FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND HOW THEY GREW
By Margaret Sidney
To the Memory of MY MOTHER;
wise in counsel--tender in judgment, and in all charity
--strengthful in Christian faith and purpose
--I dedicate, with reverence, this simple book.
CONTENTS
A HOME VIEW
MAKING HAPPINESS FOR MAMSIE
MAMSIE'S BIRTHDAY
TROUBLE FOR THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE
MORE TROUBLE
HARD DAYS FOR POLLY
THE CLOUD OVER THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE
JOEL'S TURN
SUNSHINE AGAIN
A THREATENED BLOW
SAFE
NEW FRIENDS
PHRONSIE PAYS A DEBT OF GRATITUDE
A LETTER TO JASPER
JOLLY DAYS
GETTING A CHRISTMAS FOR THE LITTLE ONES
CHRISTMAS BELLS!
EDUCATION AHEAD
BRAVE WORK AND THE REWARD
POLLY IS COMFORTED
PHRONSIE
GETTING READY FOR MAMSIE AND THE BOYS
WHICH TREATS OF A GOOD MANY MATTERS
POLLY'S DISMAL MORNING
POLLY'S BIG BUNDLE
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS
A HOME VIEW
The little old kitchen had quieted down from the bustle and confusion
of mid-day; and now, with its afternoon manners on, presented a holiday
aspect, that as the principal room in the brown house, it was eminently
proper it should have. It was just on the edge of the twilight; and the
little Peppers, all except Ben, the oldest of the flock, were enjoying
a “breathing spell,” as their mother called it, which meant some
quiet work suitable for the hour. All the “breathing spell” they could
remember however, poor things; for times were always hard with them
nowadays; and since the father died, when Phronsie was a baby, Mrs.
Pepper had had hard work to scrape together money enough to put bread
into her children's mouths, and to pay the rent of the little brown
house.
But she had met life too bravely to be beaten down now. So with a stout
heart and a cheery face, she had worked away day after day at making
coats, and tailoring and mending of all descriptions; and she had seen
with pride that couldn't be concealed, her noisy, happy brood growing
up around her, and filling her heart with comfort, and making the little
brown house fairly ring with jollity and fun.
“Poor things!” she would say to herself, “they haven't had any bringing
up; they've just scrambled up!” And then she would set her lips together
tightly, and fly at her work faster than ever. “I must get schooling for
them some way, but I don't see how!”
Once or twice she had thought, “Now the time is coming!” but it never
did: for winter shut in very cold, and it took so much more to feed and
warm them, that the money went faster than ever. And then, when the way
seemed clear again, the store changed hands, so that for a long time she
failed to get her usual supply of sacks and coats to make; and that
made sad havoc in the quarters and half-dollars laid up as her nest egg.
But--“Well, it'll come some time,” she would say to herself; “because it
must!” And so at it again she would fly, brisker than ever.
“To help mother,” was the great ambition of all the children, older
and younger; but in Polly's and Ben's souls, the desire grew so
overwhelmingly great as to absorb all lesser thoughts. Many and vast
were their secret plans, by which they were to astonish her at some
future day, which they would only confide--as they did everything
else--to one another. For this brother and sister were everything to
each other, and stood loyally together through “thick and thin.”
Polly was ten, and Ben one year older; and the younger three of the
“Five Little Peppers,” as they were always called, looked up to them
with the intensest admiration and love. What they failed to do, couldn't
very well be done by any One!
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Polly as she sat over in the corner by the window
helping her mother pull out basting threads from a coat she had just
finished, and giving an impatient twitch to the sleeve, “I do wish we
could ever have any light--just as much as we want!”
“You don't need any light to see these threads,” said Mrs. Pepper,
winding up hers carefully, as she spoke, on an old spool. “Take care,
Polly, you broke that; thread's dear now.”
“I couldn't help it,” said Polly, vexedly; “it snapped; everything's
dear now, it seems to me! I wish we could have--oh! ever an' ever so
many candles; as many as we wanted. I'd light 'em all, so there! and
have it light here one night, anyway!”
“Yes, and go dark all the rest of the year, like as anyway,” observed
Mrs. Pepper, stopping to untie a knot. “Folks who do so never have any
candles,” she added, sententiously.
“How many'd you have, Polly?” asked Joel, curiously, laying down his
hammer, and regarding her with the utmost anxiety.
“Oh, two hundred!” said Polly, decidedly. “I'd have two hundred, all in
a row!”
“Two hundred candles!” echoed Joel, in amazement. “My whockety! what a
lot!”
“Don't say such dreadful words, Joel,” put in Polly, nervously, stopping
to pick up her spool of basting thread that was racing away all by
itself; “tisn't nice.”
“Tisn't worse than to wish you'd got things you haven't,” retorted Joel.
“I don't believe you'd light 'em all at once,” he added, incredulously.
“Yes, I would too!” replied Polly, reckessly; “two hundred of 'em, if I
had a chance; all at once, so there, Joey Pepper!”
“Oh,” said little Davie, drawing a long sigh. “Why, 'twould be just like
heaven, Polly! but wouldn't it cost money, though!”
“I don't care,” said Polly, giving a flounce in her chair, which snapped
another thread; “oh dear me! I didn't mean to, mammy; well, I wouldn't
care how much money it cost, we'd have as much light as we wanted, for
once; so!”
“Mercy!” said Mrs. Pepper, “you'd have the house afire! Two hundred
candles! who ever heard of such a thing!”
“Would they burn?” asked Phronsie, anxiously, getting up from the floor
where she was crouching with David, overseeing Joel nail on the cover of
an old box; and going to Polly's side she awaited her answer patiently.
“Burn?” said Polly. “There, that's done now, mamsie dear!” And she put
the coat, with a last little pat, into her mother's lap. “I guess they
would, Phronsie pet.” And Polly caught up the little girl, and spun
round and round the old kitchen till they were both glad to stop.
“Then,” said Phronsie, as Polly put her down, and stood breathless after
her last glorious spin, “I do so wish we might, Polly; oh, just this
very one minute!”
And Phronsie clasped her fat little hands in rapture at the thought.
“Well,” said Polly, giving a look up at the old clock in the corner;
“deary me! it's half-past five; and most time for Ben to come home!”
Away she flew to get supper. So for the next few moments nothing was
heard but the pulling out of the old table into the middle of the floor,
the laying the cloth, and all the other bustle attendant upon the
being ready for Ben. Polly went skipping around, cutting the bread,
and bringing dishes; only stopping long enough to fling some scraps of
reassuring nonsense to the two boys, who were thoroughly dismayed at
being obliged to remove their traps into a corner.
Phronsie still stood just where Polly left her. Two hundred candles! oh!
what could it mean! She gazed up to the old beams overhead, and around
the dingy walls, and to the old black stove, with the fire nearly out,
and then over everything the kitchen contained, trying to think how it
would seem. To have it bright and winsome and warm! to suit Polly--“oh!”
she screamed.
“Goodness!” said Polly, taking her head out of the old cupboard in the
corner, “how you scared me, Phronsie!”
“Would they ever go out?” asked the child gravely, still standing where
Polly left her.
“What?” asked Polly, stopping with a dish of cold potatoes in her hand.
“What, Phronsie?”
“Why, the candles,” said the child, “the ever-an'-ever so many pretty
lights!”
“Oh, my senses!” cried Polly, with a little laugh, “haven't you
forgotten that! Yes--no, that is, Phronsie, if we could have 'em at all,
we wouldn't ever let 'em go out!”
“Not once?” asked Phronsie, coming up to Polly with a little skip, and
nearly upsetting her, potatoes and all--“not once, Polly, truly?”
“No, not forever-an'-ever,” said Polly; “take care, Phronsie! there goes
a potato; no, we'd keep 'em always!”
“No, you don't want to,” said Mrs. Pepper, coming out of the bedroom in
time to catch the last words; “they won't be good to-morrow; better have
them to-night, Polly.”
“Ma'am!” said Polly, setting down her potato-dish on the table, and
staring at her mother with all her might--“have what, mother?”
“Why, the potatoes, to be sure,” replied Mrs. Pepper; “didn't you say
you better keep them, child?”
“Twasn't potatoes--at all,” said Polly, with a little gasp; “twas--dear
me! here's Ben!” For the door opened, and Phronsie, with a scream of
delight, bounded into Ben's arms.
“It's just jolly,” said Ben, coming in, his chubby face all aglow, and
his big blue eyes shining so honest and true; “it's just jolly to get
home! supper ready, Polly?”
“Yes,” said Polly; “that is--all but--” and she dashed off for
Phronsie's eating apron.
“Sometime,” said Phronsie, with her mouth half full, when the meal was
nearly over, “we're going to be awful rich; we are, Ben, truly!”
“No?” said Ben, affecting the most hearty astonishment; “you don't say
so, Chick!”
“Yes,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head very wisely at him, and
diving down into her cup of very weak milk and water to see if Polly had
put any sugar in by mistake--a proceeding always expectantly observed.
“Yes, we are really, Bensie, very dreadful rich!”
“I wish we could be rich now, then,” said Ben, taking another generous
slice of the brown bread; “in time for mamsie's birthday,” and he cast a
sorrowful glance at Polly.
“I know,” said Polly; “oh dear! if we only could celebrate it!”
“I don't want any other celebration,” said Mrs. Pepper, beaming on
them so that a little flash of sunshine seemed to hop right down on the
table, “than to look round on you all; I'm rich now, and that's a fact!”
“Mamsie don't mind her five bothers,” cried Polly, jumping up and
running to hug her mother; thereby producing a like desire in all the
others, who immediately left their seats and followed her example.
“Mother's rich enough,” ejaculated Mrs. Pepper; her bright, black eyes
glistening with delight, as the noisy troop filed back to their bread
and potatoes; “if we can only keep together, dears, and grow up good, so
that the little brown house won't be ashamed of us, that's all I ask.”
“Well,” said Polly, in a burst of confidence to Ben, after the table had
been pushed back against the wall, the dishes nicely washed, wiped, and
set up neatly in the cupboard, and all traces of the meal cleared away;
“I don't care; let's try and get a celebration, somehow, for mamsie!”
“How are you going to do it?” asked Ben, who was of a decidedly
practical turn of mind, and thus couldn't always follow Polly in her
flights of imagination.
“I don't know,” said Polly; “but we must some way.”
“Phoh! that's no good,” said Ben, disdainfully; then seeing Polly's
face, he added kindly: “let's think, though; and perhaps there'll be
some way.”
“Oh, I know,” cried Polly, in delight; “I know the very thing, Ben!
let's make her a cake; a big one, you know, and--”
“She'll see you bake it,” said Ben; “or else she'll smell it, and that'd
be just as bad.”
“No, she won't either,” replied Polly. “Don't you know she's going to
help Mrs. Henderson to-morrow; so there!”
“So she is,” said Ben; “good for you, Polly, you always think of
everything!”
“And then,” said Polly, with a comfortable little feeling at her heart
at Ben's praise, “why, we can have it all out of the way splendidly, you
know, when she comes home--and besides, Grandma Bascom'll tell me how.
You know we've only got brown flour, Ben; I mean to go right over and
ask her now.”
“Oh, no, you mustn't,” cried Ben, catching hold of her arm as she was
preparing to fly off. “Mammy'll find it out; better wait till to-morrow;
and besides Polly--” And Ben stopped, unwilling to dampen this
propitious beginning. “The stove'll act like everything, to-morrow! I
know 'twill; then what'll you do!”
“It sha'n't!” said Polly, running up to look it in the face; “if it
does, I'll shake it; the mean old thing!”
The idea of Polly's shaking the lumbering old black affair, sent Ben
into such a peal of laughter that it brought all the other children
running to the spot; and nothing would do but they must one and all, be
told the reason. So Polly and Ben took them into confidence, which
so elated them that half an hour after, when long past her bedtime,
Phronsie declared, “I'm not going to bed! I want to sit up like Polly!”
“Don't tease her,” whispered Polly to Ben, who thought she ought to go;
so she sat straight up on her little stool, winking like everything to
keep awake.
At last, as Polly was in the midst of one of her liveliest sallies, over
tumbled Phronsie, a sleepy little heap, upon the floor.
“I want--to go--to bed!” she said; “take me--Polly!”
“I thought so,” laughed Polly, and bundled her off into the bedroom.
MAKING HAPPINESS FOR MAMSIE
And so, the minute her mother had departed for the minister's house next
morning, and Ben had gone to his day's work, chopping wood for Deacon
Blodgett, Polly assembled her force around the old stove, and proceeded
to business. She and the children had been up betimes that morning to
get through with the work; and now, as they glanced around with a look
of pride on the neatly swept floor, the dishes all done, and everything
in order, the moment their mother's back was turned they began to
implore Polly to hurry and begin.
“It's most 'leven o'clock,” said Joel, who, having no work to do
outside, that day, was prancing around, wild to help along the
festivities; “it's most 'leven o'clock, Polly Pepper! you won't have it
done.”
“Oh, no; 'tisn't either, Joe;” said Polly, with a very flushed face, and
her arms full of kindlings, glancing up at the old clock as she spoke;
“tisn't but quarter of nine; there, take care, Phronsie! you can't lift
off the cover; do help her, Davie.”
“No; let me!” cried Joel, springing forward; “it's my turn; Dave got the
shingles; it's my turn, Polly.”
“So 'tis,” said Polly; “I forgot; there,” as she flung in the wood,
and poked it all up in a nice little heap coaxingly. “It can't help but
burn; what a cake we'll have for mamsie!”
“It'll be so big,” cried Phronsie, hopping around on one set of toes,
“that mamsie won't know what to do, will she, Polly?”
“No, I don't believe she will,” said Polly, gayly, stuffing in more
wood; “Oh, dear! there goes Ben's putty; it's all come out!”
“So it has,” said Joel, going around back of the stove to explore; and
then he added cheerfully, “it's bigger'n ever; oh! it's an awful big
hole, Polly!”
“Now, whatever shall we do!” said Polly, in great distress; “that
hateful old crack! and Ben's clear off to Deacon Blodgett's!”
“I'll run and get him,” cried Joel, briskly; “I'll bring him right home
in ten minutes.”
“Oh, no, you must not, Joe,” cried Polly in alarm; “it wouldn't ever be
right to take him off from his work; mamsie wouldn't like it.”
“What will you do, then?” asked Joel, pausing on his way to the door.
“I'm sure I don't know,” said Polly, getting down on her knees to
examine the crack; “I shall have to stuff it with paper, I s'pose.”
“'Twon't stay in,” said Joel, scornfully; “don't you know you stuffed it
before, last week?”
“I know,” said Polly, with a small sigh; and sitting down on the floor,
she remained quite still for a minute, with her two black hands thrust
out straight before her.
“Can't you fix it?” asked Davie, soberly, coming up; “then we can't have
the cake.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Polly, springing up quickly; “don't be afraid;
we're going to have that cake! There, you ugly old thing, you!” (this
to the stove) “see what you've done!” as two big tears flew out of
Phronsie's brown eyes at the direful prospect; and the sorrowful faces
of the two boys looked up into Polly's own, for comfort. “I can fix it,
I most know; do get some paper, Joe, as quick as you can.”
“Don't know where there is any,” said Joel, rummaging around; “it's all
tore up; 'xcept the almanac; can't I take that?”
“Oh dear, no!” cried Polly; “put it right back, Joe; I guess there's
some in the wood-shed.”
“There isn't either,” said little Davie, quickly; “Joel and I took it to
make kites with.”
“Oh dear,” groaned Polly; “I don't know what we shall do; unless,” as a
bright thought struck her, “you let me have the kites, boys.”
“Can't,” said Joel; “they're all flew away; and torn up.”
“Well, now, children,” said Polly, turning round impressively upon them,
the effect of which was heightened by the extremely crocky appearance
she had gained in her explorations, “we must have some paper, or
something to stop up that old hole with--some way, there!”
“I know,” said little Davie, “where we'll get it; it's upstairs;” and
without another word he flew out of the room, and in another minute he
put into Polly's hand an old leather boot-top, one of his most treasured
possessions. “You can chip it,” he said, “real fine, and then 'twill go
in.”
“So we can,” said Polly; “and you're a real good boy, Davie, to give it;
that's a splendid present to help celebrate for mamsie!”
“I'd a-given a boot-top,” said Joel, looking grimly at the precious bit
of leather which Polly was rapidly stripping into little bits, “if I'd
a-hed it; I don't have anything!”
“I know you would, Joey,” said Polly, kindly; “there now, you'll stay,
I guess!” as with the united efforts of the two boys, cheered on by
Phronsie's enthusiastic little crow of delight, the leather was crowded
into place, and the fire began to burn.
“Now, boys,” said Polly, getting up, and drawing a long breath, “I'm
going over to Grandma Bascom's to get her to tell me how to make the
cake; and you must stay and keep house.”
“I'm going to nail,” said Joel; “I've got lots to do.”
“All right,” said Polly, tying on her hood; “Phronsie'll love to watch
you; I won't be gone long,” and she was off.
“Grandma Bascom,” wasn't really the children's grandmother; only
everybody in the village called her so by courtesy. Her cottage was over
across the lane, and just a bit around the corner; and Polly flew along
and up to the door, fully knowing that now she would be helped out of
her difficulty. She didn't stop to knock, as the old lady was so deaf
she knew she wouldn't hear her, but opened the door and walked in.
Grandma was sweeping up the floor, already as neat as a pin; when she
saw Polly coming, she stopped, and leaned on her broom.
“How's your ma?” she asked, when Polly had said “good morning,” and then
hesitated.
“Oh, mammy's pretty well,” shouted Polly into the old lady's ear; “and
to-morrow's her birthday!”
“To-morrow'll be a bad day!” said grandma. “Oh, don't never say that.
You mustn't borrow trouble, child.”
“I didn't,” said Polly; “I mean--it's her birthday, grandma!” this last
so loud that grandma's cap-border vibrated perceptibly.
“The land's sakes 'tis!” cried Mrs. Bascom, delightedly; “you don't say
so!”
“Yes,” said Polly, skipping around the old lady, and giving her a small
hug; “and we're going to give her a surprise.”
“What is the matter with her eyes?” asked grandma, sharply, turning
around and facing her; “she's been a-sewin' too stiddy, hain't she?”
“A surprise!” shouted Polly, standing upon tiptoe, to bring her mouth on
a level with the old lady's ear; “a cake, grandma, a big one!”
“A cake!” exclaimed grandma, dropping the broom to settle her cap, which
Polly in her extreme endeavors to carry on the conversation, had knocked
slightly awry; “well, that'll be fine.”
“Yes,” said Polly, picking up the broom, and flinging off her hood
at the same time; “and, oh! won't you please tell me how to make it,
grandma!”
“To be sure; to be sure;” cried the old lady, delighted beyond measure
to give advice; “I've got splendid receets; I'll go get 'em right off,”
and she ambled to the door of the pantry.
“And I'll finish sweeping up,” said Polly, which grandma didn't hear;
so she took up the broom, and sent it energetically, and merrily flying
away to the tune of her own happy thoughts.
“Yes, they're right in here,” said grandma, waddling back with an old
tin teapot in her hand;--“goodness, child! what a dust you've kicked
up! that ain't the way to sweep.” And she took the broom out of Polly's
hand, who stood quite still in mortification.
“There,” she said, drawing it mildly over the few bits she could scrape
together, and gently coaxing them into a little heap; “that's the way;
and then they don't go all over the room.
“I'm sorry,” began poor Polly.
“'Tain't any matter,” said Mrs. Bascom kindly, catching sight of Polly's
discomfited face; “tain't a mite of matter; you'll sweep better next
time; now let's go to the cake;” and putting the broom into the corner,
she waddled back again to the table, followed by Polly, and proceeded
to turn out the contents of the teapot, in search of just the right
“receet.”
But the right one didn't seem to appear; not even after the teapot was
turned upside down and shaken by both grandma's and Polly's anxious
hands. Every other “receet” seemed to tumble out gladly, and stare them
in the face--little dingy rolls of yellow paper, with an ancient odor
of spice still clinging to them; but all efforts to find this particular
one failed utterly.
“Won't some other one do?” asked Polly, in the interval of fruitless
searching, when grandma bewailed and lamented, and wondered, “where I
could a put it!”
“No, no, child,” answered the old lady; “now, where do you s'pose 'tis!”
and she clapped both hands to her head, to see if she could possibly
remember; “no, no, child,” she repeated. “Why, they had it down to my
niece Mirandy's weddin'--'twas just elegant! light as a feather; and
'twan't rich either,” she added; “no eggs, nor--”
“Oh, I couldn't have eggs;” cried Polly, in amazement at the thought of
such luxury; “and we've only brown flour, grandma, you know.”
“Well, you can make it of brown,” said Mrs. Bascom, kindly; “when the
raisins is in 'twill look quite nice.”
“Oh, we haven't any raisins,” answered Polly.
“Haven't any raisins!” echoed grandma, looking at her over her
spectacles; “what are you goin' to put in?”
“Oh--cinnamon,” said Polly, briskly; “we've got plenty of that,
and--it'll be good, I guess, grandma!” she finished, anxiously; “anyway,
we must have a cake; there isn't any other way to celebrate mamsie's
birthday.”
“Well, now,” said grandma, bustling around; “I shouldn't be surprised
if you had real good luck, Polly. And your ma'll set ever so much by it;
now, if we only could find that receet!” and returning to the charge she
commenced to fumble among her bits of paper again; “I never shall forget
how they eat on it; why, there wasn't a crumb left, Polly!”
“Oh, dear,” said Polly, to whom “Mirandy's wedding cake” now became the
height of her desires; “if you only can find it! can't I climb up and
look on the pantry shelves?”
“Maybe 'tis there,” said Mrs. Bascom, slowly; “you might try; sometimes
I do put things away, so's to have 'em safe.”
So Polly got an old wooden chair, according to direction, and then
mounted up on it, with grandma below to direct, she handed down bowl
after bowl, interspersed at the right intervals with cracked teacups and
handleless pitchers. But at the end of these explorations, “Mirandy's
wedding cake” was further off than ever.
“Tain't a mite o' use,” at last said the old lady, sinking down in
despair, while Polly perched on the top of the chair and looked at her;
“I must a-give it away.”
“Can't I have the next best one, then?” asked Polly, despairingly,
feeling sure that “Mirandy's wedding cake” would have celebrated the day
just right; “and I must hurry right home, please,” she added, getting
down from the chair, and tying on her hood; “or Phronsie won't know what
to do.”
So another “receet” was looked over, and selected; and with many
charges, and bits of advice not to let the oven get too hot, etc., etc.,
Polly took the precious bit in her hand, and flew over home.
“Now, we've got to--” she began, bounding in merrily, with dancing eyes;
but her delight had a sudden stop, as she brought up so suddenly at
the sight within, that she couldn't utter another word. Phronsie was
crouching, a miserable little heap of woe, in one corner of the mother's
big calico-covered rocking-chair, and crying bitterly, while Joel hung
over her in the utmost concern.
“What's the matter?” gasped Polly. Flinging the “receet” on the table,
she rushed up to the old chair and was down on her knees before it, her
arms around the little figure. Phronsie turned, and threw herself into
Polly's protecting arms, who gathered her up, and sitting down in the
depths of the chair, comforted her as only she could.
“What is it?” she asked of Joel, who was nervously begging Phronsie not
to cry; “now, tell me all that's happened.”
“I was a-nailing,” began Joel; “oh dear! don't cry, Phronsie! do stop
her, Polly.”
“Go on,” said Polly, hoarsely.
“I was a-nailing,” began Joel, slowly; “and--and--Davie's gone to get
the peppermint,” he added, brightening up.
“Tell me, Joe,” said Polly, “all that's been going on,” and she looked
sternly into his face; “or I'll get Davie to,” as little Davie came
running back, with a bottle of castor oil, which in his flurry he had
mistaken for peppermint. This he presented with a flourish to Polly, who
was too excited to see it.
“Oh, no!” cried Joel, in intense alarm; “Davie isn't going to! I'll
tell, Polly; I will truly.”
“Go on, then,” said Polly; “tell at once;” (feeling as if somebody
didn't tell pretty quick, she should tumble over.)
“Well,” said Joel, gathering himself up with a fresh effort, “the old
hammer was a-shaking and Phronsie stuck her foot in the way--and--I
couldn't help it, Polly--no, I just couldn't, Polly.”
Quick as a flash, Polly tore off the little old shoe, and well-worn
stocking, and brought to light Phronsie's fat little foot. Tenderly
taking hold of the white toes, the boys clustering around in the
greatest anxiety, she worked them back and forth, and up and down.
“Nothing's broken,” she said at last, and drew a long breath.
“It's there,” said Phronsie, through a rain of tears; “and it hurts,
Polly;” and she began to wiggle the big toe, where around the nail was
settling a small black spot.
“Poor little toe,” began Polly, cuddling up the suffering foot. Just
then, a small and peculiar noise struck her ear; and looking up she saw
Joel, with a very distorted face, making violent efforts to keep from
bursting out into a loud cry. All his attempts, however, failed; and
he flung himself into Polly's lap in a perfect torrent of tears. “I
didn't--mean to--Polly,” he cried; “'twas the--ugly, old hammer! oh
dear!”
“There, there, Joey, dear,” said Polly, gathering him up in the other
corner of the old chair, close to her side; “don't feel bad; I know you
didn't mean to,” and she dropped a kiss on his stubby black hair.
When Phronsie saw that anybody else could cry, she stopped immediately,
and leaning over Polly, put one little fat hand on Joel's neck. “Don't
cry,” she said; “does your toe ache?”
At this, Joel screamed louder than ever; and Polly was at her wit's
end to know what to do; for the boy's heart was almost broken. That he
should have hurt Phronsie! the baby, the pet of the whole house, upon
whom all their hearts centered--it was too much. So for the next few
moments, Polly had all she could do by way of comforting and consoling
him. Just as she had succeeded, the door opened, and Grandma Bascom
walked in.
“Settin' down?” said she; “I hope your cake ain't in, Polly,” looking
anxiously at the stove, “for I've found it;” and she waved a small piece
of paper triumphantly towards the rocking-chair as she spoke.
“Do tell her,” said Polly to little David, “what's happened; for I can't
get up.”
So little Davie went up to the old lady, and standing on tiptoe,
screamed into her ear all the particulars he could think of, concerning
the accident that had just happened.
“Hey?” said grandma, in a perfect bewilderment; “what's he a-sayin',
Polly--I can't make it out.”
“You'll have to go all over it again, David,” said Polly, despairingly;
“she didn't hear one word, I don't believe.”
So David tried again; this time with better success. And then he got
down from his tiptoes, and escorted grandma to Phronsie, in flushed
triumph.
“Land alive!” said the old lady, sitting down in the chair which he
brought her; “you got pounded, did you?” looking at Phronsie, as she
took the little foot in her ample hand.
“Yes'm,” said Polly, quickly; “twasn't any one's fault; what'll we do
for it, grandma?”
“Wormwood,” said the old lady, adjusting her spectacles in extreme
deliberation, and then examining the little black and blue spot, which
was spreading rapidly, “is the very best thing; and I've got some to
home--you run right over,” she said, turning round on David, quickly,
“an' get it; it's a-hang-in' by the chimbley.”
“Let me; let me!” cried Joel, springing out of the old chair, so
suddenly that grandma's spectacles nearly dropped off in fright; “oh! I
want to do it for Phronsie!”
“Yes, let Joel, please,” put in Polly; “he'll find it, grandma.” So Joel
departed with great speed; and presently returned, with a bunch of dry
herbs, which dangled comfortingly by his side, as he came in.
“Now I'll fix it,” said Mrs. Bascom, getting up and taking off her
shawl; “there's a few raisins for you, Polly; I don't want 'em, and
they'll make your cake go better,” and she placed a little parcel on the
table as she spoke. “Yes, I'll put it to steep; an' after it's put on
real strong, and tied up in an old cloth, Phronsie won't know as she's
got any toes!” and grandma broke up a generous supply of the herb, and
put it into an old tin cup, which she covered up with a saucer, and
placed on the stove.
“Oh!” said Polly; “I can't thank you! for the raisins and all--you're so
good!”
“They're awful hard,” said Joel, investigating into the bundle with
Davie, which, however, luckily the old lady didn't hear.
“There, don't try,” she said cheerily; “an' I found cousin Mirandy's
weddin' cake receet, for--”
“Did you?” cried Polly; “oh! I'm so glad!” feeling as if that were
comfort enough for a good deal.
“Yes, 'twas in my Bible,” said Mrs. Bascom; “I remember now; I put it
there to be ready to give John's folks when they come in; they wanted
it; so you'll go all straight now; and I must get home, for I left some
meat a-boilin'.” So grandma put on her shawl, and waddled off, leaving a
great deal of comfort behind her.
“Now, says I,” said Polly to Phronsie, when the little foot was snugly
tied up in the wet wormwood, “you've got to have one of mamsie's old
slippers.”
“Oh, ho,” laughed Phronsie; “won't that be funny, Polly!”
“I should think it would,” laughed Polly, back again, pulling on the
big cloth slipper, which Joel produced from the bedroom, the two boys
joining uproariously, as the old black thing flapped dismally up and
down, and showed strong symptoms of flying off. “We shall have to tie it
on.”
“It looks like a pudding bag,” said Joel, as Polly tied it securely
through the middle with a bit of twine; “an old black pudding bag!” he
finished.
“Old black pudding bag!” echoed Phronsie, with a merry little crow; and
then all of a sudden she grew very sober, and looked intently at the
foot thrust out straight before her, as she still sat in the chair.
“What is it, Phronsie?” asked Polly, who was bustling around, making
preparations for the cake-making.
“Can I ever wear my new shoes again?” asked the child, gravely, looking
dismally at the black bundle before her.
“Oh, yes; my goodness, yes!” cried Polly; “as quick again as ever;
you'll be around again as smart as a cricket in a week--see if you
aren't!”
“Will it go on?” asked Phronsie, still looking incredulously at the
bundle, “and button up?”
“Yes, indeed!” cried Polly, again; “button into every one of the little
holes, Phronsie Pepper; just as elegant as ever!”
“Oh!” said Phronsie; and then she gave a sigh of relief, and thought no
more of it, because Polly had said that all would be right.
MAMSIE'S BIRTHDAY
“Run down and get the cinnamon, will you, Joey?” said Polly; “it's in
the 'Provision Room.”
The “Provision Room” was a little shed that was tacked on to the main
house, and reached by a short flight of rickety steps; so called,
because as Polly said, “'twas a good place to keep provisions in, even
if we haven't any; and besides,” she always finished, “it sounds nice!”
“Come on, Dave! then we'll get something to eat!”
So the cinnamon was handed up, and then Joel flew back to Davie.
And now, Polly's cake was done, and ready for the oven. With many
admiring glances from herself, and Phronsie, who with Seraphina, an
extremely old but greatly revered doll, tightly hugged in her arms was
watching everything with the biggest of eyes from the depths of the old
chair, it was placed in the oven, the door shut to with a happy little
bang, then Polly gathered Phronsie up in her arms, and sat down in the
chair to have a good time with her and to watch the process of cooking.
There was a bumping noise that came from the “Provision Room” that
sounded ominous, and then a smothered sound of words, followed by a
scuffling over the old floor.
“Boys!” called Polly. No answer; everything was just as still as a
mouse. “Joel and David!” called Polly again, in her loudest tones.
“Yes,” came up the crooked stairs, in Davie's voice.
“Come up here, right away!” went back again from Polly. So up the stairs
trudged the two boys, and presented themselves rather sheepishly before
the big chair.
“What was that noise?” she asked; “what have you been doing?”
“Twasn't anything but the pail,” answered Joel, not looking at her.
“We had something to eat,” said Davie, by way of explanation; “you
always let us.”
“I know,” said Polly; “that's right, you can have as much bread as you
want to; but what you been doing with the pail?”
“Nothing,” said Joel; “'twouldn't hangup, that's all.”
“And you've been bumping it,” said Polly; “oh! Joel, how could you! You
might have broken it; then what would mamsie say?”
“I didn't,” said Joel, stoutly, with his hands in his pockets, “bump it
worse'n Davie, so there!”
“Why, Davie,” said Polly, turning to him sorrowfully, “I shouldn't have
thought you would!”
“Well, I'm tired of hanging it up,” said little Davie, vehemently; “and
I said I wasn't a-goin' to; Joel always makes me; I've done it for two
million times, I guess!”
“Oh, dear,” said Polly, sinking back into the chair, “I don't know
what I ever shall do; here's Phronsie hurt; and we want to celebrate
to-morrow; and you two boys are bumping and banging out the bread pail,
and--”
“Oh! we won't!” cried both of the children, perfectly overwhelmed with
remorse; “we'll hang it right up.”
“I'll hang it,” said Davie, clattering off down the stairs with a will.
“No, I will!” shouted Joel, going after him at double pace; and
presently both came up with shining faces, and reported it nicely done.
“And now,” said Polly, after they had all sat around the stove another
half-hour, watching and sniffing expectantly, “the cake's done!--dear
me! it's turning black!”
And quickly as possible Polly twitched it out with energy, and set it on
the table.
Oh, dear; of all things in the world! The beautiful cake over which so
many hopes had been formed, that was to have given so much happiness
on the morrow to the dear mother, presented a forlorn appearance as it
stood there in anything but holiday attire. It was quite black on the
top, in the center of which was a depressing little dump, as if to say,
“My feelings wouldn't allow me to rise to the occasion.”
“Now,” said Polly, turning away with a little fling, and looking at
the stove, “I hope you're satisfied, you old thing; you've spoiled our
mamsie's birthday!” and without a bit of warning, she sat right down in
the middle of the floor and began to cry as hard as she could.
“Well, I never!” said a cheery voice, that made the children skip.
“It's Mrs. Beebe; oh, it's Mrs. Beebe!” cried Davie; “see, Polly.”
Polly scrambled up to her feet, ashamed to be caught thus, and whisked
away the tears; the others explaining to their new visitor the sad
disappointment that had befallen them; and she was soon oh-ing, and
ah-ing enough to suit even their distressed little souls.
“You poor creeters, you!” she exclaimed at last, for about the fiftieth
time. “Here, Polly, here's some posies for you, and--”
“Oh, thank you!” cried Polly, with a radiant face, “why, Mrs. Beebe, we
can put them in here, can't we? the very thing!”
And she set the little knot of flowers in the hollow of the cake, and
there they stood and nodded away to the delighted children, like brave
little comforters, as they were.
“The very thing!” echoed Mrs. Beebe, tickled to death to see their
delight; “it looks beautiful, I declare! and now, I must run right
along, or pa'll be worrying;” and so the good woman trotted out to her
waiting husband, who was impatient to be off. Mr. Beebe kept a little
shoe shop in town; and always being of the impression if he left it for
ten minutes that crowds of customers would visit it. He was the most
restless of companions on any pleasure excursion.
“And Phronsie's got hurt,” said Mrs. Beebe, telling him the news, as he
finished tucking her up, and started the old horse.
“Ho? you don't say so!” he cried; “whoa!”
“Dear me!” said Mrs. Beebe; “how you scat me, pal what's the matter?”
“What?--the little girl that bought the shoes?” asked her husband.
“Yes,” replied his wife, “she's hurt her foot.”
“Sho, now,” said the old gentleman; “that's too bad,” and he began to
feel in all his pockets industriously; “there, can you get out again,
and take her that?” and he laid a small piece of peppermint candy, thick
and white, in his wife's lap.
“Oh, yes,” cried Mrs. Beebe, good-naturedly, beginning to clamber over
the wheel.
So the candy was handed in to Phronsie, who insisted that Polly should
hold her up to the window to thank Mr. Beebe. So amid nods, and shakings
of hands, the Beebes drove off, and quiet settled down over the little
brown house again.
“Now, children,” said Polly, after Phronsie had made them take a bite of
her candy all around, “let's get the cake put away safe, for mamsie may
come home early.
“Where'll you put it?” asked Joel, wishing the world was all peppermint
candy.
“Oh--in the cupboard,” said Polly, taking it up; “there, Joe, you can
climb up, and put it clear back in the corner, oh! wait; I must take
the posies off, and keep them fresh in water;” so the cake was finally
deposited in a place of safety, followed by the eyes of all the
children.
“Now,” said Polly, as they shut the door tight, “don't you go to looking
at the cupboard, Joey, or mammy'll guess something.”
“Can't I just open it a little crack, and take one smell when she isn't
looking?” asked Joel; “I should think you might, Polly; just one.”
“No,” said Polly, firmly; “not one, Joe; she'll guess if you do.” But
Mrs. Pepper was so utterly engrossed with her baby when she came home
and heard the account of the accident, that she wouldn't have guessed
if there'd been a dozen cakes in the cupboard. Joel was consoled, as his
mother assured him in a satisfactory way that she never should think
of blaming him; and Phronsie was comforted and coddled to her heart's
content. And so the evening passed rapidly and happily away; Ben
smuggling Phronsie off into a corner, where she told him all the doings
of the day--the disappointment of the cake, and how it was finally
crowned with flowers; all of which Phronsie, with no small pride in
being the narrator, related gravely to her absorbed listener. “And don't
you think, Bensie,” she said, clasping her little hand in a convincing
way over his two bigger, stronger ones, “that Polly's stove was very
naughty to make poor Polly cry?”
“Yes, I do,” said Ben, and he shut his lips tightly together.
To have Polly cry, hurt him more than he cared to have Phronsie see.
“What are you staring at, Joe?” asked Polly, a few minutes later, as her
eyes fell upon Joel, who sat with his back to the cupboard, persistently
gazing at the opposite wall.
“Why, you told me yourself not to look at the cupboard,” said Joel, in
the loudest of stage whispers.
“Dear me; that'll make mammy suspect worse'n anything else if you look
like that,” said Polly.
“What did you say about the cupboard?” asked Mrs. Pepper, who caught
Joe's last word.
“We can't tell,” said Phronsie, shaking her head at her mother; “cause
there's a ca----” “Ugh!” and Polly clapped her hand on the child's
mouth; “don't you want Ben to tell us a story?”
“Oh, yes!” cried little Phronsie, in which all the others joined with
a whoop of delight; so a most wonderful story, drawn up in Ben's best
style, followed till bedtime.
The first thing Polly did in the morning, was to run to the old
cupboard, followed by all the others, to see if the cake was safe; and
then it had to be drawn out, and dressed anew with the flowers, for they
had decided to have it on the breakfast table.
“It looks better,” whispered Polly to Ben, “than it did yesterday; and
aren't the flowers pretty?”
“It looks good enough to eat, anyway,” said Ben, smacking his lips.
“Well, we tried,” said Polly, stilling a sigh; “now, boys, call mamsie;
everything's ready.”
Oh! how surprised their mother appeared when she was ushered out to the
feast, and the full glory of the table burst upon her. Her delight in
the cake was fully enough to satisfy the most exacting mind. She
admired and admired it on every side, protesting that she shouldn't have
supposed Polly could possibly have baked it as good in the old stove;
and then she cut it, and gave a piece to every child, with a little posy
on top. Wasn't it good, though! for like many other things, the cake
proved better on trial than it looked, and so turned out to be really
quite a good surprise all around.
“Why can't I ever have a birthday?” asked Joel, finishing the last crumb
of his piece; “I should think I might,” he added, reflectively.
“Why, you have, Joe,” said Ben; “eight of 'em.”
“What a story!” ejaculated Joel; “when did I have 'em? I never had a
cake; did I, Polly?”
“Not a cake-birthday, Joel,” said his mother; “you haven't got to that
yet.”
“When's it coming?” asked Joel, who was decidedly of a matter-of-fact
turn of mind.
“I don't know,” said Mrs. Pepper, laughing; “but there's plenty of time
ahead.”
TROUBLE FOR THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE
“Oh, I do wish,” said Joel, a few mornings after, pushing back his chair
and looking discontentedly at his bowl of mush and molasses, “that we
could ever have something new besides this everlasting old breakfast!
Why can't we, mammy?”
“Better be glad you've got that, Joe,” said Mrs. Pepper, taking another
cold potato, and sprinkling on a little salt; “folks shouldn't complain
so long as they've anything to eat.”
“But I'm so tired of it--same old thing!” growled Joel; “seems as if I
sh'd turn into a meal-bag or a molasses jug!”
“Well, hand it over, then,” proposed Ben, who was unusually hungry, and
had a hard day's work before him.
“No,” said Joel, alarmed at the prospect, and putting in an enormous
mouthful; “it's better than nothing.”
“Oh, dear,” said little Phronsie, catching Joel's tone, “it isn't nice;
no, it isn't.” And she put down her spoon so suddenly that the molasses
spun off in a big drop, that trailed off the corner of the table, and
made Polly jump up and run for the floor-cloth.
“Oh, Phronsie,” she said, reprovingly; “you ought not to. Never mind,
pet,” as she caught sight of two big tears trying to make a path in the
little molasses-streaked face, “Polly'll wipe it up.”
“Sha'n't we ever have anything else to eat, Polly?” asked the child,
gravely, getting down from her high chair to watch the operation of
cleaning the floor.
“Oh, yes,” said Polly, cheerfully, “lots and lots--when our ship comes
in.”
“What'll they be?” asked Phronsie, in the greatest delight, prepared for
anything.
“Oh, I don't know,” said Polly; “ice cream for one thing, Phronsie, and
maybe, little cakes.”
“With pink on top?” interrupted Phronsie, getting down by Polly's side.
“Oh, yes,” said Polly, warming with her subject; “ever and ever so much
pink, Phronsie Pepper; more than you could eat!”
Phronsie just clasped her hands and sighed. More than she could eat was
beyond her!
“Hoh!” said Joel, who caught the imaginary bill of fare, “that's
nothing, Polly. I'd speak for a plum-puddin'.”
“Like the one mother made us for Thanksgiving?” asked Polly, getting up
and waiting a minute, cloth in hand, for the answer.
“Yes, sir,” said Joel, shutting one eye and looking up at the ceiling,
musingly, while he smacked his lips in remembrance; “wasn't that prime,
though!”
“Yes,” said Polly, thoughtfully; “would you have 'em all like that,
Joe?”
“Every one,” replied Joe, promptly; “I'd have seventy-five of 'em.”
“Seventy-five what?” asked Mrs. Pepper, who had gone into the bedroom,
and now came out, a coat in hand, to sit down in the west window, where
she began to sew rapidly. “Better clear up the dishes, Polly, and set
the table back--seventy-five what, Joel?”
“Plum-puddings,” said Joel, kissing Phronsie.
“Dear me!” ejaculated Mrs. Pepper; “you don't know what you're saying,
Joel Pepper; the house couldn't hold 'em!”
“Wouldn't long,” responded Joel; “we'd eat 'em.”
“That would be foolish,” interposed Ben; “I'd have roast beef and
fixings--and oysters--and huckleberry pie.”
“Oh, dear,” cried Polly; “how nice, Ben! you always do think of the very
best things.”
But Joel phoohed and declared he wouldn't waste his time “over old beef;
he'd have something like!” And then he cried:
“Come on, Dave, what'd you choose?”
Little Davie had been quietly eating his breakfast amid all this
chatter, and somehow thinking it might make the mother feel badly, he
had refrained from saying just how tiresome he had really found this
“everlasting breakfast” as Joel called it. But now he looked up eagerly,
his answer all ready. “Oh, I know,” he cried, “what would be most
beautiful! toasted bread--white bread--and candy.”
“What's candy?” asked Phronsie.
“Oh, don't you know, Phronsie,” cried Polly, “what Mrs. Beebe gave you
the day you got your shoes--the pink sticks; and--”
“And the peppermint stick Mr. Beebe gave you, Phronsie,” finished Joel,
his mouth watering at the remembrance.
“That day, when you got your toe pounded,” added Davie, looking at Joel.
“Oh!” cried Phronsie; “I want some now, I do!”
“Well, Davie,” said Polly, “you shall have that for breakfast when our
ship comes in then.”
“Your ships aren't ever coming,” broke in Mrs. Pepper, wisely, “if you
sit there talking--folks don't ever make any fortunes by wishing.”
“True enough,” laughed Ben, jumping up and setting back his chair. “Come
on, Joe; you've got to pile to-day.”
“Oh, dear,” said Joel, dismally; “I wish Mr. Blodgett's wood was all
a-fire.”
“Never say that, Joel,” said Mrs. Pepper, looking up sternly; “it's
biting your own nose off to wish that wood was a-fire--and besides it's
dreadfully wicked.”
Joel hung his head, for his mother never spoke in that way unless she
was strongly moved; but he soon recovered, and hastened off for his
jacket.
“I'm sorry I can't help you do the dishes, Polly,” said David, running
after Joel.
“I'm going to help her,” said Phronsie; “I am.”
So Polly got the little wooden tub that she always used, gave Phronsie
the well-worn cup-napkin, and allowed her to wipe the handleless cups
and cracked saucers, which afforded the little one intense delight.
“Don't you wish, Polly,” said little Phronsie, bustling around with a
very important air, nearly smothered in the depths of a big brown
apron that Polly had carefully tied under her chin, “that you didn't
ever-an'-ever have so many dishes to do?”
“Um--maybe,” said Polly, thoughtlessly. She was thinking of something
else besides cups and saucers just then; of how nice it would be to go
off for just one day, and do exactly as she had a mind to in everything.
She even envied Ben and the boys who were going to work hard at Deacon
Blodgett's woodpile.
“Well, I tell you,” said Phronsie, confidentially, setting down a
cup that she had polished with great care, “I'm going to do 'em all
to-morrow, for you, Polly--I can truly; let me now, Polly, do.”
“Nonsense!” said Polly, giving a great splash with her mop in the tub,
ashamed of her inward repinings. “Phronsie, you're no bigger than a
mouse!”
“Yes, I am,” retorted Phronsie, very indignantly. Her face began to get
very red, and she straightened up so suddenly to show Polly just how
very big she was that her little head came up against the edge of the
tub--over it went! a pile of saucers followed.
“There now,” cried Polly, “see what you've done!”