ON THE MAYBURY ROAD
Phronsie crept up to the wood-pile and peered around it. “Are you sick,
Davie?” she asked in a soft little voice.
David jumped up, tossing the soft waves of light hair from his
forehead. “I’m not sick a bit,” he said.
“What makes you cry then?” persisted Phronsie, picking up her pink
calico dress to clamber over the wood.
Davie turned his back and wiped his hot cheeks.
“I see some tears,” said Phronsie in a distressed little voice; and
stumbling on over the wood, a big stick slipped down against her toes.
David whirled around. “Don’t come!” he screamed, making frantic dives
over the wood-pile. Away went two or three sticks, carrying Phronsie
with them.
It was all done in a minute, and he had her out from under them. When
he saw the blood on her little arm, his cheeks went very white, and his
legs wobbled.
“I’ve got to get Mamsie,” he said, and rushed for the kitchen door.
“I’m going to get Mamsie,” wailed Phronsie after him.
David lent speed to his feet, and burst into the old kitchen where
Polly was brushing up the floor.
“Phronsie’s hurt!” he screamed. “Do come, Polly. I’ve spilled wood all
over her.” With that he rushed into the bedroom. “Mamsie--why where--”
Polly dropped the broom and flew out of doors, Davie at her heels.
“I can’t find Mamsie,” he panted.
“No, she’s gone to Mrs. Blodgett’s,” Polly threw over her shoulder as
she ran on. “Where _is_ Phronsie? Oh, Davie, where is she?”
“By the wood-pile,” gasped David, flying back of the shed.
But when they both got there, Phronsie was nowhere to be seen. To find
Mamsie was her one thought, and since she knew that Mother Pepper was
helping Mrs. Blodgett, why of course the hurt arm must get there as
soon as possible. So she wiped up her tears on her small pink apron,
and trudged on past the lane that led to Grandma Bascom’s, and into the
high road.
Polly and David pulled the wood about with frantic hands, Davie saying
all the while, “She _was_ here. Oh, Polly, she was.”
“Now, David,” Polly seized his arm, “you must stop saying that for she
can’t be under here. See,” she pointed to the sticks of wood sprawling
about.
“But she _was_ here,” declared David, pawing wildly in and out among
the sticks.
Polly darted off into the shed and hunted in each corner, calling
Phronsie at every step. Then she ran out to comfort David, and to keep
up the search.
* * * * *
“I declare to goodness, John, ef here ain’t a little girl on th’ road!”
A woman in an old high farm wagon twitched her husband’s arm. “Do stop
an’ take her in. My sakes! ain’t she a mite, though!” pushing back her
big sunbonnet in order to see the better.
But before the old white horse lumbered up to the mite, down went
Phronsie in a small heap in the middle of the dusty road.
“John--John!” screamed his wife. “Stop! You’re a-runnin’ over her!”
“Land o’ Goshen! ain’t I stoppin’?” roared her husband at her. The old
horse almost sat down on his tired haunches at the sudden twitch on the
reins. Then the farmer leaned forward and stared ahead down the road.
“Ef you ain’t goin’ to git out an’ pick up that child, I am, John
Brown. Sech a mortal slow man I never see,” snorted his wife scornfully.
“An’ sech a flutter-budget as you be, no man ever saw,” Mr. Brown found
time to say as he got slowly down over the wheel.
“Somebody’s got to flutter-budget in this world,” said his wife after
him, as he walked slowly over to the small pink heap, “or everybody’d
go to sleep. Bring her to me, John.-- Oh, do hurry! Bring her to me!”
“I want Mamsie,” said Phronsie, as Mr. Brown leaned over her.
“Hey?” said the farmer, bringing his rough face with its stubby beard
close to her little one.
“I’m going to my Mamsie,” said Phronsie, her blue eyes searching his
face, “and my foots are tired.” With that she put up her arms.
“I’ll be blowed!” exclaimed Mr. Brown. Then he saw the little
blood-stained arm and he started back.
“Take me,” said Phronsie, as she clutched his shaggy coat, “please, to
my Mamsie.”
“Where’d you git hurt?” asked Mr. Brown, with no eyes for anything but
the small arm with its bloody streak.
Phronsie looked down and surveyed it gravely. “My Mamsie will make it
well,” she said confidently.
“John--John!” screamed his wife, from the high wagon, “are you goin’ to
stay all day with that child in th’ middle of the road, or do you want
me to come an’ look after her?”
“You stay where you be, Nancy,” said Mr. Brown. “I don’t know no more’n
th’ last one,” this to Phronsie, “where ’tis you want to go to. But
I’ll take you there, all th’ same. Now, says I, hold tight, little un.”
“I will,” said Phronsie in a satisfied little voice, putting her arms
around his neck. So he bundled her up in his great arms and marched to
the high wagon.
“Give her to me,” cried his wife, hungrily extending her hands.
“I wouldn’t ef I didn’t have to drive,” said Mr. Brown, as he clumsily
set Phronsie on the broad lap. “She’s hurt her arm. Be careful,
Mother,” as he got into the wagon and began to drive off.
“My soul an’ body!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown, pausing in the hugging
process now set up, to regard the little bloody arm. “Oh, how’d you get
that?”
“I’m going to my mamsie,” announced Phronsie joyfully, and ignoring
the injured arm. Then she laughed, showing all her little teeth, and
snuggled against Mrs. Brown’s big shawl.
“Ain’t she too cunnin’ for anythin’!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown. “Did you
ever see th’ like? But how’d you git hurt?” she demanded, turning to
Phronsie again.
“It was the wood,” said Phronsie, gravely regarding her arm again. “And
I’m going to Mamsie.”
“She keeps a-sayin’ that,” said Mr. Brown. “Now, how in thunder will we
know where to take her?”
“Don’t swear,” said his wife.
“‘Thunder’ ain’t swearin’,” retorted Mr. Brown with a virtuous air. “I
c’d say lots worse things.”
“Well, git out and say ’em in th’ road, then,” advised his wife, “an’
not before this child. Where’d you say you was a-goin’?” She bent her
large face over the small one snuggled against her ample bosom.
“To my Mamsie,” said Phronsie, so glad that at last she was understood.
The wrinkles in Farmer Brown’s face ran clear down to his stubby beard,
as he slapped one hard hand on his knee.
“Oh, yes--yes,” said his wife, nodding her big sunbonnet.
“Don’t pretend you understand her, Mother,” Mr. Brown turned to his
wife, “for you don’t--neither of us do, no more’n th’ dead.”
“You let me be, John,” said Mrs. Brown, “an’ I’ll attend to this child.”
Farmer Brown whistled and looked off up to the clouds; perhaps
something might come down to illuminate the situation.
“Now, where is Mum--Mam--whatever you said?” began Mrs. Brown, patting
Phronsie’s yellow hair with a large red hand.
“Off there.” Phronsie pointed a small finger off into space.
“I see,” said Mrs. Brown, nodding her sunbonnet again. The puckers were
beginning to come in her face. Mr. Brown, taking his gaze off from the
clouds, looked at her and grinned.
“Well, now let’s see,” said Mrs. Brown reflectively, and with a cold
shoulder for the farmer; “Mamsie--”
“Yes.” Phronsie gave another little laugh and wriggled her feet. It was
so lovely that they understood her; and she was really on the way to
her Mamsie.
“Let’s see--now what road did you say you want to go to git to
this--Mamsie?” began the farmer’s wife, smiling encouragingly at her.
“Why, don’t you know?” Phronsie lifted her head suddenly to gaze into
Mrs. Brown’s face. “Off there.” Again she pointed to space.
“You keep still.” Mrs. Brown thrust her elbow into the farmer’s side,
as she saw his mouth open. “You’re more care than th’ child. I’ll find
out--you keep still!”
“_Hem!_” said Mr. Brown loudly.
“And please have us get to Mamsie soon,” begged Phronsie, beginning to
look worried.
“Yes--yes,” Mrs. Brown promised quickly. “Well, now let’s see--how does
Mamsie look?” she began.
“Why, she’s my Mamsie, and--”
“_She?_” screamed the farmer’s wife. “Oh, my soul an’ body! I thought
’twas a house.”
“Thunder!” ejaculated Mr. Brown; “now we’re in a fix, ef it’s a woman.
Th’ Lord knows how we’ll ever find her.”
“Where’d you come from?” Mrs. Brown now found it impossible to keep the
anxiety from running all up and down her big face. Phronsie put up her
trembling little lips and pointed off, still into space.
“John,” his wife burst out, “we _are_ in a fix, an’ that’s th’ solemn
truth.”
The farmer took off his old cap and scratched his head. “Well, anyway,
we’ve got th’ little gal, an’ you’ve always wanted one, Nancy.”
“Ef we can only keep her.” Mrs. Brown hugged Phronsie hungrily to her
breast. “Oh, my little lamb!” she kept saying.
“I want my Mamsie!” said Phronsie, nearly smothered. “_Please_ take me
to my Mamsie!” and she struggled to get free.
“Don’t you want to go to a nice house?” began the farmer’s wife in a
wheedling way, as she set her upon her knees.
“There--there.” Mr. Brown whipped out a big red handkerchief and wiped
off the tears from the little face. “Ma, she’s a-cryin’,” he announced
in an awful voice.
“There are chickens,” said Mrs. Brown desperately, “and--”
“Are there little chickies?” asked Phronsie, as Mr. Brown gave her face
another dab with the big handkerchief.
“Yes--yes, awful little ones,” cried Mrs. Brown; “just as little as
anythin’, an’ yellow an’ white an’ fluffy.”
Phronsie clapped her hands and smiled between her tears.
“An’ there’s pigs, little ones,” broke in the farmer, to hold all
advantage gained, “an’ you can scratch their backs.”
Phronsie tore off her thoughts from the little chickens, yellow and
white and fluffy, to regard the farmer. “_Ooh!_ I want to see the
little pigs,” she cried, leaning over to look into Mr. Brown’s face,
“and I’m going to scratch their backs right off.”
“So you shall--so you shall,” he cried, “when you get to my house.”
Phronsie’s lip fell suddenly, and she flew back to Mrs. Brown’s arms.
“I want to go to the little brown house,” she wailed, casting herself
up against the kind breast.
“John, can’t you let well enough alone?” scolded his wife. “She was
took with the chickens. There, there, child, don’t cry.”
“She liked my pigs best,” said the farmer sullenly. “G’long there!”
slapping the leather reins down smartly on the back of the old white
horse.
“I want to go to the little brown house,” Phronsie wailed steadily on.
“Well, that’s where you’re goin’,” said the farmer. He turned suddenly.
“That’s jest where we’re a-takin’ you to, the Brown house.”
“Are you?” cried Phronsie, her wails stopping suddenly.
“_Sure_,” said Mr. Brown decidedly. “Now, Ma, we’ll take her home with
us. We’ll inquire all along th’ road ef anybody knows who she is,” he
said in a low voice over Phronsie’s head. “She’ll be all right when she
sees them pigs an’ chickens.”
“An’ ef we can’t find where she b’longs, why, we’ll adopt her, an’
she’ll be ours,” finished his wife, all in a tremble. “Oh, you sweet
lamb, you!” She kissed Phronsie’s yellow head.
Phronsie, quite contented now that she was on the way to the little
brown house where Polly was and Mamsie would soon come, presently began
to hum in a happy little voice, and the old white horse and big high
wagon went jogging on over a short cross-road leading to Maybury, where
the farmer and his good wife lived.
Meantime Polly and Davie were having a perfectly dreadful time
searching everywhere, even turning an old barrel, afraid that Phronsie
had pulled it over on herself, and scouring every inch of the ground
around the little brown house. Then Davie dashed off at top speed, down
over the lane leading to Grandma Bascom’s, sure of finding Phronsie
there.
But Grandma, feeding her hens from a tin pan of potato and apple
parings, shook her cap hard when Davie stood on his tiptoes and
screamed into her ear all about Phronsie.
“Oh, the pretty creeter!” she mourned, and the pan in her hands shook
so that it fell to the ground, and the hens clattered around and
scratched and fought till every bit of the potato and apple skins was
gobbled up.
Davie rushed off from the tangle of hens about Grandma’s feet, with
only one thought--to get to Deacon Blodgett’s as fast as he could.
And flying down the lane, he ran into the main road, just after the
old white horse and big high wagon had turned the corner leading to
Maybury, carrying Phronsie off to the Brown house.
“Whoa--there--Great Saint Peter!” shouted somebody at him. Davie was
so blind with the drops of perspiration running down his face that he
couldn’t see, and besides, by that time his small legs were so used to
running that they kept on, even after the young man in the top buggy
had pulled up in astonishment.
“Ain’t you ever goin’ to stop?” roared the young man, leaning out of
the buggy and staring at him.
“I can’t,” panted Davie, pausing a moment.
“What’s th’ matter? Goin’ for th’ doctor?”
“I’m goin’ for Mamsie,” said Davie, rushing on.
“Hold on! Who you’re goin’ for?” roared the young man.
“Mamsie,” panted Davie, whirling around.
“I d’no what in th’ blazes that is,” the young man took off his cap and
scratched his head. “Well, what are you goin’ for, lickety-split like
that! Come here, you boy!”
Davie came slowly up to the side of the buggy. Somehow a note of hope
began to sing in his small heart that maybe the young man might help.
“I let my sister get wood spilled all over her,” he said, his face
working dreadfully, “and she’s lost, an’ I’m going to Mamsie.”
“I can’t make head nor tail of it at all,” said the young man. Then
he put on his cap, since scratching his head did no good. “Well, your
sister’s lost, you say?”
“Yes,” said Davie, hanging to the wheel. “Oh, have you seen her, Mr.
Man? She had on a pink dress--”
“Hey? Oh, thunder an’ lightnin’!” he slapped his knee, with a red hand,
“was she a little gal?”
“Yes--yes,” cried Davie, with wide blue eyes. “Oh, _have_ you seen her,
Mr. Man?”
“I think likely,” said the young man, bending over till his face nearly
touched Davie’s hot cheek, “an’ then again, mebbe I hain’t. I’ve seen a
little gal in a pink dress, but she may not be your sister. How big was
she?”
Davie released his clutch on the wheel, to bend down and measure where
Phronsie’s head would come if she stood there in the road before him,
the young man leaning out to critically watch the proceeding.
“I b’lieve as sure as shootin’, that’s th’ little gal.” Then he
whistled and slapped his knee again.
“Oh, Mr. Man, help me to find her!” Davie grasped the wheel once more
and held on for dear life.
“Well, I can’t as long as you hang on to that ’ere wheel,” said the
young man. “Now you hop in, and I’ll catch up with that young one in
three shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Over the wheel went Davie, to sink down in a small heap on the old
leather seat.
“Yes, sir--ee!” declared the young man again. “I seen her in Mis
Brown’s lap as sure as shootin’. It’s lucky she’s fell in such good
hands. Well, I’ll catch up with that old white plug of a horse.
G’lang!” He whipped up, passing the turn in the road where Phronsie was
being carried off in the high wagon on the “short cut” to the Brown
house in Maybury.