cried Joel. “O Polly! I hope he took a big stick and whacked ’em.”
“Oh, no,--no!” cried Phronsie, the tears beginning to come into her
brown eyes; “poor little brown mousies. Please, Polly don’t let him
hurt them.”
“Well, he sha’n’t hurt them,” said Polly, relenting. Davie twisted
about very uncomfortably, longing for Polly to make the naughty little
brown mice give back Mr. Periwinkle’s pink and white sticks for Mrs.
Periwinkle and the little Periwinkleses. But he couldn’t go against
Phronsie; so he swallowed his disappointment, and said, “Do let the
little brown mice go, Polly.”
“Well, I will,” said Polly, amid howls of disapproval by Joel. “Well,
when Mr. Periwinkle said that, out jumped Mr. Father Brown Mouse, and
Mrs. Mother Brown Mouse, and the two little brown mice, and each had a
pink or a white stick in his mouth, and away they ran for their hole
under the counter.”
Phronsie leaned back in Polly’s lap quite satisfied.
“Was it a white stick Mr. Father Brown Mouse had in his mouth?” asked
Joel, smothering his disappointment as best he could.
“Yes, he had the white one,” said Polly, smiling at him.
“Well, Mrs. Mother Brown Mouse got the best anyway,” said Davie; “she
got the pink one.”
“Hulloa!” cried Ben rushing in, his face all aglow. “Well, I declare,
if you are not all up in a bunch in this dark corner. Aren’t you going
to light a candle?”
Phronsie jumped out of Polly’s lap, where she was nestling like a
little bird, and rushed tumultuously up to him. “O Bensie!” she
screamed, clasping her hands; “we’ve had pink and white sticks, and
poor, sweet little brown mousies, and I liked ’em, I did,” she cried.
XI.
THE OLD STAGE-COACH.
“G’lang!” shouted Joel; “’twas just like Mr. Tisbett’s, I know,
Polly--wasn’t it?” he screamed, coming up bright and shining after a
race around the kitchen, in which he cracked an imaginary whip, and
called to a make-believe pair of horses that were prancing this way and
that and causing him no end of trouble.
“Yes,” said Polly; “it was something like Mr. Tisbett’s.”
“Make it just _exactly_ like his,” begged Joel, crowding up to Polly.
“Take care, Joe,” she warned; “you most made me upset that dish of
potatoes. Go away now like a good boy, until I get ready to tell the
story;” and she bustled off into the pantry again.
[Illustration: “Take care, Joe,” she warned.]
Joel set up another prancing around the kitchen. This time little Davie
joined in; and Phronsie came flying up in the rear, with very red
cheeks and Seraphina upside down in her arms.
“Goodness me!” exclaimed Polly, coming out again with both hands full.
“What a racket!”
“It’s Mr. Tisbett’s stage-coach,” announced Joel with a flourish, and
cracking his whip. “Hooray, there--get out of the way or you’ll be run
over! Any passengers?--want to get in, ma’am?”--with a bow to Polly.
“No,” said Polly; “thank you, I’m not going away anywhere to-day, Mr.
Tisbett.”
“G’lang then!” and away they swept off rattling and lumbering along,
and Polly was left in peace to get supper; for Mamsie would come home
tired and hungry before long.
But at last everything was ready; and the children, tired of play,
began to tease Polly for the story she had promised them; and Joel
drove Mr. Tisbett’s big stage-coach into the corner, and tied the
horses fast.
So Polly had to begin it right away. “Well, you know I told you it was
a big stage-coach.”
“Yes, yes, we know,” said Joel, flopping down on a cricket, and folding
his chubby hands. “Now go on.”
“You see, there were four horses to this stage-coach,” announced Polly,
watching to see the effect of this on Joel.
“Whickets!” cried Joel, springing off from his cricket. “O
Polly--_four_ horses!”
“Yes, there were,” declared Polly, “four horses,--two black ones and
two white ones.”
Joel stood perfectly still, and did not speak a word for several
minutes, quite overcome at this. So Polly seized the opportunity to
rush along as fast as she could in the story. “Well, and there was a
funny old man who drove the stage-coach. He wasn’t in the least like
our Mr. Tisbett; he was little and round, and he had a squeaky voice;
and he always said, ‘Pay me your money before you get in, ma’am,’ like
this,” said Polly, her voice going up in a funny little squeal, “which
isn’t the leastest bit in the world like our nice, good Mr. Tisbett.”
“He lets me ride sometimes when I don’t pay any money,” said little
Davie reflectively.
“And once,” said Phronsie, pushing back her yellow hair to gaze into
Polly’s face, “he let Mamsie and me ride oh--away far off--up to the
store, I guess.”
“I know,” said Polly, “he did, Pet. Oh! our Mr. Tisbett is just as
dear as he can be. Well, this stage-driver was sometimes just like a
snapping-turtle. I guess he had the tooth-ache, maybe.”
“Oh, dear me!” said David, with a lively remembrance of his experience
in that direction.
“Anyway, he was cross sometimes,” said Polly; “so, you see, people
didn’t say much to him; but they just paid down their money into his
hands, and hopped in as soon as ever they could.”
“How do you know two of the horses were black?” demanded Joel abruptly,
and coming up behind her.
“Oh! goodness me, Joe, how you scared me!” exclaimed Polly with a jump.
“Why, because I make ’em so in the story.”
“Were they big? and did they dance and prance like this?” demanded
Joel, kicking out behind, and then going through as wonderful
evolutions as he thought his steeds could accomplish if he held the
reins.
“Yes, I s’pose they could do everything,” said Polly; “but I want to
tell the story now.”
“When I’m a big man I’m going to be a stage-driver,” announced Joel in
a loud voice, “and I shall have six horses; so there, Polly Pepper.”
“Well, one day this great big stage-coach I’m telling you about,” said
Polly, hurrying on with the story, as it was almost time for Mamsie to
come, “was just as full as it could be, and there were two people upon
the box with the funny old driver.”
[Illustration: The old stage-coach.]
“That’s me--one of ’em is,” declared Joel; “and you--you may sit up
there too, Dave.”
“Yes, I’m going to sit there too,” said little David, hugging himself
in great satisfaction.
“There was a fat old woman who took up most of one whole seat; and she
had a parrot in a big cage, tied over with a newspaper, all except a
hole at the top so she could breathe. And the old woman kept leaning
over and peeping into this hole, and asking, ‘Hey, pretty Polly; how
are you now?’ and Polly Parrot always screamed back, ‘Polly wants a
cracker,--Polly wants a cracker.’”
“And didn’t anybody give her a cracker, Polly?” asked Phronsie.
“No,” said Polly, “they didn’t. Well, and”--
“Why didn’t somebody give her a cracker?” persisted Phronsie gravely.
“Oh! because they didn’t have any, and then--besides, oh, she had
plenty of seeds in her cage. Well, so”--
“Did she like seeds?” asked Phronsie, pulling Polly’s arm gently to
make her pay attention.
“Yes, I guess so,” said Polly absently. “Well, so you see”--
“Please let somebody give her a cracker, Polly,” said Phronsie in a
grieved little voice that made Polly stop at once.
“Oh! I will, Pet,” cried Polly at sight of her face. “Yes indeed, that
old green parrot shall have a cracker. The little thin man in the
corner of the stage-coach felt in his pocket, and he found one, and he
gave it to her.”
“I think he was nice,” said Phronsie, in great relief.
“Well, let me see--where was I?” said Polly, wrinkling her brows. “Oh!
well, in the other side of the stage-coach, sitting with their backs to
the horses”--
“Two of them were black and two were white,” said Joel.
“Yes;” Polly hurried on to get him off from the horses; “well, there
were three boys crowded into the seat; and they had a basket they were
carrying to their grandmother, and there was a chicken-pie in it.”
“Oh, my!” exclaimed all the little Peppers together.
“Yes; and it was rich, and fat, and juicy,” said Polly, for her life
not being able to keep from saying it.
“O Polly! I want some, I do,” broke in little David imploringly. Joel
was just going to say so himself, but he caught Polly’s eye.
“Well, you can’t have any,” she said grimly. And she set her teeth
together hard. How splendidly she could make a chicken-pie if she ever
had the chance! Why couldn’t the little brown house ever have anything?
And for a moment she drooped her shoulders in a sorry little fashion,
and all the brightness went out of her round face.
“We never have anything,” said little Davie plaintively.
“Never,” said Phronsie sadly, shaking her yellow head. And there they
sat, two sorry little figures, just ready to cry.
“Be still,” said Joel, with a savage pinch on Davie’s arm.
“Ow!”
“Well, you’re making Polly sick.”
At the word “sick” Phronsie raised her head. “Are you sick, Polly?”
she cried, getting into her lap.
“No; that is--I was naughty,” said Polly, waking out of her dream.
“Oh, you’re not naughty, Polly,” cried Phronsie, kissing her. “You
couldn’t be.”
“Yes, I was,” declared Polly; “just as naughty as I could be, and I
ought to be put in the corner.”
The idea of Polly’s being put in the corner so astonished the children
that no one spoke, so she plunged into the story as fast as she could.
“Well, now, you know the little thin man I told you about over in the
other corner, who gave Polly parrot a cracker, had a”--
“Yes, I know,” said Phronsie, patting her pinafore in a satisfied way.
“He was a nice man, Polly, and I like him.”
“Well, he had a big black dog with him, and it was under his seat.”
“Oh, dear!” cried all the children together.
“Yes; well, there were some other passengers in the stage-coach, and”--
“Never mind about them, tell about the big black dog,” begged Joel.
“Yes; tell about the big black dog,” begged the other two.
“Well, I will. Now, the big black dog smelt the chicken-pie, you see,
before the stage-coach had rattled on many miles.”
“Oh, dear!” cried the children.
“Yes; you see all these passengers were going down to Bayberry, and it
was an awfully cold day, and everybody was all wrapped up in big woolen
shawls, and they had their caps pulled down over their ears, and they
all had mittens on. Oh! and the chicken-pie dish was hot when the boys’
mother gave it to them to carry to their grandmother. It was just out
of the oven, you know; so they took turns in carrying the basket on
their knees. It kept their hands warmer, you know.”
“That was nice,” said little Davie reflectively.
“Wasn’t it? Well, they were all going along as fine as you
please,” cried Polly, racing on in the story, “when all of a
sudden,--Whoa!--Gee--whoop--whoa-a!” called Polly in a very loud voice;
and she pulled hard on an imaginary pair of reins, and held in two
pairs of fiery steeds.
“I can stop ’em better’n that,” screamed Joel, springing to his feet.
“Here, give me the reins.” So he whoaed, and pulled, and roared, and at
last announced that the horses were brought up standing, and the big
stage-coach was quite still.
“Thank you, Joel,” said Polly; “well, then, down jumps the fat little
cross stage-driver from his box, and he comes up to the door. ‘Fly out
of here,’ he says, ‘every one of you.’
“‘What must we get out for?’ asked the woman with the parrot. You see,
she was very fat and she didn’t wish to be hurried out in this way.
“‘Get out this minute,’ roared the little cross old driver, ‘or I’ll
tumble the stage over, ma’am.’
“So she got out with a great deal of trouble, and set her cage, with
the parrot in it, all tied up in a newspaper, except a hole in the top
for him to breathe by”--
“Please don’t let them spill out his cracker, Polly,” said Phronsie
anxiously.
“No, I won’t, Pet. You see, the little thin man stuck it in very tight
in the bars over the seed-cup, Phronsie.”
“Polly, I like that little thin man very much, I do,” declared Phronsie
in a burst of enthusiasm.
“So do I, Phronsie. Well, and then the other passengers all got out;
they had to, you see, because the cross little stage-driver was
screaming and roaring at them, you know, and last of all the three boys
with the chicken-pie-basket got out. And they set it on the grass, very
carefully under a bush by the roadside; and then they ran with all the
rest of the people to see what the matter was with the stage-coach.
Everybody ran but the big black dog.”
“Now I know that he is going to eat up the boys’ grandmother’s
chicken-pie,” cried Joel--“oh, dear me!”
“Hush,--don’t tell things till I get to ’em, Joe,” cried Polly, who
dearly loved to announce all the startling surprises in her stories
with as much of a flourish as possible.
“Well, I most know he is,” said Joel, subsiding into a loud whisper.
“Ain’t he, Polly?”
“Maybe. Well, now, you know everybody was peering and looking this way
and that, all over the big stage-coach. ‘I don’t see anything broken,’
said the little thin man, getting down on his knees on the hard frozen
ground to examine it underneath.
“‘And neither do I,’ said the big fat woman very angrily; ‘and I’m just
going to get in again.’
“‘No you won’t, either, ma’am,’ declared the cross little stage-driver;
‘for this is my stage-coach, and I tell you I heard something crack.’
“‘’Twas a piece of a stone in the road, I guess,’ said the thin little
man, getting up from his knees, and brushing the dirt off.
“‘Or a stick you ran over most likely,’ said another.
“But the little old stage-driver said, ‘No,’ very crossly; ‘it wasn’t
either of these things.’ It sounded just like the bottom of his
stage-coach cracking, and he wasn’t going to have it smashed. And he
kept them all out there in the cold, till he looked over and under and
around it very carefully. At last, as he couldn’t find anything, not
even the smallest, tiniest bit of a crack, he let them get in again. So
the big fat woman picked up her parrot in the cage, with the newspaper
tied over it, all except a hole in the top for it to breathe through,
and everybody else got their things and clambered in,--all but the
three boys, who couldn’t find the chicken-pie they were carrying to
their grandmother, that was under the bush by the roadside.”
“Oh, dear me!” they all exclaimed, while Phronsie clasped her small
hands in despair, and sat quite still.
“No, it wasn’t there,” declared Polly, shaking her brown head,--“not so
much as a scrap of the crust, nor a bit of the dish, nor a single speck
of the basket. And oh, how those boys did feel!”
“What did they do?” cried Joel, feeling such a calamity not to be borne.
“They just couldn’t do anything,” said Polly. “And down they sat on
three stones by the roadside. And everybody had stopped getting in,
and turned to help look for the pie. And pretty soon they all heard a
dreadful noise.”
“What was it?” asked Phronsie fearfully.
“Oh! now I know it is the chicken-pie coming back; and those three boys
can take it to their grandmother,” exclaimed little David joyfully.
“Hoh--hoh--a chicken-pie can’t come back like that,” said Joel, with a
snort.
“And the little thin man came skurrying out of the bushes, and dragging
after him his big black dog,” said Polly with a fine flourish, “who
smelt of chicken-pie all over his face; and he wouldn’t look at
anybody, and especially the three boys sitting on their stones by
the roadside; but he rolled his eyes up like this,” Polly looked off
sideways, and up at an imaginary sky; “and his master, the thin little
man, said, and he dragged him by his collar up in front of those boys,
‘Now, sir, say you’re sorry you’ve eaten up all that pie;’ and that dog
said, ‘Bark--bark!’ just as loud, oh, you can’t think!”
Phronsie screamed in great excitement, and clapped her hands together
to think of the big dog. Then she grew very sober. “But what will the
boys do, Polly?”
“And the grandmother?” finished Joel and David together.
“Oh! the little thin man said, ‘Hold your hands, boys;’ and then he
dropped one--two--three--four--five--six gold pieces into them.”
“Gold?” screamed Joel excitedly.
“Yes, real, true shiny gold,” cried Polly, nodding away; “enough to buy
two dozen chicken-pies, all richer and juicier and better than the one
the boys were carrying to their grandmother.”
“‘Now let’s all hop into the stage-coach,’ cried the little thin
man--Why, here’s Mamsie!”
XII.
MR. NUTCRACKER; THE STORY THAT WASN’T A STORY.
“Come on!” whooped Joel, rushing into the kitchen, and tossing his cap
in the corner; “my chores are all done; now tell the story, Polly, tell
the story!” he clamored.
“Oh, dear me!” began Polly in a vexed tone, and looking up at the old
clock in the corner. Then she remembered what Mamsie had said once, “If
you promise anything, do it cheerfully.” “I will, Joey,” she finished,
a smile running over her face; “just wait one minute;” and she flew
into the buttery.
“I can’t wait a single bit of a minute,” grumbled Joel.
But Polly was back almost before he could say another word. “Now, says
I,” she cried, “we’ll have the story, Joe.”
“It’s got to be a long one,” declared Joel, a remark he never failed
to make on like occasions.
“All right,” said Polly gayly. “Now, I thought up something you’ll
like, I guess, for this story; it’s about Mr. Nutcracker!”
“Jolly!” exclaimed Joel, hugely pleased; “I guess I shall, Polly;” and
ripples of satisfaction ran over his round cheeks. “Well, do hurry!”
“I’ve got to do some work,” said Polly, pausing a moment to think;
“I can’t ever sit down to tell stories in the daytime without I’m
working,--ever in all this world, Joe Pepper. And Mamsie has just
taken all the sacks home to Mr. Atkins; she finished ’em last night.
Whatever’ll I do?” she wrinkled her brows, and stood lost in thought.
“You might mend our stockings,” said Joel, knocking one set of
toes impatiently against the other. “Do hurry, Polly, and think of
something,” he implored, his face falling.
“Mamsie’s done those,” said Polly. “I peeked into the mending-basket
after breakfast; and they’re all finished and rolled up into little
balls.”
“Well, come on, then,” said Joel, thoroughly out of patience; “if there
isn’t any work, do tell the story, Polly.”
“It doesn’t seem right to be sitting down in the morning, without I am
working,” said Polly slowly; “I don’t know when I’ve done it. But there
really isn’t any sewing; and the biscuits I was going to make can be
done just as well by and by; so I s’pose I can tell you the story now,
Joey.”
“Come on, then!” shouted Joel, throwing himself flat on the floor, and
drumming with his heels. “Do hurry up, Polly Pepper!”
So Polly sat down on the floor, feeling still very queer to be telling
stories in the daytime without a needle in her fingers, and Joel
squirmed along and laid his head in her lap. “I’m glad you ain’t
sewing,” he declared in great satisfaction; “’cause now you can smooth
my hair.”
So Polly smoothed and patted his stubby head in a way that Joel liked
to have Mamsie do, and presently she began:
[Illustration: So Polly smoothed and patted his stubby head in a way
that Joel liked.]
“Mr. Nutcracker had a house”--
Rap--rap--came somebody’s fingers on the old green door.
“Oh, bother!” cried Joel, jumping up. And Polly skipped, too, in
surprise; for visitors didn’t come very often to the little brown house
door, and they both ran as fast as they could to open it.
An old man stood on the flat door-stone, leaning both hands on a knobby
old stick; and his head, underneath his torn hat, was bobbing as he
trembled with age. The children stared at him in dismay. “I’m very
hungry,” he said, looking at Polly; “I haven’t eaten anything to-day;
can’t you give me a bite?”
Oh, dear! Polly looked at Joel in dismay. There wasn’t anything in the
house, except some cold potatoes that Mrs. Pepper was going to fry for
dinner, and Polly’s biscuits, as she called them by courtesy, that
were still to be made, as the bread had given out.
“We haven’t anything”--she began, in a faltering voice.
“Why, Polly Pepper!” exclaimed Joel loudly, and crowding past her to
get a better view of their visitor; “we have too--lots and lots;” for
Joel never could bear to have people think they were poor.
“Where is it?” asked Polly, turning on him. Then she flew around again,
for the old man was sinking down on the flat stone. “Oh, dear me! don’t
please, poor old man,” she begged, trying to help him up to his feet
again.
“I’m very hungry,” he quavered, shaking over his stick.
“Come into the house,” said Polly, with both hands under his arm--“Joe,
take his other arm--and you can sit in our Mamsie’s big chair; it’s
splendid, and it will rest you.”
The old man nodded, and set his poor trembling feet just where Polly
told him to; and at last, Joel puffing and pushing on his side with a
great deal of importance, he was helped into the kitchen, and set down
in Mother Pepper’s big calico-covered chair over in the corner.
“That’s so nice,” he said with a deep sigh, and resting his head on his
shaking hands.
“Joel,” said Polly, drawing off that individual into the entry with
great difficulty, as he had no eyes or ears for anything but their
visitor, “I’m afraid he’s going to die, he’s so very hungry. I must get
him something to eat. Now I’m going to bake my biscuits; Mamsie’d let
me give him some of those, I know.”
“No, no!” cried Joel; “you’ve got to tell me about Mr. Nutcracker,
Polly,” seizing her gown.
“For shame, Joe!” cried Polly warmly, “when that poor old man is maybe
going to die because he hasn’t had anything to eat. What would Mamsie
say if she could hear you?”
Joel ducked his stubby head, and kicked the floor with his toes in a
shamefaced way. “Well, you may, Polly,” he cried; “and I’ll help you,”
he added, brightening up, and running into the kitchen after her.
“So you shall,” cried Polly briskly. “See if there’s plenty of wood in
the box, Joe, the first thing,” as she hurried into the pantry to get
the baking materials.
“Yes; there is,” declared Joel, poking his head back of the stove to
investigate; “lots and lots, Polly Pepper. I’m going to put some more
in;” and he set up immediately a great clatter that told the work was
well under way.
“Don’t put too much in, Joe,” warned Polly, knowing his energies in
that direction; “you will have the house a-fire. Goodness me, do take
out that last stick,” as she came in with the bread-bowl.
“Can’t,” said Joe; “it’s got little sparks on the end.”
“Then I’ll blow ’em out,” said Polly, setting down the bread-bowl on
the table; and running over to the stove, she pulled out, to Joel’s
extreme dislike, the big stick he had last crammed in, and suited the
action to the word. “There, you’ve got plenty in already, goodness
knows, Joe Pepper!” she declared, getting up with a very red face. “You
know Mamsie doesn’t like us to crowd the stove tight chock full. It
burns splendidly, this new one does, and we’ll have the chimney a-fire
if we don’t look out.”
“The chimney ain’t a-fire,” grunted Joel. “I’ll run out and see.” And
he dashed toward the door.
“Come back: of course it isn’t now,” said Polly with a laugh, and
flying over to the baking-table. “Oh, dear me! I ought not to
laugh when that poor old man is hungry.” Then she suddenly dropped
everything, and ran over to him trembling away in Mamsie’s big chair.
“We haven’t anything in the house to eat but some cold potatoes,” she
said, the color all over her face; “and our mother is going to fry
those for our dinner when she comes home. But I’m going to bake some
biscuits, if you _could_ wait, poor old man. They’ll soon be done; for
we’ve got a new stove, and it bakes splendidly.” Then Polly hurried
back to her table, while the old man mumbled something down in his
throat, she couldn’t tell what, he shook so.
“It’s good Phronsie and David are over to Grandma Bascom’s,” said
Polly, flying at her work; “for she’d worry dreadfully over that poor
old man, and she’d tease me to hurry and bake ’em fast, so I couldn’t
do a thing. There, now that pan’s ready for the oven.”
“Let me carry ’em and put ’em in,” cried Joel, who, having given up
his plan to rush out and investigate the old chimney from the small
door-yard, was now hanging over Polly’s baking-table, and dividing his
attention upon her work and the old visitor over in the corner. “Let
me, Polly,” springing up, and holding out both hands.
“Oh, I’m afraid!” began Polly. Then remembering how he had to wait for
the story, she added hastily, “Well, be careful, Joe,” as she put the
pan into his outstretched hands.