paper?”
“I've got a nice piece up-stairs,” said Ben, “just right; I'll get it.”
“Put my 'gingerbread boy' on top,” cried Phronsie, handing him up.
So Polly packed the little cakes neatly in two rows, and laid the
'gingerbread boy' in a fascinating attitude across the top.
“He looks as if he'd been struck by lightning!” said Ben, viewing him
critically as he came in the door with the paper.
“Be still,” said Polly, trying not to laugh; “that's because he baked so
funny; it made his feet stick out.”
“Children,” said Mrs. Pepper, “how'll Jasper know where the cakes come
from?”
“Why, he'll know it's us,” said Polly, “of course; 'cause it'll make him
think of the baking we're going to have when he gets well.”
“Well, but you don't say so,” said Mrs. Pepper, smiling; “tisn't polite
to send it this way.”
“Whatever'll we do, mammy!” said all four children in dismay, while
Phronsie simply stared. “Can't we send 'em at all?”
“Why yes,” said their mother; “I hope so, I'm sure, after you've got 'em
baked; but you might answer Jasper's letter I should think, and tell him
about 'em, and the 'gingerbread boy'.”
“Oh dear,” said Polly, ready to fly, “I couldn't mamsie; I never wrote a
letter.”
“Well, you never had one before, did you?” said her mother, composedly
biting her thread. “Never say you can't, Polly, 'cause you don't know
what you can do till you've tried.”
“You write, Ben,” said Polly, imploringly.
“No,” said Ben, “I think the nicest way is for all to say somethin',
then 'twon't be hard for any of us.”
“Where's the paper,” queried Polly, “coming from, I wonder!”
“Joel,” said Mrs. Pepper, “run to the bureau in the bedroom, and open
the top drawer, and get a green box there.”
So Joel, quite important at the errand, departed, and presently put the
designated box into his mother's hand.
“There, now I'm going to give you this,” and she took out a small sheet
of paper slightly yellowed by age; but being gilt-edged, it looked very
magnificent to the five pairs of eyes directed to it.
“Now Ben, you get the ink bottle and the pen, and then go to work.”
So Ben reached down from the upper shelf in the cupboard the ink bottle,
and a pen in a black wooden penholder.
“Oh, mamsie,” cried Polly, “that's where Phronsie bit it off when she
was a baby, isn't it?” holding up the stubby end where the little ball
had disappeared.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper, “and now you're going to write about her
'gingerbread boy' with it--well, time goes, to be sure.” And she bent
over her work again, harder than ever. Poor woman! if she could only
scrape together enough money to get her children into school--that was
the earnest wish of her heart. She must do it soon, for Ben was twelve
years old; but with all her strivings and scrimpings she could only
manage to put bread into their mouths, and live from day to day. “I know
I ought to be thankful for that,” she said to herself, not taking time
even to cry over her troubles. “But oh, the learning! they must have
that!”
“Now,” said Polly, “how'll we do it Ben?” as they ranged themselves
around the table, on which reposed the cakes; “you begin.”
“How do folks begin a letter?” asked Ben in despair, of his mother.
“How did Jasper begin his?” asked Mrs. Pepper back again. “Oh,” cried
Polly, running into the bedroom to get the precious missive. “Dear Miss
Polly'--that's what it says.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Pepper, “then you'd better say, 'Dear Mister
Jasper'--or you might say, 'Dear Mr. King.'”
“Oh, dear!” cried Polly, “that would be the father then--s'pose he
should think we wrote to him!” and Polly looked horror-stricken to the
last degree.
“There, there 'tis,” said Ben: “'Dear Mister Jasper'--now what'll we
say?”
“Why, say about the cakes,” replied Polly.
“And the 'gingerbread boy,” cried Phronsie. “Oh, tell about him, Polly,
do.”
“Yes, yes, Phronsie,” said Polly, “we will--why, tell him how we wish
he could have come, and that we baked him some cakes, and that we do so
want him to come just as soon as he can.”
“All right!” said Ben; so he went to work laboriously; only his
hard breathing showing what a hard task it was, as the stiff old pen
scratched up and down the paper.
“There, that's done,” he cried at length in great satisfaction, holding
it up for inspection.
“Oh, I do wish,” cried Polly in intense admiration, “I could write so
nice and so fast as you can, Ben.”
“Read it, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, in pride.
So Polly began: “Dear Mister Jasper we were all dreadfully sorry
that you didn't come and so we baked you some cakes.'--You didn't say
anything about his being sick, Ben.”
“I forgot it,” said Ben, “but I put it in farther down--you'll see if
you read on.”
“Baked you some cakes--that is, Polly did, for this is Ben that's
writing.”
“You needn't said that, Ben,” said Polly, dissatisfied; “we all baked
'em, I'm sure. 'And just as soon as you get well we do want you to come
over and have the baking. We're real sorry you're sick--boneset's good
for colds.”
“Oh, Ben!” said Mrs. Pepper, “I guess his father knows what to give
him.”
“And oh! the bitter stuff!” cried Polly, with a wry face. “Well, it's
hard work to write,” said Ben, yawning. “I'd rather chop wood.”
“I wish! knew how,” exclaimed Joel, longingly.
“Just you try every day; Ben'll teach you, Joe,” said his mother,
eagerly, “and then I'll let you write.”
“I will!” cried Joe; “then, Dave, you'll see how I'll write--I tell
you!”
“And I'm goin' to--ma, can't I?” said Davie, unwilling to be outdone.
“Yes, you may, be sure,” said Mrs. Pepper, delighted; “that'll make a
man of you fast.”
“Oh, boys,” said Polly, lifting a very red face, “you joggle the table
so I can't do anything.”
“I wasn't jogglin',” said Joel; “the old thing tipped. Look!” he
whispered to Davie, “see Polly, she's writing crooked.”
So while the others hung around her and looked over her shoulder while
they made their various comments, Polly finished her part, and also held
it up for inspection.
“Let us see,” said Ben, taking it up.
“It's after, 'boneset's good for colds,'” said Polly, puckering up her
face again at the thought.
“We most of us knew you were sick--I'm Polly now--because you didn't
come; and we liked your letter telling us so. Oh, Polly! we weren't glad
to hear he was sick!” cried Ben, in horror.
“I didn't say so!” cried Polly, starting up. “Why, Ben Pepper, I never
said so!” and she looked ready to cry.
“It sounds something like it, don't it, mammy?” said Ben, unwilling to
give her pain, but appealing to Mrs. Pepper.
“Polly didn't mean it,” said her mother consolingly; “but if I were you,
I'd say something to explain it.”
“I can't put anything in now,” said poor Polly; “there isn't any room
nor any more paper either--what shall I do! I told you, Ben, I couldn't
write.” And Polly looked helplessly from one to the other for comfort.
“Yes, you can,” said Ben; “there, now I'll show you: write it fine,
Polly--you write so big--little bits of letters, like these.”
So Polly took the pen again with a sigh. “Now he won't think so, I
guess,” she said, much relieved, as Ben began to read again.
“I'll begin yours again,” Ben said: “We most of us knew you were sick
because you didn't come, and we liked your letter telling us so because
we'd all felt so badly, and Phronsie cried herself to sleep--” (that's
good, I'm sure.) “The 'gingerbread boy' is for your father--please
excuse it, but Phronsie would make it for him because he is sick. There
isn't any more to write, and besides I can't write good, and Ben's
tired. From all of us.”
“Why, how's he to know?” cried Ben. “That won't do to sign it.”
“Well, let's say from Ben and Polly then,” said Polly; “only all the
others want to be in the letter.”
“Well, they can't write,” said Ben.
“We might sign their names for 'em,” suggested Polly.
“Here's mine,” said Ben, putting under the “From all of us” a big, bold
“Ben.”
“And here's mine,” echoed Polly, setting a slightly crooked “Polly” by
its side.
“Now Joe, you better let Ben hold your hand,” said Polly, warningly. But
Joel declaring he could write had already begun, so there was no hope
for it; and a big drop of ink falling from the pen, he spattered the “J”
so that no one could tell what it was. The children looked at each other
in despair.
“Can we ever get it out, mammy?” said Polly, running to Mrs. Pepper with
it.
“I don't know,” said her mother. “How could you try it, Joe?”
“I didn't mean to,” said Joel, looking very downcast and ashamed. “The
ugly old pen did it!”
“Well,” said Polly, “it's got to go; we can't help it.” But she looked
so sorrowful over it that half the pleasure was gone for Ben; for Polly
wanted everything just right, and was very particular about things.
“Now, Dave.” Ben held his hand, and “David” went down next to Joel.
But when it was Phronsie's turn, she protested that Polly, and no one
else, must hold her hand.
“It's a dreadful hard name to write--Phronsie is,” said Polly, as she
guided Phronsie's fat little hand that clung faithfully to the stubby
old pen. “There, it's over now,” she cried; “and I'm thankful! I
wouldn't write another for anything!”
“Read it all over now, Ben,” cried Mrs. Pepper, “and don't speak,
children, till he gets through.”
“Don't it sound elegant!” said Polly, clasping her hands, when he had
finished. “I didn't think we ever could do it so nice, did you, Ben?”
“No, indeed, I didn't,” replied Ben, in a highly ecstatic frame of mind.
“Now--oh! what'll we do for an envelope?” he asked in dismay.
“You'll have to do without that,” said Mrs. Pepper, “for there isn't any
in the house--but see here, children,” she added, as she saw the sorry
faces before her--“you just fold up the letter, and put it inside the
parcel; that'll be just as good.”
“Oh dear,” said Polly; “but it would have been splendid the other way,
mammy--just like other folks!”
“You must make believe this is like other folks,” said Mrs. Pepper,
cheerily, “when you can't do any other way.”
“Yes,” said Ben, “that's so, Polly; tie 'em up quick's you can, and I'll
take 'em over to Deacon Blodgett's, for he's goin' to start early in the
morning.”
So after another last look all around, Polly put the cakes in the paper,
and tied it with four or five strong knots, to avoid all danger of its
undoing.
“He never'll untie it, Polly,” said Ben; “that's just like a girl's
knots!”
“Why didn't you tie it then?” said Polly; “I'm sure it's as good as
a boy's knots, and they always muss up a parcel so.” And she gave a
loving, approving little pat to the top of the package, which, despite
its multitude of knots, was certainly very neat indeed.
Ben, grasping the pen again, “here goes for the direction.
“Deary, yes!” said Polly. “I forgot all about that; I thought 'twas
done.”
“How'd you s'pose he'd get it?” asked Ben, coolly beginning the “M.”
“I don't know,” replied Polly, looking over his shoulder; “s'pose
anybody else had eaten 'em up, Ben!” And she turned pale at the very
thought.
“There,” said Ben, at last, after a good many flourishes, “now 'tis
done! you can't think of another thing to do to it, Polly!”
“Mamsie, see!” cried Polly, running with it to Mrs. Pepper, “isn't that
fine! 'Mr. Jasper E. King, at the Hotel Hingham.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper, admiringly, to the content of all the children,
“I should think it was!”
“Let me take it in my hand,” screamed Joel, reaching eagerly up for the
tempting brown parcel.
“Be careful then, Joe,” said Polly, with an important air. So Joel took
a comfortable feel, and then Davie must have the same privilege. At
last it was off, and with intense satisfaction the children watched Ben
disappear with it down the long hill to Deacon Blodgett's.
The next day Ben came running in from his work at the deacon's.
“Oh, Polly, you had 'em!” he screamed, all out of breath. “You had 'em!”
“Had what?” asked Polly in astonishment. “Oh, Bensie, what do you mean?”
“Your flowers,” he panted. “You sent some flowers to Jasper.”
“Flowers to Jasper!” repeated Polly, afraid Ben had gone out of his
wits.
“Yes,” said Ben; “I'll begin at the beginning. You see, Polly, when I
went down this morning, Betsey was to set me to work. Deacon Blodgett
and Mrs. Blodgett had started early, you know; and while I was
a-cleanin' up the woodshed, as she told me, all of a sudden she said,
as she stood in the door looking on, 'Oh, Ben, Mis' Blodgett took some
posies along with your parcel.' 'What?' said I; I didn't know as I'd
heard straight. 'Posies, I said,' says Betsey; 'beautiful ones they
were, too, the best in the garding. I heard her tell Mr. Blodgett it
would be a pity if that sick boy couldn't have some flowers, and she
knew the Pepper children were crazy about 'em, so she twisted 'em in
the string around the parcel, and there they stood up and looked fine, I
tell you, as they drove away.' So, Polly!”
“Bensie Pepper!” cried Polly, taking hold of his jacket, and spinning
him round, “I told you so! I told you so!”
“I know you did,” said Ben, as she gave him a parting whirl, “an' I wish
you'd say so about other things, Polly, if you can get 'em so easy.”
JOLLY DAYS
“Oh Ben,” cried Jasper, overtaking him by a smart run as he was turning
in at the little brown gate one morning three days after, “do wait.”
“Halloa!” cried Ben, turning around, and setting down his load--a bag of
salt and a basket of potatoes--and viewing Jasper and Prince with great
satisfaction.
“Yes, here I am,” said Jasper. “And how I've run; that fellow on the
stage was awful slow in getting here--oh, you're so good,” he said
and his eyes, brimful of gladness, beamed on Ben. “The cakes were just
prime, and 'twas great fun to get your letter.”
“Did you like it?” asked Ben, the color up all over his brown
face--“Like it!” cried Jasper. “Why 'twas just splendid; and the cakes
were royal! Isn't Polly smart though, to bake like that!” he added
admiringly.
“I guess she is,” said Ben, drawing himself up to his very tallest
dimensions. “She knows how to do everything, Jasper King!”
“I should think she did,” responded the boy quickly. “I wish she was my
sister,” he finished longingly.
“Well, I don't,” quickly replied Ben, “for then she wouldn't be mine;
and I couldn't think of being without Polly! Was your father angry
about--about--'the gingerbread boy'?” he asked timidly, trembling for an
answer.
“Oh dear,” cried Jasper, tumbling over on the grass, “don't, don't! I
shan't be good for anything if you make me laugh! oh! wasn't it funny;”
and he rolled over and over, shaking with glee.
“Yes,” said Ben, immensely relieved to find that no offence had been
taken. “But she would send it; Polly tried not to have her, and she
most cried when Phronsie was so determined, cause she said your father
never'd let you come again--”
“Twas just lovely in Phronsie,” said the boy, sitting up and wiping his
eyes, “but oh it was so funny! you ought to have seen my father, Ben
Pepper.”
“Oh, then he was angry,” cried Ben.
“No indeed he wasn't!” said Jasper; “don't you think it! do you know it
did him lots of good, for he'd been feeling real badly that morning, he
hadn't eaten any breakfast, and when he saw that gingerbread boy--”
here Jasper rolled over again with a peal of laughter--“and heard the
message, he just put back his head, and he laughed--why, I never heard
him laugh as he did then! the room shook all over; and he ate a big
dinner, and all that afternoon he felt as good as could be. But he says
he's coming to see the little girl that baked it for him before we go
home.”
Ben nearly tumbled over by the side of Jasper at these words--“Coming to
see us!” he gasped.
“Yes,” said Jasper, who had scarcely got over his own astonishment about
it, for if the roof had suddenly whisked off on to the church steeple,
he couldn't have been more amazed than when he heard his father say
cheerily: “Well, Jasper my boy, I guess I shall have to drive over and
see your little girl, since she's been polite enough to bake me this,”
pointing to the wild-looking “gingerbread boy.”
“Come in and tell 'em about it,” cried Ben, radiantly, picking up his
potatoes and salt. “It's all right, Polly!” he said in a jubilant voice,
“for here's Jasper, and he'll tell you so himself.”
“Hush!” said Jasper warningly, “don't let Phronsie hear; well, here's
my pet now,” and after bobbing lovingly to the others, with eyes beaming
over with fun, he caught up the little girl who was screaming--“Oh,
here's Jasper! and my beyew-ti-ful doggie!”
“Now Phronsie,” he cried, “give me a kiss; you haven't any soft soap
to-day, have you? no; that's a good, nice one, now; your 'gingerbread
boy' was just splendid!”
“Did he eat it?” asked the child in grave delight.
“Well--no--he hasn't eaten it yet,” said Jasper, smiling on the others;
“he's keeping it to look at, Phronsie.”
“I should think so!” groaned Polly.
“Never mind, Polly,” Ben whispered; “Jasper's been a-tellin' me about
it; his father liked it--he did truly.”
“Oh!” said Polly, “I'm so glad!”
“He had eyes,” said Phronsie, going back to the charms of the
“gingerbread boy.”
“I know it,” said Jasper admiringly; “so he did.”
“Rather deep sunk, one of 'em was,” muttered Ben.
“And I'll bake you one, Jasper,” said the child as he put her down; “I
will very truly--some day.”
“Will you,” smiled Jasper; “well then,” and there was a whispered
conference with Phronsie that somehow sent that damsel into a blissful
state of delight. And then while Phronsie monopolized Prince, Jasper
told them all about the reception of the parcel--how very dull and
forlorn he was feeling that morning, Prince and he shut up in-doors--and
how his father had had a miserable night, and had eaten scarcely no
breakfast, and just at this juncture there came a knock at the door,
“and” said Jasper, “your parcel walked in, all dressed up in flowers!”
“They weren't our flowers,” said Polly, honestly. “Mrs. Blodgett put 'em
on.”
“Well she couldn't have, if you hadn't sent the parcel,” said Jasper in
a tone of conviction.
Then he launched out into a description of how they opened the
package--Prince looking on, and begging for one of the cakes.
“Oh, didn't you give him one?” cried Polly at this. “Good old Prince!”
“Yes I did,” said Jasper, “the biggest one of all.”
“The one I guess,” interrupted Joel, “with the big raisin on top.”
Polly spoke up quickly to save any more remarks on Joel's part. “Now
tell us about your father--and the 'gingerbread boy.'”
So Jasper broke out with a merry laugh, into this part of the story,
and soon had them all in such a gale of merriment, that Phronsie stopped
playing out on the door-step with Prince, and came in to see what the
matter was.
“Never mind,” said Polly, trying to get her breath, just as Jasper was
relating how Mr. King set up the “gingerbread boy” on his writing table
before him, while he leaned back in his chair for a hearty laugh.
“And to make it funnier still,” said Jasper “don't you think, a little
pen-wiper he has, made like a cap, hanging on the pen-rack above him,
tumbled off just at this very identical minute right on the head of the
'gingerbread boy,' and there it stuck!”
“Oh!” they all screamed, “if we could only have seen it.”
“What was it?” asked Phronsie, pulling Polly's sleeve to make her hear.
So Jasper took her in his lap, and told how funny the “gingerbread boy”
looked with a cap on, and Phronsie clapped her hands, and laughed with
the rest, till the little old kitchen rang and rang again.
And then they had the baking! and Polly tied one of her mother's ample
aprons on Jasper, as Mrs. Pepper had left directions if he should come
while she was away; and he developed such a taste for cookery, and had
so many splendid improvements on the Peppers' simple ideas, that the
children thought it the most fortunate thing in the world that he came;
and one and all voted him a most charming companion.
“You could cook a Thanksgiving dinner in this stove, just as easy as
not,” said Jasper, putting into the oven something on a little cracked
plate that would have been a pie if there were any centre; but lacking
that necessary accompaniment, probably was a short-cake. “Just as easy
as not,” he repeated with emphasis, slamming the door, to give point to
his remarks.
“No, you couldn't either,” said Ben at the table with equal decision;
“not a bit of it, Jasper King!”
“Why, Ben Pepper?” asked Jasper, “that oven's big enough! I should like
to know why not?”
“'Cause there isn't anything to cook,” said Ben coolly, cutting out a
piece of dough for a jumble; “we don't keep Thanksgiving.”
“Not keep Thanksgiving!” said Jasper, standing quite still; “never had a
Thanksgiving! well, I declare,” and then he stopped again.
“Yes,” answered Ben; “we had one once; 'twas last year--but that wasn't
much.”
“Well then,” said Jasper, leaning over the table, “I'll tell you what I
should think you'd do--try Christmas.”
“Oh, that's always worse,” said Polly, setting down her rolling-pin to
think--which immediately rolled away by itself off from the table.
“We never had a Christmas,” said little Davie reflectively; “what are
they like, Jasper?”
Jasper sat quite still, and didn't reply to this question for a moment
or two.
To be among children who didn't like Thanksgiving, and who “never
had seen a Christmas,” and “didn't know what it was like,” was a new
revelation to him.
“They hang up stockings,” said Polly softly.
How many, many times she had begged her mother to try it for the younger
ones; but there was never anything to put in them, and the winters were
cold and hard, and the strictest economy only carried them through.
“Oh!” said little Phronsie in horror, “are their feet in 'em, Polly?”
“No dear,” said Polly; while Jasper instead of laughing, only stared.
Something requiring a deal of thought was passing through the boy's mind
just then. “They shall have a Christmas!” he muttered, “I know father'll
let me.” But he kept his thoughts to himself; and becoming his own gay,
kindly self, he explained and told to Phronsie and the others, so many
stories of past Christmases he had enjoyed, that the interest over the
baking soon dwindled away, until a horrible smell of something burning
brought them all to their senses.
“Oh! the house is burning!” cried Polly. “Oh get a pail of water!”
“Tisn't either,” said Jasper, snuffing wisely; “oh! I know--I forgot all
about it--I do beg your pardon.” And running to the stove, he knelt
down and drew out of the oven, a black, odorous mass, which with a
crest-fallen air he brought to Polly.
“I'm no end sorry I made such a mess of it,” he said, “I meant it for
you.”
“Tisn't any matter,” said Polly kindly.
“And now do you go on,” cried Joel and David both in the same breath,
“all about the Tree, you know.”
“Yes, yes,” said the others; “if you're not tired, Jasper.”
“Oh, no,” cried their accommodating friend, “I love to tell about it;
only wait--let's help Polly clear up first.”
So after all traces of the frolic had been tidied up, and made nice for
the mother's return, they took seats in a circle and Jasper regaled
them with story and reminiscence, till they felt as if fairy land were
nothing to it!
“How did you ever live through it, Jasper King,” said Polly, drawing the
first long breath she had dared to indulge in. “Such an elegant time!”
Jasper laughed. “I hope I'll live through plenty more of them,” he said
merrily. “We're going to sister Marian's again, father and I; we always
spend our Christmas there, you know, and she's to have all the cousins,
and I don't know how many more; and a tree--but the best of all, there's
going to be a German carol sung by choir boys--I shall like that best of
all.”
“What are choir boys?” asked Polly who was intensely fond of music.
“In some of the churches,” explained Jasper, “the choir is all boys; and
they do chant, and sing anthems perfectly beautifully, Polly!”
“Do you play on the piano, and sing?” asked Polly, looking at him in
awe.
“Yes,” said the boy simply; “I've played ever since I was a little
fellow, no bigger'n Phronsie.”
“Oh, Jasper!” cried Polly, clasping her hands, her cheeks all
aflame--“do you mean to say you do really and truly play on the piano?”
“Why yes,” said the boy, looking into her flashing eyes. “Polly's
always crazy about music,” explained Ben; “she'll drum on the table, and
anywhere, to make believe it's a piano.”