown.
“Hain’t you got a baby?” asked the boy.
“No,” said Phronsie, “and I want one, I do.”
“Huh--where do you live not to have a baby?” said the boy, in supreme
contempt, and he swung on one dirty bare foot to come round again to
stare at Phronsie with all his might.
“Oh, the poor thing,” said Polly, thinking of that dreadful fall over
the stove, “but I’m so glad the baby wasn’t hurt.”
“And I want the baby,” cried Phronsie, excitedly tugging at Polly’s
hand. “I want it now, please, Polly.”
“Come this way. I’m takin’ care of her,” said the boy, with an
important air, striding off to the old shed, and Polly and Phronsie
hurried after to find in an old box on top of a folded calico quilt,
a small creature with very thin cheeks and big eyes gazing at them
under a thatch of tangled black hair. She had something up at her mouth
clutched in both hands, at which she was gnawing busily.
“Oh--oh!” screamed Phronsie, rushing over to the box, and stretching
out both hands; “isn’t she be-_yew_tiful! I want her, I do.”
“Don’t, Phronsie,” cried Polly, trying to pull her away, but as well
try to stop the wind. Phronsie was down on her knees by the box with
both small arms around the baby, who immediately dropped her choice
morsel and then roared because she couldn’t get it.
“I’ll find it,” said the boy, and he gave a twitch to the dirty calico
gown, and picked up the end of a corn-cob, where it had fallen down in
the folds of the old quilt. “There.” And he crammed it into the roaring
mouth, when the two little hands, wildly pawing the air, seized it
again. “I put some molasses on to it,” he explained, as the baby began
to suck it in great content. But she didn’t take her big eyes from
Phronsie’s face.
“Oh, Polly!” cried Phronsie, rapturously, “I want her, I do, for my
very own baby--”
“Well, you can have her,” said the small boy; “I’ll give her to you.”
“Oh, will you--will you?” cried Phronsie, hopping up from the dirty
floor, in a transport. Then she clapped her hands. “Polly, he’ll give
her to me,” she cried, her cheeks very pink.
“Oh, Phronsie,” cried Polly, “he can’t give her to you.”
“Yes, I can, too. You don’t know anything about it, you girl, you!”
retorted the boy. “She’s my sister, an’ I guess I can give her away if
I want to. You may have her,” turning to Phronsie.
“He did say so, Polly, he did.” Phronsie, now quite overcome with
delight, began to hop up and down, singing, “She’s my baby--she’s my
baby!”
“You’re a bad boy,” said Polly, severely, “to want to give away your
sister.”
“No, I ain’t bad either,” said the boy, sturdily. “I’m goin’ fishin’,
an’ I don’t like that baby, an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to stay home an’ take
care of her, so there.” And without another word, he sprang out of the
old shed, seized a snarl of fishing-tackle on the ground just beside
the door, and although Polly called with all her might, he jumped over
the broken fence, and raced off.
“Now, whatever shall we do!” cried Polly, in great vexation.
Phronsie neither heard nor saw anything but the baby, who was giving
unmistakable signs of the most complete enjoyment in her old corn-cob.
“Well, I declare!” Little Doctor Fisher burst in upon them, his
spectacles slipping to the end of his nose, as he stumbled over the
rickety steps. “Bless me, I didn’t know where you had gone.”
“Oh, Doctor Fisher,” cried Polly, flying over to him, “there’s a poor
baby here--a perfectly dreadful one.”
“Is the baby here?” cried Doctor Fisher, peering at the old box and
its contents. Then he said, “Bless me” again and set his spectacles
straight. “Where’s that boy,--his mother said he was taking care of
it--”
“He’s run off,” said Polly.
“Run off!” exclaimed the little doctor. “Well, I’d like to catch him,”
he added savagely.
“And he’s given me the baby,” declared Phronsie, springing up to seize
Doctor Fisher’s big hand. “He has--and she’s whole mine, my very own--”
“The dickens he did!” exploded Doctor Fisher.
“O dear me!” exclaimed Polly, “it’s just as bad as it can be.”
“I should think it was,” said the little doctor, gloomily. Then he
pulled his long nose thoughtfully, which showed he was in great trouble
in his mind.
“O dear!” breathed Polly, in the greatest distress, for it always
grieved her dreadfully to see Doctor Fisher, who had saved her eyes
and given her a new stove, troubled about anything.
“You see, Polly,” said the little doctor, coming out at last from his
perplexity, and standing up quite straight, “that poor woman is badly
burned, her hands are, and _she_ can’t take care of the baby, that’s
plain. And there isn’t anybody else to do it but that bad boy.”
“Oh, he can’t do anything,” declared Polly, vehemently. “Oh, don’t make
the baby stay with him!” And quite overcome with pity, she knelt down
by the old box.
“Ah--goo!” exclaimed the baby, deserting the charms of the old corn-cob
for a breathing-space, Phronsie turning back from the little doctor to
get down by Polly’s side.
“O dear me!--poor little thing!” breathed Polly; “nobody to take care
of you except a bad boy and a cross old cat, and she’s run away, too.”
“Ah--goo!” said the baby, as if it were the pleasantest thing in the
world to be left under such conditions.
“Oh, we can’t ever leave her,” said Polly, turning back, one hand on
the edge of the box, to look up in the little doctor’s face, and her
brow wrinkled in perplexity.
“No, of course not,” said Doctor Fisher, just as decidedly, and his
face cleared as he saw that Polly would help him out. “It will only
be for two days, you know, until Mrs. Granniss’s sister gets here.
I’m going to write to her to come. Well, I shall take the baby up to
Badgertown Centre with me, and find a place for her somewhere.”
And Doctor Fisher having quite made up his mind to do this, the next
thing was to carry it out; so he skipped off, told the sick woman,
sitting up in a big chair with her poor hands swathed in big bandages,
all about it, and dashed out again before she had gotten out half her
grateful thanks; picked up the baby out of its big box, packed all the
children into the old gig, and away the gig rattled at Dobbin’s heels
down the hill to Badgertown.
“I’m going to send Miss Punderson to look after her, till the sister
gets here,” Doctor Fisher pointed his thumb at the poor little cottage
and old shed almost walking away from it, they had left behind, “but
she wouldn’t come if there was a baby in the house. Goodness me! she
doesn’t know any more about ’em than an old cat.”
This made Polly remember about the cross, yellow cat at Mrs.
Granniss’s house. So she leaned around the baby in her lap, and said
anxiously, “Phronsie has got such a dreadful scratch.”
“What’s that?” cried Doctor Fisher, pulling Dobbin up suddenly, to look
into Polly’s face; “what are you talking of, child?”
“Oh, the cross cat,” said Polly, “at that house.” Then she told the
whole story, and Doctor Fisher made Dobbin stop entirely while he hung
the old leather reins over his arm and examined Phronsie’s fat little
neck to his satisfaction.
“That will be all right in two or three days,” he declared, “so you
won’t know a cat ever touched you, Phronsie.” And then he picked off
the reins from his arm and clacked to Dobbin, and away they went faster
than ever.
“Oh, I do wish we could keep the baby,” said Polly, in a minute; “we
could put her in the tub, and I’d wash her and comb her hair, and
she’d be real pretty.” And she pulled down the dirty calico gown in a
motherly way.
“Oh, no, I’m going to wash her, Polly,” said Phronsie, in alarm,
crowding up as closely as she could to the two; “she’s my baby, and I’m
going to do it.”
“Well, I don’t see how either of you can do it,” said Doctor Fisher.
“Your mother ought not to take her. No, I must get some other place--”
“Perhaps Mamsie will,” said Polly, quickly, with an awful feeling at
the mere thought of having the baby go anywhere else. “I’ll take care
of her.”
“No, no,” protested Phronsie, in a loud, injured tone, “I’m going to
take care of her all by myself. She’s my baby.”
“Well, never mind,” said Doctor Fisher, bursting into a laugh; “we’ll
fix it somehow. There, now, go on, Dobbin, and let’s get this baby
settled somewhere.”
And as good luck would have it, as little Doctor Fisher hopped out at
the post-office to get the letter started to Mrs. Granniss’s sister
without delay, who should come along but Mrs. Pepper, just starting
home with a fresh bundle of coats Mr. Atkins had given her to make.
When she heard the story, interspersed with Phronsie’s pleadings to
keep the baby, Mrs. Pepper looked at Polly.
“It must be as you say, Polly,” she said, “for the extra work will come
on you, and you don’t get any time now to play.”
“Oh, I wish you’d keep the baby,” said Polly; “it’ll be play to take
care of her. Do, Mamsie,” she begged, with sparkling eyes.
“I’m going to wash her,” said Phronsie, leaning out of the old gig with
flushed face, “and put her to bed, and comb her hair, I am, Mamsie.”
“I will keep her,” said Mrs. Pepper, with a smile for Phronsie, but her
glance rested on Polly’s face.
“Then I shall drive you home,” said little Doctor Fisher; “get right
in, Mrs. Pepper.”
“Oh, no,” she said, laughing, “the gig won’t hold us all.”
“I’ll sit on the floor, Mamsie,” said Polly, slipping to the floor of
the gig, baby and all.
“Very well, then, I will hold the baby.” So in got Mrs. Pepper, first
handing in her bundle of coats next to Polly on the floor, then Polly
handed up the baby, Phronsie crowding up closer than ever. Then in
got the little doctor and away they all went, a gigful, with Mrs.
Granniss’s baby to keep for two whole days.
“It does seem so good, Mamsie,” cried Polly, hurrying up the path to
the Little Brown House with the baby, Phronsie running along by her
side, protesting at every step that she ought to carry it as it was
her baby, and Mrs. Pepper behind with the bundle of coats, “that we
have a baby of our very own!”
“Oh, it’s mine,--my baby,” cried Phronsie, pushing back her yellow hair
to look up in Polly’s face; “it’s my very own baby.”
“Well, never mind,” said Polly; “it can be your baby, Phronsie, but
you see I’ve got to take care of it. Oh, the key, Mamsie, it’s in my
pocket.”
“I’ll get it out,” said Mrs. Pepper, running her hand in Polly’s
pocket, and drawing out the big key she unlocked the green door, and
they all went in, Doctor Fisher peering around his old gig to watch
them as he drove off.
“The first thing,” said Mrs. Pepper, with emphasis, “we must do, is to
wash that baby, Polly.”
“Isn’t it,” cried Polly, with delight at the prospect; while Phronsie
screamed, “Oh, I’m going to do it, I am!”
“So I’ll get the tub all ready,” said Mrs. Pepper, going into the
bedroom to take off her things, and to make preparations for this new
piece of work.
“Oh, Mamsie, I’m going to get the tub ready,” declared Polly, hurrying
after her.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Pepper, with a glance at the face of the dirty
little creature hanging on Polly’s arm. “You’d better let me, Polly;
she’s used to you, now, and you must keep her for a while, else she’ll
cry.”
Meantime, Mrs. Pepper was pulling out the tin bath-tub, Phronsie
hurrying over every movement in the greatest excitement and begging to
help.
“You can get the soap, Phronsie,” said Mother Pepper, bringing in the
tea-kettle from the stove. “It’s good you filled it up, Polly,” she
said approvingly, as she poured in the boiling-hot water to the tin tub.
“And can’t Phronsie get the towel, Mamsie?” said Polly, over in the
corner where she had seated herself with the baby till the bath should
be ready, Phronsie running off on happy little feet to get the soap.
“Yes, indeed,” said Mamsie, pouring in cold water to the tub, and
trying it with her hand. “Now, I do expect that baby is going to cry
dreadfully, Polly,” she said with a sigh. “Well, it can’t be helped.
That’s a good girl, Phronsie,” as Phronsie ran up and held out the
soap, with a very important air. “Now go to the under drawer and get
out a towel. Well, Polly, we’re all ready; so you may hand her to me.”
Mrs. Pepper had seated herself on a low chair by the side of the
bath-tub and held out her hands.
“Oh, Mamsie!” exclaimed Polly, in dismay yet she did as she was bidden.
“I thought I was going to wash her.”
“Not this time, Polly,” said her mother, kindly; “to-morrow you may. O
dear me!” as she rolled the baby over on her lap, and took out a big
safety-pin that seemed to have the whole duty of keeping the dirty
little calico gown together. “Polly, we shall have to wrap her up in a
quilt till I can wash these clothes.”
“Can’t she take some of Phronsie’s things?” said Polly, hanging over
the baby in the greatest distress. “O dear me, Mamsie, can’t she?”
“She can take my clothes,” said Phronsie, poking her yellow hair in
between her mother’s busy fingers and the baby, who strange to say was
so overcome by all this bustle, she really forgot to cry; “I’ll go and
get ’em.”
“Come back, Phronsie,” said her mother, as she clattered off. “No,
probably the baby will want to go to sleep, after she’s had a good
bath, and Polly and I will have a chance to wash out her clothes.”
“And I’m going to help wash ’em, too,” declared Phronsie, getting back
to her mother’s chair and the scene of operations, just in time to see
the Granniss baby lowered carefully into the tub.
As soon as the water touched her little thin legs, the baby took off
her wide-eyed gaze from these strange folks who had so interested her,
and glanced wildly off at nothing in particular, to give a loud, shrill
scream and wave her pinched arms frantically about.
“Oh, Mamsie!” exclaimed Polly, turning quite pale, while Phronsie threw
herself down by the side of the tub, the tears raining down her cheeks.
“Oh, take her out, Mamsie, do!” she implored.
“It has to be done,” said Mrs. Pepper, her lips firmly set together,
while she soaped the baby, here and there, and sent gentle little
splashes of water over its poor little body. “Phronsie, we’ve forgotten
a wash-rag; don’t you want to get it for Mother?”
When Phronsie saw there was anything to be done, she stopped crying and
hopped to her feet, and presently back she came with the wash-rag. But
then she commenced to cry and to plead again, “Oh, do take her out,
Mamsie.”
“I can’t until she has had a good bath,” said Mother Pepper; “and you
don’t know how good she is going to feel, Phronsie, when it’s all
done,” she added cheerily.
“Is she?” cried Phronsie, through her tears.
“Yes, indeed!” said Mrs. Pepper, giving soft dabs with the wash-rag
here and there. “Now, baby, you begin to look better already.” And
whether it was what the Granniss baby thought herself, or whether she
liked the gentle touch and kind face above her and the feel of the
water, no one will ever know. Certain it is, her screams died down to a
low whimpering.
“She’s better, isn’t she?” whispered Polly, who had hardly dared to
breathe, and leaning over with glad brown eyes.
“Decidedly,” said Mrs. Pepper, lifting baby out to her lap, on which
Polly had spread the towel. “Now, then, I must get her as dry as a
piece of toast.”
“Is she going to be as dry as a piece of toast?” said Phronsie, wiping
off her own tears on her pinafore, and crowding up as closely as
possible to her mother’s lap.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper, folding the little creature in the big towel,
and rubbing her gently; “just about as dry, and she likes it; now see.”
“She likes it,” repeated Phronsie, in great glee, and clapping her
hands. “Oh, Polly, she does!”
“Doesn’t she!” cried Polly, with shining eyes, for the Granniss baby
not only didn’t cry now, but she opened her mouth in a pleased little
grin, and tried to pat her small, thin hands together when the ends of
the big towel flew apart.
“Oh, Phronsie, she’s trying to play pat-a-cake with you!” screamed
Polly, quite enchanted at the happy state of things. “Mamsie, see!”
“Yes, I know.” Mother Pepper nodded in satisfaction, then bundled the
baby up in the towel closely. “Polly, I must give her one of Phronsie’s
little shirts,” she said in a low voice. “There’s no other way, else
she’ll take cold. Run and get it, child.”
Polly started, then stopped and looked back. “Oh, mayn’t Phronsie get
it,” she said, although she wanted to dreadfully.
“To be sure,” said Mrs. Pepper, smiling approval. “Now, Phronsie, you
may give her one of your own little shirts if you want to, because
she’s your baby, you know.”
“Oh, I do want to,” screamed Phronsie, “give one of my own shirts to my
very own baby.” And she ran as fast as she could, and pulled out the
drawer to the big bureau where her clothes were kept, and raced back,
waving it in the air. “Let me put it on,” she begged, “do, Mamsie.”
“No, Phronsie,” said Mamsie, taking it, “I must do that as quickly as I
can, so baby won’t take cold.” So the little flannel shirt was slipped
over the Granniss baby’s head, she still trying to play pat-a-cake, and
then she was wrapped in a warm old quilt, and laid in the very middle
of Mrs. Pepper’s big four-poster. “Now, she must go to sleep,” said
Mamsie, “and you and I, Polly, and Phronsie too, will clear up these
things, and make the bedroom all nice again.”
The Granniss baby fully intended to protest about this arrangement, but
she hadn’t fairly begun, when her black eyes closed and she tucked her
thumb in her mouth.
“She’s asleep already,” announced Polly, stopping to peep at the small
heap in the middle of the big bed, on her way back after helping Mrs.
Pepper to empty the tin tub out of the back door. “Hush, Phronsie,
don’t wake her up.”
“I won’t wake her up,” promised Phronsie, in a soft little whisper,
“and I shall sit down and watch her.”
“Do,” said Polly, in great satisfaction, dragging up a chair to the
bedside. Then she went out into the kitchen and shut the door.
When Ben and Joel and David came home to dinner (they had all been
to work at Deacon Blodgett’s), there was the little old calico gown
and torn petticoat of the Granniss baby’s hanging on a line of string
behind the stove and drying nicely.
“Oh, Ben!” exclaimed Polly, rushing at him tumultuously with hands
uplifted, “we’ve got a baby.”
“_A baby!_” ejaculated Ben, in surprise. Joel and David who, in their
joy at getting home, hadn’t heard anything of all this, were capering
around and crying: “Isn’t dinner ready, Polly? Oh, we’re so hungry.”
“Hush!” warned Polly, flying over to the stove to get the hot baked
potatoes. “You mustn’t make such a noise. Yes, I’ll get the dinner in
just a minute, boys.”
“Polly,” Ben went over to her, and seized her arm, “what _do_ you mean
about the baby?”
“I--oh--yes, there truly is, Ben,” said Polly, getting down to pull the
potatoes out of the oven; “I’ll tell you about it in a minute.” But
Ben, although he dearly loved to have Polly tell him things, in this
instance couldn’t wait; so he started to find Mrs. Pepper, for she had
gone into the bedroom and shut the door just a minute or two before the
boys came home.
“Oh, you mustn’t go in there,” cried Polly, whirling around so quickly
that two potatoes jumped from the dish she was carrying and spun off on
the floor.
“Why not?” demanded Ben, stopping a minute and staring at her.
“O dear me! there go those potatoes!” exclaimed Polly, in vexation;
“because I told you, there’s a baby in there.”
“_A baby!_” repeated Ben, again.