THE OLD BOOK BOX
Mrs. Parson Henderson for once left her breakfast dishes unwashed.
“It’s no use--I must get over to the little brown house at once.” She
took down her sunbonnet from its nail in the entry and stopped to put
her head in the study doorway.
“You’ll be surprised to see the kitchen if you go out there,” she said,
“and the morning work not done.”
“Jerusha isn’t here, so no matter,” said the parson, looking up from
next Sunday’s sermon with a smile.
“I can’t keep away from those poor Pepper children, since you heard
down at the store that their mother was away last night at Miss
Babbitt’s.”
“Almira, I’m glad enough that you’re going over to see Polly. I thought
it would be as much as my life was worth to suggest it till those
breakfast dishes were washed.” He laughed now like a boy.
“There are some things more important than breakfast dishes,” observed
his wife grimly. Then she hurried off, cross-lots, to the little brown
house.
Nobody was in the old kitchen; that she saw through the window. So she
hurried around the house and there under the scraggy apple-tree was
Polly before the big tub on its bench, scrubbing away on a pile of
clothes and trying to sing, but it was a quavering little voice that
the parson’s wife heard.
“Go and get your little tub, Phronsie,” said Polly, breaking off from
the poor little song, “and wash Seraphina’s clothes.”
“I want my Mamsie.” Phronsie, a picture of woe, stood quite still under
a sheltering branch of the old apple-tree.
“Oh, Phronsie,” said Polly, trying to speak gayly, “just think of
Seraphina, poor dear, wanting her clothes washed. Only think, Phronsie!”
“I want my Mamsie,” said Phronsie, not offering to stir. Her lips
trembled and Polly knew in another moment that the tears would come in
a torrent; so she flung her hands clear of the soap suds and started to
run over to her. Instead she plunged into the parson’s wife just making
up her mind to come around the corner into full view.
“O dear!” gasped Polly in dismay, her soapy hands flying up against the
clean blue print dress.
“Never mind,” said Mrs. Henderson, “soap never hurt any calico dress,”
seizing the wet hands. “O my!” and she hurried over to Phronsie, too
scared at Polly’s plunge to cry.
“Well--well.” Then as Polly ran to get a dry cloth to wipe off the
front of the clean print dress, the parson’s wife sat down on one
of the big stones that Ben and the other boys had brought into “the
orchard” to play tea-party with whenever the much-prized hours from
work would allow.
Phronsie came slowly to her. “I want my Mamsie,” she said, patting Mrs.
Henderson’s gown to attract attention. “I want her very much indeed, I
do.”
“Yes, I know.” Then the parson’s wife lifted her on her lap. “So does
Polly want Mamsie--and Davie. Where is Davie?”
Phronsie pointed a small finger up to the branches of the apple-tree.
“Oh, Davie, are you there?” Mrs. Henderson cocked up one eye. There sat
Davie huddled up in a crotch of the tree, his head in his hands. “Dear
me. I thought it was a big bird!”
“Davie is a big bird,” echoed Phronsie, smiling through the tears that
were just ready to roll down.
“Isn’t he,” said the parson’s wife with a little laugh. “Well, now,
come down, big bird.”
“Come down, big bird,” cried Phronsie, clapping her hands and hopping
up and down, as Polly ran out with the clean cloth.
“Now that is as good as ever,” declared Mrs. Henderson, as Polly wiped
off all trace of the soap suds. “Well, here comes Davie,” as he slid
slowly down from branch to branch.
“That’s a good boy, Davie,” said Polly approvingly, the sparkle coming
back to the brown eyes.
“Isn’t he?” said Mrs. Henderson. “Well, now, Davie, I wonder if you
won’t come over to the parsonage and help me this morning?”
“Can I help you?” asked Davie, raising his swollen eyes to her.
“Yes, indeed; ever so much,” declared Mrs. Henderson quickly. “I’ve
some work to have done in setting up my attic, and you can help me.”
“Then I’ll come,” said Davie, with a long breath of satisfaction.
“Now that’s good,” said the parson’s wife.
“I want to go, too,” said Phronsie, laying hold of Mrs. Henderson’s
gown.
“Oh, no,” said the parson’s wife, “you must stay and help Polly. Poor
Polly--see how busy she is!” pointing over to the wash-tub where Polly
was splashing away for dear life.
Phronsie’s hand dropped from Mrs. Henderson’s gown. She ran over
unsteadily to the big tub on its bench. “I’m going to help you, Polly,”
she said, standing on her tiptoes.
“So you shall,” said Polly, flashing over a bright smile to the
parson’s wife. “Run and get your little tub, and see if you can get
Seraphina’s clothes washed as quickly as these,” she doused one of the
boy’s little calico jackets up and down in the suds.
“But I want to help on these things,” said Phronsie, patting the big
tub with a disappointed little hand. “Please, Polly, let me.”
“No,” said Polly decidedly, “there isn’t room for more than one here.
Besides Mamsie wouldn’t like it.”
“Wouldn’t Mamsie like it for me to help in the big tub?” asked Phronsie.
“No, she wouldn’t,” said Polly decidedly.
Phronsie slowly let her hand drop to her side. “Would Mamsie want me
to wash dolly’s clothes?” she asked, her blue eyes fastened on Polly’s
face.
“Yes, indeed, she certainly would,” declared Polly decidedly. “There
now, that’s clean, until Joey gets it dirty again,” and she wrung out
the little calico blouse.
“Then I shall wash my dolly’s clothes,” declared Phronsie, marching off
to the woodshed where her little tub was kept.
“And you come with me, David,” said Mrs. Henderson, “for I must get to
work in my attic. Polly, don’t worry, child--we’ll find some way to
get your mother back here,” she whispered on the way out of the yard.
And taking David’s hand, the parson’s wife went swiftly home, hoping
at every step that no parishioner had caught sight of those unwashed
breakfast dishes.
“I’m going to wipe them dry,” said David, as she poured the boiling
water into the dish-pan. “May I, Mrs. Henderson?”
“You certainly may,” said the parson’s wife, setting the big iron
tea-kettle back on the stove. “Now that’s a good boy, Davie Pepper. Get
a clean towel in the table-drawer.”
So Davie ran over and fished out a clean towel, and the dishes were
soon done and piled on the dresser. And none too soon! Here came around
the corner of the parsonage, Miss Keturah Sims to borrow a colander to
strain blackberries in.
“I’ve got to make jell this mornin’,” she announced, coming in without
the formality of knocking, “an’ my colander’s bust.” Her sharp black
eyes, the sharpest pair in all Badgertown for finding out things, as
the parson’s wife knew quite well, roved all over the kitchen.
“You shall have it,” cried Mrs. Henderson, running into the pantry on
happy feet. “Oh, Davie Pepper,” she cried, as the door closed on Miss
Sims, “you don’t know how you’ve helped me!” She stopped to drop a kiss
on the soft light hair.
“Have I?” cried David, very much pleased. “Have I helped you, Mrs.
Henderson?”
“Indeed you have!” she declared. Then she stopped in the middle of the
kitchen. “I remember what your mother once said.”
David drew near, holding his breath. To hear what Mamsie said was
always a treat not to be lightly put one side.
“She said,” repeated Mrs. Henderson, “that if any one felt bad about
anything, the best way was to get up and do something for somebody.
And so you stopped crying and worrying Polly and came over here. And
you don’t know, David Pepper, how you’ve helped me! Well, we must get
up into the attic.” She hurried over to the broom closet. “Get the
dust-pan, David, behind the stove.”
“I will,” cried David, clattering after it.
“And the little brush.”
“Yes--I will.”
“And the dust-cloth, hanging on the back entry nail,” Mrs. Henderson’s
voice trailed down the attic stairs. And Davie, gathering up the
various things, hurried up after her.
“Dear me, how hot it is!” exclaimed the parson’s wife, hurrying over to
open the window at the end.
“I’ll open it,” cried David, depositing his armful so hastily that down
the stairs rattled the little brush and the dust-pan, and only the
dust-cloth remained.
“No, no, Davie, I must open it,” said Mrs. Henderson, suiting the
action to the word. “And remember, dear,” as he brought back the truant
articles, “you must wait patiently till I tell you what to do.”
“I’m so sorry,” said David penitently, still holding the runaway broom
and dust-pan.
“I know, dear--and next time, remember to wait until I tell you what
I want you to do. Well, the first thing, now that the window is open,
and we have some fresh air to work by, is to get these trunks and boxes
out from this corner.” She was over there by this time and down on her
knees under the eaves.
“I’ll pull ’em out,” began Davie; then he stopped and looked at her,
“if you want me to.”
“That’s a good boy,” Mrs. Henderson turned and looked at him. “You’ve
no idea what a comfort it is, David Pepper, to have any one who wants
to help, wait till he’s told what to do! Well, you mustn’t even attempt
to pull these trunks and boxes about. We will each take hold of a
handle, then it will be easy to shove them out.” She got up suddenly.
_Rap!_ went her head against a low-lying beam.
David stared at her in dismay. “O dear!” he exclaimed, quite aghast.
“Yes, that did hurt,” said the parson’s wife, feeling of her head, “and
it was all because I was in too big a hurry. Now I’m going down stairs
to bathe it, and you may--” She hesitated and looked about. “Why there
is that little box of books, David. You may take them out and dust
them, for somebody has left the cover off. There it is now, behind that
table.” She pointed to an ancestral piece of furniture with one leg
missing. “Take your dust-cloth, child, and begin, then pile the books
neatly in the box, and set the cover on,” and she went swiftly down the
stairs.
David ran over and picked up the dust-cloth where he had thrown it on
the floor. _Books!_--to think there were books in that box! His small
fingers tingled to begin, and he threw himself down on the floor beside
the box, and peered in. There were green books, and red ones, and very
dull gray and black ones, all more or less dilapidated.
He drew a long breath, his blue eyes widening as his hands clutched
the sides of the box. “I better take ’em all out first,” he said to
himself, and lifting the upper layer very carefully, he laid them down,
one by one, on the floor beside him. A red-covered book, the back of
the binding almost in tatters, slipped from his fingers and fell to the
attic floor.
“O dear me!” he was going to exclaim, when his gaze fell upon the pages
before him. There was a big picture on one side and a whole lot of
reading on the other page.
David leaned over to stare at the picture. Then he rested his elbows on
the attic floor and stared harder than ever. The picture showed a boy
seated before a desk, bent over a slate, on which he was writing, and
opposite to him the book said, “I must get my lesson for to-morrow,” in
great big letters.
David knew very well what these big letters said, for Mother Pepper
had often told Polly to lay down her work when she was trying to
help Mamsie on the coats for Mr. Atkins, telling her, “You have sewed
enough, Polly child. Now get the big Bible from the bedroom, and read
aloud. And then you can teach the children, Polly,” she would always
add.
So Davie had picked up everything he possibly could about any big
letters that were likely to come his way.
“The boy is going to school,” said David, unable to tear his eyes from
the picture, “and he’s going to learn a lesson. O dear, I wonder when I
shall ever go to school! And he’s got a slate and pencil.”
At that David was so lost at the idea of any boy being rich enough to
own a slate and pencil, that he sat perfectly still, and a big spider
hurried out of her web and ran along the eaves, to stare down at him.
Finally seeing that he didn’t stir, she slipped down swiftly on her
gossamer thread, and landed right in the middle of the book with the
dilapidated red binding. This woke David up. And of course Mrs. Spider
then ran for her life.
“I’m going to see if there are other boys with slates and pencils,”
said David, turning the leaves. There lay the dust-cloth beside him,
but he never thought of that. And as he couldn’t read very much,
but had to study each letter carefully, he didn’t get on very fast,
especially as there was a picture on every other page. And of course he
must see what the big letters opposite said it was all about.
The first thing he knew there were some steps coming up the attic
stairs.
David’s head came up suddenly, and the old book slipped away from his
grasp.
“My mother says you are to come down to dinner,” said Peletiah, coming
slowly up.
David stared at him. Then his little face got hot all over.
“My mother says you are to come down to dinner,” said the parson’s son.
“I--I can’t,” said David miserably, and his head hung down.
“My mother says you are to come down to dinner,” Peletiah said, exactly
as if giving the message for the first time.
“No, no,” said David, unable to see anything but the idle dust-cloth
lying on the floor.
“My mother says--” began the parson’s son, not moving from his tracks.
“Da--_vid_!” called a voice over the attic stairs, “come, child, to
dinner. You must be hungry, working so hard.”
David crouched down by the side of the box. “I haven’t worked,” he
said, “and I can’t have any dinner.”
“My mother says--”
“Yes, come, child,” called the voice over the attic stairs, “and,
Peletiah, you must come down, too.” Peletiah, considering the last
command to come to dinner much more to his taste and more binding than
the message he was sent up to the attic to deliver, shut his mouth as
he was just going to begin on his message once more, and went down the
stairs.
David looked wildly around as he was left alone, with no one but the
big spider now in her home web once more. To get to the little brown
house and to Polly was now his only thought! He would be carrying
disgrace there--but he must go. Then jumping to his feet, he ran as
fast as he could down the attic stairs to the back entry. The knives
and forks were going pretty fast as he dashed past the dining-room. Oh,
how jolly it all sounded, and a most enticing smell of all things good
was in the air, as he dashed past and out into the parsonage yard.
“What’s that?” asked Parson Henderson, and he laid down the big carving
knife and fork just as Mrs. Henderson was saying, “I wonder why Davie
Pepper doesn’t come down to dinner. I’ve neglected the poor child, for
when Mrs. Jones came to see me about the Sewing Society, I couldn’t get
back to the attic.”
Peletiah got out of his chair and went to the window, followed by
Ezekiel. “There’s David Pepper,” he said, pointing with a slow finger
to a small boy running blindly on across the parsonage yard.