WORKING HARD TO KEEP CHEERY
Parson Henderson walked slowly between the hollyhocks, his hands folded
behind his back. His wife hurried down the narrow path to join him.
“Oh,” she said breathlessly, “we are all going to feel dreadfully when
Polly has really gone.”
“We mustn’t think of ourselves,” said the parson. “Poor Mrs. Pepper!”
and he sighed.
“I know it, and yet you did right to advise her to let Polly go,” Mrs.
Henderson peered anxiously up into his face.
“I’m not a bit sorry that I did so advise,” declared Parson Henderson
firmly. “Almira, it is a clear case of the working of Providence for
that girl to have the chance.” He stopped short on the garden path.
“I know it,” cried his wife gleefully, “think of the music! Oh,
Adoniram, how Polly has longed for a chance to learn to play.”
She clasped her hands and the smile ran up to capture the anxiety in
her face.
“I do think. I think of all the good that will come of the visit.”
The parson began his walk once more, this time with a stride. Mrs.
Henderson trotted by his side, trying to keep up with him.
“Don’t go so fast, husband,” she begged.
“Yes,” as he slackened his pace, “and another thing. We ought to
consider how much the Peppers are indebted to Jasper. If it hadn’t been
for him--just think.” She ran her hand within his arm.
“That’s the reason I was able to persuade Mrs. Pepper to let Polly go,”
cried Mr. Henderson. “She put aside everything else, when she saw that
she could do this for the boy.”
“Yes--yes. Oh, I’m so glad. But, O dear,” she couldn’t for the life of
her keep from adding, “those children--can you imagine what they are
going to do without Polly!”
The parson’s face fell gloomily.
“There’s Ben,--it will come desperately hard on him,” he said.
“Ben will make up his mind to bear it--he is the oldest--and he is
such a strong boy,” said Mrs. Henderson quickly. “The one I am worrying
about the most is Davie.”
“Poor Davie will take it pretty hard, I am afraid.”
“And he will keep it all in on account of Mrs. Pepper, and it will
wear on him terribly. O dear me!” Mrs. Henderson now looked so very
miserable that her husband lost thought of the Peppers and turned to
comfort her.
“See here, Almira,” he cried, “we are acting badly, both of us. What
sort of example, pray tell, are we to the little-brown-house people.
We’ve simply got to cheer up.”
“So I will,” cried his wife, trying to smile; “I’m ashamed of myself.
And now that Polly is really going, I mustn’t stay here talking any
longer, when I could help to get her ready. There’s that old brown
merino dress of mine; it’s been up in the attic for I don’t know how
long, I shall make it over for her.” She drew her hand away from his
arm and ran down the path ahead of him. “I’ve a fine chance to get the
pattern of Polly’s calico gown, now that the children are all away in
the woods to-day.”
“The children all away in the woods!” repeated the parson in surprise.
“Yes, Mrs. Pepper told me yesterday that she was going to let them
have that treat. Polly has been wanting it so long. And it would help
to cheer things up. Oh, I am so glad I took over that little pat of
butter. O dear!” for a sudden turn in the path, and there was Miss
Jerusha, a scowl on her face.
“Of all things on this earth,” she exclaimed, lifting her long hands,
“the silliest is to send that Pepper girl to the City.”
“Don’t let us talk about it, Jerusha,” said the parson’s wife, trying
to get by.
“Talk about it! It’s time for some one to talk.” Miss Jerusha’s angular
figure successfully blocked the way. “Such goings on! Adoniram,” as her
brother came up, “what on earth did you put such a notion into that
girl’s head for! The idea of her going into those rich folks’ house!
She’ll be snubbed to death--that’s one comfort,” and Miss Jerusha gave
an unpleasant little cackle.
“Polly Pepper will never be snubbed, Jerusha,” declared the parson
decidedly. “On the contrary--”
Miss Jerusha interrupted him, “We’ll see,” she cried, the cackle
becoming a shrill laugh. Mrs. Henderson stepped off into the grass, and
hurried up into the attic, leaving the parson to get away as best he
could.
And now all Badgertown knew that Polly Pepper was going to the City on
a visit to Mr. King’s house.
Mr. Atkins took down a roll of gingham from his shelf of dry goods.
“I’ll give her enough for two dresses,” he said. “Land o’ Goshen! she
needs somethin’ to help her out. I wouldn’t be in th’ same house, with
that old Mr. King for a hundred dollars,--no, not by a long shot.”
And the little shoemaker called Davie in one day, as he was running
by. “You tell Polly that I’ve got a splendid pair o’ shoes waiting for
her,” and then he turned to old Mrs. Beebe. “She’ll set by those shoes
when she’s in th’ City,” he said complacently, “an’ goes a-walkin’ with
Mr. King.”
And Mrs. Beebe shuddered again, and said, “I can’t never imagine her
walkin’ with him, Pa.”
And then one day Mr. Tisbett drove his stage up with a great flourish
to the little brown house and Polly’s hair trunk was strapped on--and
she was almost off--when out she sprang.
“I can’t go!” she cried, “oh, I can’t!” and dashing between them all,
she flew back through the kitchen to throw herself down in a torrent of
tears by Mamsie’s bed.
No one quite knew how they got her back again--but the stage at last,
with Polly inside, rolled off, and Mother Pepper and the four little
Peppers went into the little brown house and shut the green door.
Davie ran as fast as he could, for the first time in his life not
wanting Joel, his mind intent on reaching the spot where the day in the
woods had been spent. There, under a clump of oaks on a little mossy
bank, were bits of leaves and flowers, the remains of the wreath Polly
had made to carry home to Mother. When David saw them, he threw himself
down and buried his face, in an agony of tears. “I want Polly!” he
cried.
A little bird hopped along the branch over his head to turn a sharp
eye down at him. The sun shone, and he had eaten several worms and
was perfectly comfortable. What any one could cry about, he couldn’t
understand. For his part, he felt much more like singing. And
accordingly he did, and such a lively air, all trills and high notes,
as quite astonished himself. But that only made Davie cry worse, for it
brought back the story that Polly had told them as they all sat around
her while she made the wreath, of a little bird--why, it must have been
that very one now singing over his head.
So of course the little bird, very much hurt in his feelings, at last
stopped his song and flew away. And the wood became quite still.
All of a sudden, a whoop and a shout--and a boy’s feet came tearing
through the bushes, and between the trees.
“_Joel!_” gasped David to himself. There was no time to run, and
besides Joel would see him. The only thing to be done was to burrow
deeper in the mossy bank.
“You ran away,” cried Joel, in great displeasure, and precipitating
himself on him.
David couldn’t very well say he hadn’t, so he said nothing.
“And it was mean of you,” cried Joel wrathfully, and rolling him over
to stare into his face. “Oh--oh--you’ve been crying!”
“Let me alone,” cried David crossly, and twitching away, he rolled back
again. “Go right home, and let me alone.”
“You ran away,” Joel repeated loudly, so astounded at such a reception,
that all he could do was to repeat it again, “you ran away.” This time
his round face became very sober--and in a minute down he went flat on
his face by David’s side.
Davie by this time was quite gone in misery, and he burst out, “I want
Polly!”
Joel didn’t say anything as Davie cried on. And everything was so still
that Davie forgot that he was there--until a queer little rustle made
him poke up his head. Joel was stuffing the end of his calico blouse
into his mouth and making frantic efforts to hold back his sobs. It was
now David’s turn to precipitate himself on Joel.
“I want Polly,” came in gusts from Joel, and he rolled over and over
trying to stop.
“Oh, don’t, Joel,” begged Davie, very much frightened.
“I want her,” screamed Joel, “and I’m going right straight after her
to Mr. King’s house to bring her home.” With that he hopped to his
feet. His face was dreadfully red, but he had stopped crying. “They
sha’n’t keep her there,” he declared, and his black eyes flashed
defiantly.
“Oh, Joel, you wouldn’t do that!” David, in his terror, gripped Joel’s
sleeve.
“I would, too,” declared Joel stoutly. “I shall start this minute,” and
he tore himself free, and darted down the mossy bank.
David, without stopping to think of the impossibility of such a plan
ever coming to completion, dashed after him, screaming, “Don’t, Joel,”
with all his might, and catching his foot in a rambling vine, over he
pitched headlong down a steep descent in the bank.
Joel heard him go, and rushing back to scramble down after him, he
found David picking himself up from a heap of dried leaves.
“I’m not hurt,” he said.
Joel, who had been shaking with terror, now laughed till his little
white teeth shone. “They’re all in your hair, Dave,” he said. “I’ll get
’em out,” pawing the soft light waves, in which the little dried wisps
were sticking.
“You won’t tell Mamsie I cried,” said Davie, looking up anxiously.
“I don’t know,” said Joel. Then he stopped picking the leaves out of
the soft hair. “If you won’t tell her that I did,” he began.
“Oh, I won’t--I won’t,” promised David eagerly, “not a single bit of
it, Joel.”
“We both cried, and we both won’t tell,” decided Joel in a
matter-of-fact way.
“And Mamsie will worry if we don’t get home,” said Davie, “and we
mustn’t want Polly to come back.” He twisted his small hands together,
as he regarded Joel nervously.
“But I do want Polly to come back,” declared Joel obstinately, shaking
his head.
“It will make Mamsie sick.” Davie could think of nothing better to say,
so he repeated it in a despairing voice, “It will make Mamsie sick.”
Joel scuffed the heap of dry leaves with his rusty little shoes--then
he blurted out. “I don’t want my Mamsie to be sick,” he said slowly.
“Then you won’t go after Polly to bring her back?” David didn’t dare to
breathe, as he asked it, but hung on Joel’s answer.
“No,” said Joel magnificently, “she can stay.”
Times were pretty hard in the little brown house about these days, and
Mother Pepper had all she could do to have it look as if any ray of
sunshine had ever hopped in. If the work hadn’t pressed so, it would
have been much worse. But night after night the three boys dragged
themselves up to bed in the loft, too tired to do anything but tumble
on to the shakedowns and get ready for the next day. For there was all
Polly’s work to do, and as much of it as they could accomplish to save
Mother was eagerly sought by them all.
And Phronsie, lost to everything but that Polly was gone, refused to
be comforted, and hung around her mother’s chair, or mourned for Polly
when Mrs. Pepper went down to the store, or was away to help Mrs.
Blodgett.
David, who took upon himself the task of amusing her, was almost in
despair. He had given up going to help Mr. Atkins in his store to stay
at home and take care of her. He even tried to tell stories, and racked
his brain to think how Polly would relate one. But he couldn’t make
any headway in getting her to stop crying, “I want Polly.”
At last one day Grandma Bascom waddled in.
“O me--O my!” she exclaimed, sitting heavily down on the first chair.
There sat Phronsie on the floor, the very picture of woe, and crying
into her pinafore. David was squatting in front of her, frantically
trying to draw a picture on his slate and explain it by a story.
Phronsie got up and went over to Grandma’s chair.
“I want Polly,” she said, the tears trailing down her little cheeks.
“Yes, I know,” said Grandma, who seemed to understand, even if she
couldn’t hear very well, and patting her yellow hair. “Oh, you poor
creeter, you!” she said to Davie.
“She doesn’t like my stories,” said Davie, getting up from the floor,
his cheeks very much flushed. He came over and put his mouth close to
Grandma’s cap. “And I can’t tell any good ones.”
“Well,” said Grandma, “that’s because she’s heard Polly’s stories. Ef
I was you, I wouldn’t try to tell ’em.”
“What _can_ I do?” cried Davie in despair. The flush died off, leaving
his cheeks quite white, and he twisted his small hands in distress.
Grandma Bascom gave him a keen look, then bobbed her cap wisely till
the frill quivered. “Now, Phronsie,” she said, “you must take care of
Davie. He’ll be sick if you don’t.”
“Oh, Grandma,” exclaimed David, quite horrified at such a turn of
affairs, “I’m not sick.” He tried to shout it into her ear, but she
kept on, “Davie will be sick ef you don’t take care of him, Phronsie.”
“I’ll take care of Davie,” said Phronsie, wiping away the last tear on
her pinafore, “and I shall put him to bed, so that he won’t be sick.”
“That’s my good little lamb,” said Grandma, her cap-frill bobbing worse
than ever. “Now, Davie, you go an’ curl on your ma’s bed, an’--”
“Oh, no, no,” cried Davie. “Why, I’m a big boy, and I don’t want to go
to bed in the day-time.” He was in such distress over the idea that
his voice was very sharp, and Grandma heard every word.
“You ain’t as big as the parson,” said Grandma coolly, “an’ Mis
Henderson said she put him to bed last week right in the middle o’ th’
day.” It was a long speech for Grandma to make, and she wheezed so at
the end that Davie forgot everything else and ran and got her a cup of
water.
“An’ I’m goin’ to stay here a spell, an’ Phronsie must set by th’ bed
an’ watch you,” beginning again when she got her breath, and the cup
was taken back.
Phronsie, feeling very important that she was to take care of David and
keep him from being sick, now clamored for him to get on Mamsie’s bed,
and let her tuck him up. And nothing would do but that she should take
his hand and lead him off to the bedroom.
Grandma chuckled to see them go. It presently became so still in the
old kitchen that she dozed in her chair, waking up with a start.
“I declare ef I haven’t lost myself jest for a minute,” she said. “Now
I’ll see how them blessed childern is gettin’ along.”
She opened the bedroom door softly and peeped in. Davie, with the
patchwork quilt drawn up to his chin just as Phronsie had tucked him
in, and with one arm thrown over his head, was sleeping as he hadn’t
been able to do since Polly went away. And Phronsie, curled up on the
floor, her yellow head on the old braided rug, was dreaming that she
was watching Davie and keeping him from getting sick.
Ben and Joel found them so, when they came home from Deacon Blodgett’s
where they had been piling wood. Joel rushed past Grandma Bascom like
a whirlwind. “_Sh!_” she said, raising her hand. Too late! Into the
bedroom flew Joel waving something over his head. “_Hoh!_ in bed!” he
cried. “Get up, Dave!”
“Look out!” cried Ben, “you almost stepped on Phronsie!” and he picked
her up, as Joel jumped on the bed.
“It’s for you,” he cried, shaking the arm thrown over Davie’s head.
Then the old patchwork quilt was twitched down, and something white was
thrust in its place.
“What is it?” asked Davie, his blue eyes dewy with sleep, and he
rolled over to show very pink cheeks.
“A letter from Polly,” cried Joel, waving it impatiently.
Davie flew up to sit in the middle of the bed. “_Oh!_” he cried
hungrily, “a letter from Polly!”
“Yes--yes, and it’s for you,” screamed Joel, sticking it into his hand.
Davie threw off the patchwork quilt and, tumbling off the bed, ran out
into the kitchen. “A letter from Polly--and it’s for me!” he shouted.
Just then the door opened and Mother Pepper came in to meet Ben coming
out from the bedroom with Phronsie on his shoulder. She kept saying, “I
watched Davie all the while--I did.”
It took Davie so long to open the letter with trembling fingers, that
Joel impatiently kept crying, “Do hurry, Dave!” beating on the table
for emphasis.
“Hush, Joe,” cried Ben, “we couldn’t hear the letter if it were open,
you make such a noise.”
“I’ll stop when he opens it,” said Joel. “Oh, do hurry, Dave!” and he
ran across the kitchen with Mamsie’s big bread-knife. But Davie already
had the letter out of its envelope, and spread in his hand.
They all held their breath to catch every word, and Grandma Bascom put
her hand behind her best ear, and Davie began:
“DEAR DAVIE:
“I just wish I could hop into the little brown house and--(O dear me!
I wrote that crooked) see you all. To-morrow I’m going to write to
Joel.”
“_Hooray!_” screamed Joel. He rushed up to Grandma and shouted in her
ear, “Polly’s going to write to me to-morrow!”
“Come back,” cried Ben, “if you want to hear the rest. Go on, Dave.”
“Wait for me,” roared Joel, skipping back. “Have you read any more,
Dave?” he cried anxiously.
“No,” said Davie, “I haven’t read a bit more.”
[Illustration: THEY ALL HELD THEIR BREATH TO CATCH EVERY WORD, AND
DAVIE BEGAN.--_Page 490._]
“Well, I want to tell you how kind dear Mr. King is. (He wants me to
call him Grandpapa.) He has a music teacher for me. Just think,
I’m really going to learn to play on the piano--really and truly! Oh,
Davie, I was almost afraid to touch the piano, it is so magnifesent
(I haven’t spelled that right I know) but Grandpapa said I must not
feel that way, so I don’t now, for of course if I were afraid of the
piano, I never could learn to play.
“And oh--little Dick is too cunning for anything. Phronsie would like
to play with him.”
“I should,” said Phronsie, smoothing down her pinafore, “very much
indeed.”
“Oh, and Prince, this morning, when Jasper asked him if he didn’t
want to send his love to Phronsie, said just as plain as could be,
‘_Bark--Bark!_’”
Phronsie screamed so with delight that it was some time before Davie
could go on.
“And now you must write to me, Davie, and tell Phronsie to write
to me, too, all by her own self. And, oh, tell Mamsie I mended my
stockings last week ’cause two big holes came. I must save some room
for Jasper wants to write.
“POLLY, with love to all in the little brown house.”
“DEAR DAVE:
“You must write to Polly, all of you, because I want her to like it
here, and she won’t unless she hears often from the little brown
house.
“Polly just practises every chance she can get. The music teacher
says she is the best--Polly is stopping me, so I can’t tell the rest.
“JASPER.”
Davie stood quite still, not minding when Joel twitched the letter out
of his hand, then he marched straight up to Grandma and said under her
cap-frill,
“Now I know what Phronsie would like to do,--write a letter to Polly
every day.”
Then he flew over to Mother Pepper. “You don’t need to take care of
Phronsie, I’m going to do it every single day, Mamsie, all by myself,”
he said, his blue eyes shining.
THE END
THE
FAMOUS PEPPER BOOKS
By MARGARET SIDNEY
IN ORDER OF PUBLICATION
Cloth 12mo Illustrated
Five Little Peppers and How they Grew.
This was an instantaneous success; it has become a genuine child
classic.
Five Little Peppers Midway.
“A perfect Cheeryble of a book.”--_Boston Herald._
Five Little Peppers Grown Up.
This shows the Five Little Peppers as “grown up,” with all the
struggles and successes of young manhood and womanhood.
Phronsie Pepper.
It is the story of Phronsie, the youngest and dearest of all the
Peppers.
The Stories Polly Pepper Told.
Wherever there exists a child or a “grown-up,” there will be a welcome
for these charming and delightful “Stories Polly Pepper told.”
The Adventures of Joel Pepper.
As bright and just as certain to be a child’s favorite as the others in
the famous series. Harum-scarum “Joey” is lovable.
Five Little Peppers Abroad.
The Peppers are just as original and delightful over the ocean as in
their own home.
Five Little Peppers at School.
Of all the fascinating adventures and experiences of the “Peppers,”
none will surpass those contained in this volume.
Five Little Peppers and Their Friends.
The Peppers loved their friends very dearly. They were loyal and true
to them, and the circle constantly widened.
Ben Pepper.
This centres about Ben, “The quiet, steady-as-a-rock boy,” while the
rest of the Peppers help to make it as bright as its predecessors.
Five Little Peppers in the Little Brown House.
Here they all are, Ben, Polly, Joel, Phronsie, and David, in the loved
“Little Brown House,” with such happenings crowding one upon the other
as all children delightedly follow, and their elders find no less
interesting.
Our Davie Pepper.
The boys and girls who have loved Davie in the other volumes will
rejoice that now Our Davie has a book all his own.
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON
A Little Maid of Boston Town
By MARGARET SIDNEY
12mo Cloth Illustrated by F. T. MERRILL
[Illustration]
The opening chapters introduce us to old Boston in England. Margaret
Sidney went there in 1907 and absorbed the atmosphere of Cotton
Mather’s “St Botolph’s Town,” gathering for herself facts and
traditions. Then “St. Botolph’s Town” yields its scenic effects, and
the setting of the story is changed to Boston Town of New England.
The story is absorbing, graphic, and truly delightful, carrying one
along till it seems as if actual participation in the events had been
the lot of the reader. The same naturalness that is so conspicuous in
her famous “Pepper Books” marks this latest story of Margaret Sidney’s.
She makes characters live and speak for themselves.
It is an inspiring, patriotic story for the young, and contains
striking and realistic pictures of the times with which it
deals.--_Sunday School Magazine, Nashville._
The author presents a story, but she gives a veracious picture of
conditions in the town of Boston during the Revolution. Parents who
are seeking wholesome books can place this in the front rank with
entire safety.--_Boston Globe._
Surely Margaret Sidney deserves the gratitude of many a child,
and grown-ups, too, for that matter, in telling in so charming,
yet, withal, so simple a manner, of these early days in this
country.--_Utica Observer._
A really thrilling tale of the American Revolution. Interesting for
both old and young.--_Minneapolis Journal._
_For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of price by
the publishers_
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., Boston
THE JUDGES’ CAVE
_A Romance of the New Haven Colony in the Days of the Regicides_
By MARGARET SIDNEY
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
There are few more fascinating phases of colonial history than that
which tells the wanderings and adventures of the two judges who,
because they sat in judgment over that royal criminal, Charles the
First of England, were hunted out of England into hiding in New
England, and there remained, a mystery and fugitives, in their
celebrated cave in New Haven Colony. Marcia, the heroine, is a strong
and delightful character, and the book easily takes high rank among the
most effective and absorbing stories based upon a dramatic phase of
American history.
THE LITTLE MAID OF CONCORD TOWN
_A Romance of the American Revolution_
By MARGARET SIDNEY
12mo, cloth. Illustrated by F. T. Merrill
A delightful revolutionary romance of life, love, and adventure in old
Concord. The author knows the interesting town thoroughly.
Debby Parlin, the heroine, lived in a little house on the Lexington
Road, still standing, and was surrounded by all the stir and excitement
of the months of preparation and the days at action at the beginning of
our struggle for freedom.
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co., Boston
SALLY,
MRS. TUBBS
_An amusing and sympathetic study of a New England woman of humble
station, but noble character._
By MARGARET SIDNEY, author of the Famous “Pepper” books, etc.
=CHICAGO RECORD-HERALD says:=
What can be said is, that those who have read “Mrs. Wiggs” will
purchase “Sally, Mrs. Tubbs.” The author of this pleasant story,
who is Margaret Sidney of the “Pepper” books renown, has rightly
dedicated this tale for grown-ups to “all who love simplicity, truth,
and cheerfulness.” These virtues characterize Sally Plunkett, whose
soul-devouring ambition was “to have ’Bijah Tubbs fer life.”
As a chapter out of human life “Sally, Mrs. Tubbs” is, perhaps, as
good as “Mrs. Wiggs.” Regarded artistically, it shows the workmanship
of a more practised hand; it has a plot, and this plot pleasantly
complicated, and thus differs from its next of kin. We judge that Sally
and her ’Bijah, who, though little, is “sizable” enough to meet her
wants, will make the acquaintance of those who like a book that is
not over-intellectualized nor yet lacking in soundness of heart and
penetrating vision into human nature. “Sally, Mrs. Tubbs” will furnish
a hearty laugh and a quickened sensibility.
=BOSTON TRANSCRIPT says:=
As a brief character-sketch, “Sally, Mrs. Tubbs” deserves no little
praise for its geniality and its humor.
=BOSTON HERALD says:=
This short story of 180 pages is captivating from start to finish,
and the masculine reader takes off his hat, and the feminine reader
courtesies, to this matron of the tubs, with her homely heroism and
true kindness of heart.
12mo. Picture Cover.
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co., Boston
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.