THE V.
Everybody in town knew the Hapgood house. It stood close to the
street, under a row of huge elms, and surrounded with clumps of
purple and white lilac bushes whose topmost blossoms peeped
curiously in at the chamber windows. Such houses are only found in
New England, but there they abound with their broad front
"stoops," the long slant of their rear roofs, where a ladder is
firmly fixed, to serve in case of fire, and the great, low rooms
grouped around the immense chimney in the middle. The Hapgood
house had been in the family for generations, and was kept in such
an excellent state of repair that it bade fair to outlast many of
the more recent houses of the town. A wing had been built out at
the side; but even with this modern addition, no one needed to
glance up at the date on the chimney--sixteen hundred and no-
matter-what--to assure himself of the great age of the stately old
house before him.
Up in the Hapgood attic a serious consultation was going on.
"Now, girls," Polly Adams began solemnly, "'most half of our
vacation has gone, and I think we ought to do something before
it's over."
"Aren't we doing something this very minute, I should like to
know?" inquired Molly Hapgood, who had felt privileged, in her
capacity as hostess, to throw herself down on the old bed which
occupied one corner of the garret.
Polly frowned on such levity.
"I don't mean that, Molly, and you know it. What I think is, that
we should get together regularly every two or three days and do
something special. Aunt Jane is in lots of clubs and things, and--
"
"I've heard it said," interrupted Jean Dwight solemnly, "that Aunt
Jane spent so much time doing good outside that she never had a
chance to be good at home." "Now, Jean, that isn't fair," said
Polly laughing. "You know I'd be the very last one to hold up Aunt
Jane as an example, only she has such good times with her
everlasting old people that I thought we might do something like
it."
"Which do you propose to do," asked Molly disrespectfully, "start
a society for the improvement of the jail or open a mission at the
poor-house to teach Miss Bean some manners?"
"Let's have a dramatic club, and get up a play," suggested the
fourth member of the group, who was seated on a dilapidated hair-
covered trunk under the open window, regardless of the strong east
wind which now and then lifted a stray lock of her long yellow
hair and blew it forward across her cheek.
"What a splendid idea, Florence!" said Jean, rapturously bouncing
about in her seat on the foot of the bed. "How does that suit you,
Polly?"
"We might do that, for one thing," assented Polly cautiously; "but
oughtn't we to try something a little--well, a little improving,
too." "I'd like to know if that wouldn't be improving?" asked
Molly. "It would teach us to act, and then, if we wanted, we could
charge an admission fee and raise some money."
"I think it would be splendid, girls," said Polly, in spite of
herself carried away by the prospect, and forgetting her own plan.
"What shall we take?"
"Let's take 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,'" said Jean. "We could make it
over into a play easily enough, and Florence would be just the one
for Eva. Alan could be Uncle Tom, you know."
"I think we could get something better than that," remarked
Florence, in some disgust. "If I'm Eva, I'll have to die, and I
don't know the first thing about that."
"Oh, that's easy enough," answered Molly, with the air of one who
had experience; "just stiffen yourself out and fall over. But I
don't believe you could ever get Alan to act."
"Why not take a ready-made play?" asked Polly. "It would save ever
so much work."
"What is there?" said Molly, sitting up to discuss the matter.
"We don't want any Shakespeare," added Jean; "that's all killing,
and Florence doesn't want to go dead, you know."
"I'll tell you what, girls," said Molly, as if struck with a
sudden idea, "we'll have an original play, and Jean shall write
it."
Florence and Polly applauded the suggestion, while Jean groaned,--
"I can't, girls. I never could in this world."
"Yes, you can," returned Molly, who had firm faith in her friend's
ability. "You go right to work on it, and you ought to get it all
done in a week or two, so we can give it before school opens."
"And we want just five people in it," said Polly. "I know I can
get Alan to act, if Molly can't."
Molly shrugged her shoulders incredulously, while Jean inquired,
with the calmness of desperation,--
"What shall it be about?"
"John Smith and Pocahontas," replied Polly promptly. "He almost
gets killed, and doesn't quite; so that will get the audience all
stirred up, but save the trouble of dying."
"But that only needs three," observed Florence thoughtfully, "and
there are five of us."
"Doesn't he take her home to England, I'd like to know? There's a
picture in the history where he shows Pocahontas to the queen. One
of us can be king, and the other queen."
"But at court there are always lots of people round," remonstrated
Florence, with an eye to the truth of the situation.
"Never mind; we can make believe that the queen has sent them off,
so as not to scare Pocahontas; that's what they call poetical
license," said Polly. "Jean can see about that. There are lots of
splendid things to wear, right here in this garret. Don't you
suppose your mother would let us take them, Molly?"
"Yes, I know she will," replied Molly.
There was silence for a moment, while the girls considered the
matter. Then Polly returned to her first charge.
"But it will take a good while to get ready to start this, so I'd
like to suggest our doing something else, while we wait."
"Polly has something in her head," said Jean. "Tell us what 'tis,
Poll,"
"Well, I'll tell you," said Polly, as she rose and began to walk
up and down the floor. "Aunt Jane was scolding, the other day,
because I hadn't read 'Pilgrim's Progress.' She said it was a
living disgrace to me, and that I must do it, right off. Now, what
if we have a reading club and do it together? Have any of you read
it? I don't believe you ever have."
The girls admitted that they had not.
"That's just what I thought," said Polly triumphantly. "It's so
stupid that I can't do it alone, for I read the first page
yesterday, and I know. But we don't any of us want to be 'a living
disgrace'; so what if we read aloud an hour every other afternoon?
'T wouldn't take us so very long, and," here she laughed frankly,
"I don't suppose it would hurt us any."
"I don't know but we ought to," remarked Molly virtuously, while
Jean added,--
"I've heard people say it was like measles. You'd better take it
young, if you did at all."
"When shall we begin?" demanded Polly, fired with enthusiasm at
the prospect.
"To-morrow," said Molly; "and you'd better come here to read, for
we can be nice and quiet up here. Come to-morrow at three, and
we'll read till four."
"Oh!" exclaimed Florence, suddenly springing up, as a small, dark
body came flying in at the open window above her head, and went
tumbling across the floor and down the stairs.
"What was that?" asked Molly, rolling off the bed.
"A green apple. I think," replied Polly, as she ran after it and
seized it. "Yes; here it is."
"That's Alan's doing," said Molly sternly, "I do wish he'd ever
let us alone."
"I don't," said Polly, coming to his defence; "he's ever so much
fun. I get tired of all girls."
"Thank you, ma'am," said Jean quickly, bowing low, in answer to
the compliment.
But Polly missed the bow, for her curly head was out of the
window, and she was laughing down at a slender, light-haired lad
who was just taking fresh aim at the open window.
"Come up here, Alan!" she called.
"Oh, don't, Polly!" remonstrated Molly from within. "He'll laugh
at us, and spoil all our fun."
"No, he won't," answered Polly valiantly; then, more loudly, "What
did you say, Alan?"
"What are you girls about up there?" he inquired.
"Come up and see." And she drew in her head just in time to escape
a second missile.
"All right; I'll come if you'll promise to play something, and not
spend all your time gabbling." And Alan vanished through the side
door. A minute or two afterwards, his shoes were heard clattering
up the attic stairs.
The four girls, whom he found sitting in a row on the edge of the
bed, were such good friends of him and of each other, that the
five were commonly spoken of as "the V," or, sometimes, as "the
quintette." Alan Hapgood, who was regarded as the point of the V,
was a wide-awake, irrepressible youth of twelve, who had a large
share in the doings of his older sister and her friends. They did
their best to spoil him by their unlimited admiration; but, to be
sure, the temptation to do so was a strong one, for Alan was a
lovable fellow, always merry and good-natured, generous and
accommodating to his friends, and quick to plan and execute the
pranks which added the spice of mischief to the doings of the V.
In person he was tall for his age, and slight, with thick, yellow
hair, that lay in a smooth, soft line across his forehead, large
gray eyes, and a generous mouth, full of strong, white teeth which
were usually in sight, for Alan was nearly always laughing,--not
a handsome boy, exactly, for his features were quite irregular,
but a splendid one, whom one would instinctively select as a
gentleman's son, and an intelligent, manly lad.
His sister Molly, two years older, was an attractive, bright girl,
whose only beauty lay in her smooth, heavy braids of brown hair.
She and Polly had been constant companions from their babyhood,
had quarrelled and "made up," had quarrelled and made up again,
three hundred and sixty-five days a year for the last thirteen
years, and at the end of that time they were closer friends than
ever. Two girls more unlike it would have been hard to find, for
Molly was as quiet and deliberate as Polly was impetuous; but
nevertheless, in spite of their continual disagreements, they were
inseparable. They were in the same class in school and in Sunday-
school, they had the same friends, and read the same books, and
had a share in the same mischief. They even carried this trait so
far as to both come down with mumps on the same day, when their
unwonted absence from school was the source of much speculation
among their friends, who fondly pictured them as indulging in some
frolic, until the melancholy truth was known.
Next to Alan, Jean Dwight was the boy of the V, a strong, hearty,
happy young woman of fourteen, who succeeded in getting a great
deal of enjoyment out of this humdrum, work-a-day world. Her rosy
cheeks glowed and her brown eyes shone with health; for Jean was
as full of life as a young colt, and vented her superfluous energy
in climbing trees, walking fences, and running races, until Aunt
Jane and her followers raised their hands and eyes in well-bred
horror. But Jean's unselfish devotion to her mother, her real
refinement, her quick understanding, and her sound common sense
did much to atone for her hoydenish ways, and gave promise of the
fine womanhood which lay before her. At first it had been a matter
of some surprise, in the aristocratic old town, that Mrs. Adams
and Mrs. Hapgood, representatives of "our first families," as they
were universally acknowledged to be, could allow their children to
be so intimate with Jean Dwight, whose father was only a
carpenter, and whose mother took in sewing. However, any comments
were promptly silenced when Mrs. Adams had been heard to say, one
day, that she was always glad to have Polly with such a womanly
girl as Jean Dwight, so free from any nonsensical, grown-up airs.
From that time onward Jean's position was an established fact.
Florence Lang was the acknowledged beauty of the V, a dainty
maiden of thirteen, with fluffy, yellow hair, great blue eyes, and
a pink and white skin which might have made a French doll sigh
with envy. The only daughter of a luxurious home, she was always
beautifully dressed, always quiet in her manners. No matter how
excited and demoralized the rest of the V might become, Florence
never failed to come out of the frolic as gentle and unspotted as
she went in, greatly to the disgust and envy of Polly, whose
clothes had a tendency to get mysteriously torn, whose shoes
appeared to go in search of dust, and whose short, curly hair had
a perfect genius for getting into a state of wild disorder. It was
not that Florence seemed to take any more care of herself than the
others, but she was naturally one of those favored beings to whom
no particle of dust could cling, who could use none but the
choicest language. Such gentle children have admirers enough; it
is the luckless, quick-tempered Pollies, the warm-hearted, harum-
scarum Jeans, who need a champion.
If Molly and Polly had never disagreed, the quintette would have
been only a trio; for, when they were at peace, they were all in
all to each other. But in times of strife Molly was devoted to
Florence Lang, while Polly took refuge with Jean Dwight. In this
way the V was formed; and though the closest intimacy was between
Molly and Polly, the four girls were firm friends, and there were
few days when they were not to be found together, usually either
at the Hapgood house, or at Polly's, where their visit was never
quite satisfactory unless Mrs. Adams was in the midst of the
group. Alan, too, was often with them, for a tendency to
rheumatism, which occasionally developed into a severe attack of
the disease, kept him in rather delicate health, and prevented his
entering into the athletic sports which are the usual amusement
for lads of his age. But though he was thus, of necessity, thrown
much with his sister and her girl friends, Alan was far from
belonging to that uninteresting species of humanity, the girl-boy;
instead of that, he was a genuine, rollicking boy, with never a
trace of the prig about him.
"Well, what was it you wanted of me?" Alan asked, as soon as his
head reached the level of the attic floor.
"We didn't want you; you came," retorted Molly, with the frankness
of a sister.
"No such thing; you called me,--at least, Polly did." And Alan
marched across the floor to seat himself beside his champion, sure
that there he would find a welcome.
He was not mistaken, for Polly remarked protectingly,--
"I did call you, Alan, for we want to have some fun, this horrid
day, and we need you to stir us up."
"All right; how shall I go to work?" inquired Alan cheerfully.
"Shall I dance a breakdown, or will you play tag?"
"Let's play hide-and-seek," suggested Jean; "it's so nice and dark
up here, to-day."
"Wait a minute," interposed Florence. "Alan, we may as well tell
you now: Jean is going to write a play for us to act, and you are
going to be John Smith and have your head cut off."
"The mischief, I am!" with a prolonged whistle of surprise and
disgust. "It strikes me I have something to say about what shall
be done with my head."
"Stop using such dreadful expressions, Alan," said Molly primly.
"You know mamma doesn't like to hear you say 'the mischief.'"
"Well, she didn't, 'cause she isn't here," returned Alan, in
nowise abashed by his reproof. "And I don't believe she'd like to
hear you girls planning to cut my head off, either."
"Oh, Alan, you goose!" said Polly. "John Smith's head wasn't cut
off, for Pocahontas saved him, you know. All you'll have to do
will be to lie down with your head on a stone, and have one of us
girls get ready to hit you with a club."
"If you girls are going to manage the club," remarked the boy,
with masculine scorn, "I'd much rather have you try to hit me, for
then I'd be safe."
"That's a very old joke, Alan," said Jean, with disgust; "and
besides, it isn't polite. You ought to be proud to be asked to
have a part in our grand play."
"Will you act, or won't you?" demanded Polly sternly, as she
seized him by his short, thick hair.
"Oh, anything to get peace," groaned Alan.
"Say yes, then."
"Yes."
"Very well. Now, you are to be ready whenever we want you; you are
to do just what we want, and do it in just the way we want. Do you
promise?"
"Yes, yes! But do hurry up and play something, or it will be dark
before you begin."
"There!" said Polly, nodding triumphantly to the girls as she
released him. "Didn't I tell you I'd get him to act?"
"You couldn't bribe him to keep out of it," said Jean, as they
sprang up for their game.
The old attic was a favorite meeting-place for the V, who held
high carnival there, now racing up and down the great floor and
hiding in dark corners behind aged chests and spinning-wheels, now
robing themselves in the time-honored garments which had done duty
for various ancestors of the Hapgood family, and exchanging visits
of mock ceremony, or inviting Mrs. Hapgood up to witness a
remarkable tableau or an impromptu charade. Piles of illustrated
papers filled one corner, and, when all else failed, the children
used to pore over the sensational pictures of the Civil War,
dwelling with an especial interest on the scenes of death and
carnage. In another corner was arranged a long row of old
andirons, warming-pans, and candlesticks, flanked by an ancient
wooden cradle with a projecting cover above the head. Rows of
dilapidated chairs there were, of every date and every degree of
shabbiness,--those old friends which start in the parlor and
slowly descend in rank, first to the sitting-room or library, then
up-stairs, and so, by easy stages, to the hospital asylum of the
garret. And up through the very midst of it all, midway between
the two small windows which lighted the opposite ends of the
attic, rose the huge gray stone chimney, like a massive backbone
to the body of the house. What stories of the past the old chimney
could have told! What descriptions of Hapgoods, long dead, who had
warmed themselves about it! What secret papers had been burned in
its wide throat! What sweet and tender home scenes had been
enacted on the old settles ranged before its glowing hearths,
which put to shame our tiny modern fireplaces and insignificant
grates! But the old chimney kept its own counsel, and did not
whisper a word, even to the swallows that built their nests in the
crannies of its sides. If it had spoken, there would be no need
for any one else to write of the doings of the V; for the chimney
had silently watched the children day by day, and knew, better
than any one besides, the simple story of their young lives.
"Now," Polly reminded them, as they were running down the stairs
an hour later; "remember to come to-morrow at just three, all of
you."
"What's up?" inquired Alan curiously.
"'Pilgrim's Progress,'" said Jean, as she leaped down from the
fourth stair, and landed in an ignominious pile on her knees;
"we're going to read it aloud together."
"I'm sorry for you, then," responded Alan. "Mother read it to me
when I had scarlet fever, ever so long ago, and it's no end
stupid."
"We're going to try it, anyway," said Polly, with an air of
determination. "Come on, Jean; it's time I was at home. I'll see
you to-morrow, girls."