POLLY'S POEM.
"Molly, don't you want to come and take a walk with me?" asked
Polly, appearing in the door one Saturday morning.
Molly sprang up and tossed her book down on the table.
"Yes, indeed I do. It's too pleasant to stay in the house such a
day as this. I'll go and call the others."
"But I don't want the others, at least, not this morning," said
Polly mysteriously. "I want you all to myself, for I've something
to tell you, to show you.". Polly blushed and stammered a little.
"What is it, Poll?" asked Molly curiously.
"Oh, nothing much; at least, I'll tell you by and by. Go and get
your hat, and come on."
"The Bridget Society" as Alan disrespectfully called it, had been
in operation for about two weeks now; but though it had proved an
absorbing subject to the girls, yet it took very little of their
time, and left them nearly as free as ever for their usual
occupations. Their common interest in the one work, however, had
bound the six girls even more closely together than before, until
they depended on one another's help and sympathy, in any and every
question that arose.
It was a clear, bracing day, so cold that the white frost was
still glittering on the grass-blades in the more sheltered
corners, so clear that the bare, rough ledges of the western
mountain looked so near that one could toss a stone up to the pile
of broken rocks which marked the line of their bases; while far
across the river valley, the sun lay warm upon the roofs and
towers of the town nestling on the hillside, and touched with a
golden light the tall, slender spire of the little church. The
girls walked briskly away through the town and out towards the
river, a mile away. Polly appeared to be unusually excited,
whether by the crisp air or by her new winter coat, Molly was at a
loss to decide. It was a fine day, surely; but the more Molly
studied the long dark-blue coat trimmed with chinchilla, and the
saucy little blue cap edged with the same soft fur, and cocked on
the back of Polly's curls, she came to the conclusion that Polly's
spirits were affected by her becoming suit. That being the case,
it was plainly her duty to remove Polly's worldly pride.
"Do try to walk like a civilized being, Polly!" she exclaimed, as
her friend suddenly pounced into the midst of a flock of hens that
were pluming themselves in a sunny fence-corner. "People will
think you're crazy, if you act so."
"Well, what if they do?" said Polly, laughing. "I don't care what
they think, I wanted to astonish those hens. Shoo!" And she
charged upon them again, brandishing a dry stick which she had
picked up by the roadside.
In spite of herself Molly laughed as she clutched her friend
firmly by the elbow and dragged her onward, out of temptation's
way.
"You'll have the jailer and the fire department out after you,"
she said, as she guided Polly's erring footsteps back into the
concrete path of virtue. "Do come along! Besides, you had
something to tell me."
Polly's face grew suddenly grave, and the hot blood rushed to her
cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was trembling with suppressed
excitement.
"Wait till we get out on the bridge, Molly," she begged. "We'll be
all alone there."
So it wasn't the new coat, after all. Molly's brow cleared.
"How queer you are, Polly!" she said. "I can't stand it to wait, I
am so wild to know. Come on, let's have a race to the bridge,
then."
"But you just said I mustn't run," protested Polly, hanging back.
"Not after hens, when the owner is looking on," answered Molly;
"but it's our own affair, if we want to run a race. Come on."
She threw the last word back over her shoulder as she went darting
away, followed by Polly who soon passed her, laughing and
breathless. In the middle of the long, white bridge she stopped
and looked about her, struck by the beauty of the familiar scene
around, the soft hills at the north, the shining, river as it
wound along through the russet meadow grass, and cut its way
between the southern mountains, over which slowly flitted the
clouds above. A few belated crows rose and sank down again over
the deserted corn-fields, while, from the red house on the river
bank, the great black dog barked an answer to their hoarse cries.
No other living thing was in sight as Molly joined her friend, and
they stood leaning against the iron rail, with their backs turned
to the cutting wind that came down upon them from the northern
hills.
"Now, Polly." And Molly paused expectantly.
From rosy red, Polly's face grew very white, and her breath came
short and hurried. She hesitated for an instant, then plunged her
mittened hand into her coat pocket, and pulled out a dingy sheet
of paper whose folds, worn till they were transparent, showed the
marks of long service. With trembling hands, she smoothed it out,
tearing it a little, in her excitement. Then she turned to Molly.
"Now, Molly Hapgood," she said solemnly; "will you promise never
to tell, if I tell you something that there doesn't anybody else
know, that I've never even shown to mamma?"
"Go on, Polly!" urged her friend impatiently, trying to steal a
glance at the worn-out sheet, which was covered with Polly's
irregular, childish writing. But Polly edged cautiously away.
"Now remember," she said again; "you're the only single soul in
the world that knows this, Molly; and I am telling you my secret
because I know you love me. I've--" there was a catch in her
breath--"I've written a poem!"
"Really!" And Molly's eyes grew round with astonishment and
respectful awe.
"Yes," Polly went on more calmly, now the great secret was out; "I
knew I could, and it was just as easy as could be."
"How did you ever know how?" inquired Molly, with a vague idea
that she had never before appreciated this gifted friend.
"I didn't know how, at first," answered Polly, kindly exposing her
methods of work to her friend's gaze. "I just knew that there
ought to be some rhymes, and then I must say something or other to
fill up the lines. One Sunday in church I read lots of hymns,--
Aunt Jane wasn't there, you know,--and then I went to work."
"Are you going to have it printed?" asked Molly.
"Not yet," said Polly. "I thought at first I would send it to the
_News_, but I've a better plan. I'm going to copy it all out,
and write my name on it and my age and how I came to write it, and
put it away. After I'm dead and famous, somebody will find it, and
it will be printed. Then people will make a fuss over it and call
me a child prodigy and all sorts of nice things."
"But what's the use?" queried Molly. "When you're all nicely dead
and buried, it can't do you any good."
"But just think how proud my children and grandchildren will be!"
exclaimed Polly enthusiastically.
"Maybe you won't have any," suggested Molly sceptically. "People
that write are generally old maids, unless they are men."
Polly's face fell. Here was a flaw in her plans.
"Well, go on," said Molly. "Aren't you going to read it?"
Polly looked at the paper in her hand, cleared her throat
nervously, drew a long breath, and cleared her throat again.
"What's the matter?" asked Molly unsympathetically. She had never
written a poem, and had no idea of the mingled fear and pride that
were waging war in Polly's mind. She spoke as the calm critic who
waits to sit in judgment.
"I'm just going to begin now," said Polly faintly. Then, nerving
herself to the task, she read aloud,--
"The children went chestnutting once,
Out in the woods to stay all day,
There's Maude and Sue and James and Kate,
All there, for there's no school to-day."
Polly stopped to catch breath.
"Where'd you get your names?" inquired Molly critically.
Polly looked up with a startled air.
"Why, out of my head, of course."
"Oh, did you?" Molly's tone was not reassuring. "Go on," she
added.
"Maybe you'll like the next verse better," faltered Polly.
"The good, kind mothers pack the lunch
Of bread and butter, meat and cake,
So off they start at ten o'clock,
For it is hot when it is late."
This time, Polly found her friend looking at her, with a scornful
curl to her lips.
"I thought you said it was a poem," she said, with cutting
emphasis; "but it sounds just exactly like a bill of fare."
This was too much for Polly. Her temper flashed up like a fire
among dead twigs.
"Molly Hapgood, you're as mean as mean can be, to make fun of me!
I've a good mind never to speak to you again as long as I live."
As usual, the more Polly became excited, the more Molly grew cool
and collected.
"Don't be a goose, Polly," she said provokingly. "You're no more
able to write a poem than Job is."
"What do you mean?" demanded Polly, facing her friend with
gleaming eyes and frowning brow.
"What do I mean!" echoed Molly mercilessly, "I mean just this:
your old poem isn't any poem at all. It doesn't rhyme more than
half way, and there's no more poetry about it than there is about
one of your freckles. Poetry is all about spring and clouds and
butterflies, or else death or--" Molly paused for an idea. Not
finding it, she hastily concluded, "Besides, I've heard something
just like that before."
Polly choked down her rising sobs.
"Very well," she said, through her clenched teeth. "This is all I
want of you, Molly Hapgood."
Deliberately she pulled off her mittens and put them into her
pocket; then, with shaking hands and with her face drawn as if in
pain, but with her eyes steadily fixed on Molly's face, she slowly
tore the paper into long, narrow strips, gathered the strips
together and tore them into tiny squares, and defiantly threw them
away over the side of the bridge into the swift blue stream below.
But even before the first floating square had touched the surface
of the water, the reaction had set in, and Polly could have cried
for the loss of her first and only poem. For a moment, she gazed
after the white bits drifting away from her; then, biting her lip
to steady it and struggling to keep back the tears, she turned on
her heel, without a word, and walked away towards home, leaving
Molly to follow or not, as she chose.
The tears came fast now, as she hurried on, avoiding the main
streets as best she could. No one was in sight when she reached
the house, so she could run up the stairs unnoticed, and throw
herself down across the foot of the bed for a long, hearty cry.
She had hoped so much from Molly's sympathy! But, after all, now
the opportunity had come, the tears were not so ready as they had
been, and she did not feel quite so much as if the world had
abused her, as she did when she was standing on the bridge,
watching the white dots on the river below. At least, no great
harm was done, for she remembered the whole poem and could easily
write it out again. As this thought came to her, she sprang up
once more, seized a pencil and a bit of paper and rewrote the
words which had caused her so much joy and so much pain. She was
still sitting with her forehead resting on her clasped hands,
reading the verses over and over and dreaming of the future day
when fame should come to her, when she heard her mother's voice
outside.
"Polly! Polly! are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here," answered Polly, moving across the room to open
the door, with a secret hope that her mother would see that she
had been crying, and ask the reason of her tears.
But Mrs. Adams was too intent on the matter in hand to give more
than a passing glance at her daughter.
"Polly, Aunt Jane wants you to run down to Mrs. Hapgood's and ask
her if she can't take in some ministers next week, over the
convention. She would like her to take four, if she can."
"Oh dear!" grumbled Polly. "I do wish Aunt Jane would go on her
own old errands, and not keep me running all over town for her."
"Polly dear," Mrs. Adams's tone was very gentle; "Polly, aren't
you forgetting yourself a little?"
"No, I'm not," returned Polly rebelliously. "I hate Aunt Jane."
"Polly!"
This time there was no mistaking her mother's meaning. After an
instant, she added,--
"I wish you to go at once, my daughter, and to go pleasantly. Aunt
Jane is a good, kind aunt to you." Polly raised her eyebrows, but
dared not speak; "and I am sorry you are so ungrateful as not to
be willing to do this little errand for her."
Polly turned away and obediently started on her errand, but as she
went down the stairs, her mother heard her murmuring to herself
words that were not altogether complimentary to Aunt Jane and the
coming ministers.
It was one of the days when everything went wrong, Polly said to
herself as she went out of the gate and down the silent street.
Molly had laughed at her, Aunt Jane had abused her, and, worst of
all, her mother had spoken to her more seriously than she had done
for a long time. That was the way it generally was with geniuses,
she thought, and reflected with a vindictive joy that some day or
other they would all be sorry for it. At this point she was
interrupted by hearing her name called in boyish tones,--
"Polly! Polly! I say, wait for a fellow; can't you?"
Turning, she saw Alan running after her, with his overcoat waving
in the breeze and his soft felt hat pulled low on his forehead.
"Where going?" he inquired briefly, as he overtook her and fell
into step by her side.
"To your house," she answered as briefly, not yet able to return
to her usual sunny manner.
"That's good," returned Alan cheerfully; then, as he surveyed her,
he added, "What's up, Polly? You don't seem to be particularly
festive this morning. Have you and Molly been having another pow-
wow?"
"A little one," confessed Polly.
"That's too bad," said Alan, with a paternal air of consolation.
"If Molly's been teasing you, I'll give her fits when she comes
back from Florence's. She's there now."
"Oh, I suppose it was both of us," responded Polly, cheered by his
understanding of the situation.
"I presume 'twas," said Alan candidly. "Molly is an awful tease;
she gets after me once in a while, so I know. You're snappish,
Poll; but you don't keep fussing at a fellow and hitting him when
he's down."
They walked on in silence for a few steps. Then Alan remarked, as
he looked at her critically,--
"That's a gay little cap, Polly, and suits you first rate. New,
isn't it?"
Polly nodded smilingly. Alan's sympathy had smoothed out all the
wrinkles in her temper, and she was once more her own merry self,
so by the time she went in at the Hapgood house, she was laughing
and talking as brightly as if she and Molly had never taken their
walk to the bridge.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Jessie, as she glanced down from the window of
their room. "Here come Alan and Polly Adams. What a nuisance!"
The two sisters, left to themselves for the morning, had been
having a private feast of lemonade and crackers in their own room,
where they had been alternately reading and nibbling, for the past
hour.
"Why is it a nuisance?" inquired Katharine, getting up to look out
of the window, over her sister who was curled up in one of the
deep window-seats, regardless of the delicate frost ferns that
were thinly scattered over the panes.
"Just see here," replied Jessie, as she stretched out her arm for
the pitcher and tilted it expressively, exposing to view a few
bare, dry slices of lemon in the bottom. "They'll be sure to come
up here, and it's rather shabby not to give them any."
"I'd make some more," said Katharine, pensively surveying the
ruins of the feast; "but I put our very last lemon into this, and
I can't. Maybe they won't care for any, it's so cold," she added,
with an air of relief.
"I'll tell you, put in some more water, and mix it up pretty
well," said Jessie hastily, as she heard Alan calling from below.
"It was almost too strong before, so it won't be so bad, and we
really ought to treat, I think."
Katharine laughed silently, as she obeyed her sister's
instructions, while Jessie surveyed the operation with dancing
eyes.
"Let's see," she said gravely, as she poured out a few drops into
a glass.
With frowning solemnity she tasted it, then set down the glass
with an air of decision.
"It's real good truly, Kit. I'll get out some more crackers, and
then you call them up. Boys are never very fussy, when it's
something to eat; and Polly will like the fun." And as she opened
the box and took out a fresh plateful of their dainty crackers,
Katharine invited up her guests who came willingly enough, never
dreaming of the straits to which their friends' hospitality had
put them.
"Whose autograph album is this?" exclaimed Polly, pouncing on a
flaming red and gold volume that lay on the table.
"It belongs to one of the girls up at school," answered Jessie.
"Just see here, and here, and here," she continued, turning over
the leaves and pointing to several well-known names. "You see, she
lives in Boston and her father knows all these people, so she
could get them."
"How splendid!" And Polly bent over to gaze more closely on the
signature of a writer clear to all childish hearts. "I'd give
almost anything for that," she sighed.
"Which is that?" asked Katharine, leaning over to glance at the
page. "Yes, I wouldn't much mind having that one. But, after all,
autograph albums are a bore. I used to care for them, years ago,
but they are all just alike. I had one friend who wrote the same
verse in every album she took, only she changed the name in it.
Have some more lemonade, Polly." And she waved the pitcher which
was nearly empty for the second time.
"No, thank you," answered Polly gratefully; "but it's been ever so
good. I haven't had any since last summer, so this tasted better
than usual, and I always like it."
"I am so glad," responded Katharine heartily, though with a sly
glance at her sister.
"But I don't think autographs are stupid," said Jessie, returning
to the subject of the book in her hand. "I wish I had all these.
Why, sometimes they are sold and bring perfectly enormous prices."
"I know that," said Katharine; "but they make ever so much fun of
the people that ask for them."
"I don't care if they do," said Jessie; "I'm going to have one,
pretty soon, that will make you all envy me."
"Whose?" asked Alan.
"That's telling," responded Jessie mysteriously.
"How are you going to get it?" inquired Polly.
"I've asked for it," replied Jessie, with a knowing smile.
"Is it somebody I know?" asked her sister.
"No, not exactly; but it's somebody that everyone in this whole
world knows about."
"Jessie Shepard, what crazy thing have you been doing?" demanded
Katharine.
"I shan't tell." And Jessie shut her lips defiantly.
"Oh, come on, Jessie, tell us," urged Alan, while Katharine
added,--
"If you don't tell me, Jessie, I shall speak to auntie. I know you
have done something you are ashamed of."
Jessie laughed good-naturedly.
"Don't be silly and make such a fuss over nothing, Kit. I only
wanted to tease you a little; I'd just as soon tell as not. I'll
give you each a guess, and then, if you don't get it, I'll tell
you. That's fair, isn't it? Who'll you guess, Kit?"
"Oliver Wendell Holmes," said Katharine promptly.
Jessie smiled disdainfully.
"Wrong. What should I want of him?"
"I should think anybody would want him," returned Katharine. "He's
the greatest person I could think of; and besides, you've just
been studying about him."
"Well, he isn't the one," said Jessie. "Go on, Alan."
"The President of these United States," suggested Alan pompously.
"Never!" responded Jessie fervently. "I'm a Democrat, you know, so
I don't want him. But you're in the right track. Polly, who is
it?"
"General Grant," said Polly.
"He died ever so long ago, Polly," corrected Alan.
"Oh, yes, so he did. Well, let's see. The Mayor of Omaha?"
"No! No! No!" said Jessie. "I didn't say it was a man, any way.
It's a woman; she's an English-man and she's a queen."
"Jessie!" And Katharine dropped into a chair, too much horrified
to say more.
"You don't mean to say," queried Polly, "that you've been and gone
and asked Queen Victoria to send you her autograph?"
Jessie nodded triumphantly.
"Well, she won't," returned Polly, with deliberate emphasis, while
Alan laughed, and laughed again at the absurd idea.
Then Jessie showed her trump card.
"Yes, she will," she said, with a firmness born of conviction;
"she will too, for I put in a two-cent stamp for her to answer
with. There!"