Chapter XIV: In Doctor Fisher’s Gig 397 (6)

Meantime, Joel worked on like a beaver; not only his hands and face were grimy, but his clothes were smeared from head to foot, while as for his shoes, well,--they were so covered with mud and straw and the general mess of the old pen, that no one would have known that they were shoes. But after he was fairly at work, Joel thought nothing of all this, but pegged away, his face streaming with perspiration, one happy thought running through his mind,--“I’m earning money, and helping Mammy,”--and he actually forgot his dinner, tucked away by Polly, in the paper bundle that he had carried under his arm, and set down carefully by the side of the barn before beginning his work. It was only when he heard a voice that he looked up.

“O my!” it was a boy considerably bigger than Joel looking over the pig-pen rail.

“What you doin’?”

“Working,” said Joel, shortly. He didn’t like this boy, and Mamsie didn’t approve in the least of him, so Joel had strict orders, whenever they met in the village on errands to the store, to keep as good a distance off as possible. So now he bent over his work again.

“Hah! he goin’ to pay you?” demanded the boy, pointing with a dingy thumb toward the house.

At the word “pay,” Joel straightened up. “Yes,” he said, feeling very big and important.

“How much?” the boy looking over the railing cried eagerly, his green eyes glistening.

“I don’t know,” said Joel.

“Hah, hah, hah! You _are_ a greeny,” cried the other boy. Then he doubled up with laughing, and slapped his patched knee.

“Stop your laughing,” cried Joel, lifting a face that would have looked very red, could it have been seen for the mud.

At this, the other boy laughed harder than ever.

“If you don’t stop laughing, I’ll come up and punch you,” cried Joel, forgetting all about Mamsie and what she had told him, and he lifted black, wrathful eyes that snapped vengeance.

But the other boy, preferring to keep on laughing, did so, until he rolled on the mangy grass, holding his sides, only to hop to his feet, when he saw a small but determined figure advancing dangerously near.

“I’m going to punch you,” announced Joel, his fists in two hard little knots; “I said I would.”

“Hah!” began the other boy, but he hadn’t time to finish, for Joel, having announced his intentions, did pitch in, and the visitor, who began by thinking it an easy matter to whip the smaller boy, was now principally occupied in trying to see how he could best avoid the hard thwacks the sturdy little fists were dealing him.

“Ma! Ma!” cried Miranda, at last spying them as she was shaking out her dust-cloth. “There are two boys fighting down by th’ barn,” she screamed over the stairs.

“Oh, you don’t say so,” cried Mrs. Peters back again. “Dear me, I hope they won’t go near th’ Pepper boy. If anythin’ sh’d happen to him, his Ma never’d forgive me.”

“It _is_ th’ Pepper boy who’s fightin’, Ma,” proclaimed Miranda, running her head out of the window; “oh, goodness me!” Then she pulled it in, and hurried over the stairs.

“You go right straight out an’ separate them boys,” commanded old Mrs. Peters, in a dreadful state of mind. “Here, take th’ broom, Mirandy, and tell ’em--I d’no what you will tell ’em, but you git ’em apart anyway.”

Miranda, having a pretty good notion of her own what she would say when she got there, sped over the grass, waving her broom as she went.

“Here, you,” at last, as she reached the spot, her long light braids of hair streaming out behind, and her breath almost gone, “stop!” and she shook her broom at them. “O dear me, Joel Pepper, I _am_ s’prised!”

“There, you see,” exclaimed the other boy, getting up from the grass where Joel had just neatly deposited him underneath himself, “what she says.”

“Oh, it’s you, Jim Potts, is it?” said Miranda, with a look of scorn. “Well, if you ever let me see you here again, I’ll pitch into you myself. Get out!” and she shook her broom at him, and not caring to make the acquaintance of Joel any further, he slunk away, first calling to a yellow dog, nosing around the barn.

“You take that miserable dog away,” screamed Miranda Peters after him; and the dog seeing the broom, for which household implement he had no special fondness, at once set into a lively run in which his master joining, they were soon lost to view.

“If ever I see such a sight in my life as you be, Joel Pepper,” exclaimed Miranda, with extreme disfavor. “My, and phew! What have you been doin’?” She wrinkled up as much nose as she possessed, and pulled her calico gown well away, to be sure it couldn’t possibly hit any part of his muddy clothes.

“Cleaning out the pig-pen,” said Joel, pointing a very grimy finger at it.

“Cleanin’ out th’ pig-pen!” exclaimed Miranda Peters. “O my, _and_ O my! What will Mrs. Pepper say?”

“Oh, don’t tell Mamsie,” pleaded Joel, crowding up closely to her.

“Oh, you get away!” cried Miranda, edging off, and whipping her gown tighter than ever around her feet; “don’t you dars’t to come no nearer, Joel Pepper. Well, first I must clean you up,” and she took up the broom she had dropped in her agitation.

“Oh, I’m going back,” said Joel, preparing to descend again to his work.

“You come right straight here,” commanded Miranda, shrilly, “an’ don’t you stir one step into that nasty hole. O dear me, I’m afraid as death of what Mrs. Pepper’ll say.”

“I must finish it,” Joel began.

“You come here,” and back he had to go, and then she swept him all over with her broom, knocking off the clinging straws and pig-pen litter, all the time exclaiming: “O dear me! What _will_ Mrs. Pepper say!”

“Mamsie wouldn’t want me to stop my work,” said Joel, wrathfully, who didn’t like this sort of proceeding at all.

“You be still.” Miranda whirled him about picking at his sleeve gingerly, wherever she could find a place least besmeared, “That ain’t your work, an’ Pa ought to have ben ashamed to set you at it. O dear me, what a scrape he’s got us into,” she said to herself; “for Ma an’ me has got to get this boy clean enough to go home. Oh, mercy, do stand still,” she said aloud.

“My mother won’t want me to leave my work,” said Joel, loudly, at her, his black eyes flashing, “and I ain’t going to, so there.”

“Well, you keep still; I’ll give you some work to do.”

“Will you?”

“Yes, yes, do stand still; oh, mercy, what a mess!”

“What shall I do?” demanded Joel, smiling now. It was all right since he was going to work, and carry home some money to Mamsie. “Say, Miss Miranda, what’ll I do?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Do be still,” she twitched him into position again.

“You said you had some work for me,” said Joel, loudly. “You said so, your very own self.”

“Well, so I will give you some,” promised Miss Miranda, pushed into a corner. “There, you’re brushed, all I can get off of the nasty stuff. Now, you must come into th’ house.”

“Will you give me the work, then?” asked Joel, determined to have that settled before starting.

“Yes, yes.”

“Well, wait, I’m going to get my dinner,” for the first time this now coming into his mind, and he ran off to the side of the barn, where he had tucked his paper bundle.

“Why, where,--” he began, getting down on all fours. Then he sprang up. “It’s gone!” he shouted, with a very red face, over to Miss Miranda.

“What’s gone?” she screamed back.

“My dinner,--my whole dinner; and Polly did it up.”

Joel by this time was prancing about and shaking a piece of brown paper violently, but no dinner appeared. It was gone as completely as if there never had been any in the bundle.

“What was in it?” asked Miranda, leaning over to scrutinize the empty paper.

“My dinner!” choked Joel, waving the paper wrathfully.

“Well, what was it?” said Miranda, contemptuously.

“Bread.”

“Bread! O dear me, well, I wouldn’t cry about that,” said Miranda.

“I’m not crying,” declared Joel, passionately.

“And was that all?”

“No, there was a potato and nice, nice salt.”

At this, Joel, remembering how he had seen Polly put it up, and how very hungry he was at this present moment, turned away and began to sob, trying to keep it all back, so that Miss Miranda shouldn’t see.

“There, I wouldn’t feel bad, Joel,” she said, not unkindly; “I’ll give you some dinner. I s’pose Jim Potts’s dog eat it up.”

All the sorrow went out of Joel’s face, and he whirled about, dashing off the tears from his black eyes. “I’ll punch him for that,” he said.

“No, you won’t, either,” said Miranda, and picking his sleeve again. “You let that Jim Potts alone, Joel Pepper. He’s a bad boy, an’ as for that poor dog o’ his, he’s hungrier ’n you be. Come along, an’ I’ll give you some dinner.”

And presently Joel was seated before a plate on which were scraps of cold corned beef, very red and stringy, it is true, but tasting perfectly delicious, and a little pile of cold cabbage and potatoes. He wasn’t in the kitchen, it is true, because neither Mrs. Peters nor Miranda thought it the least desirable that Mr. Peters should meet him. But in the wash-shed, back of the big tubs, he sat on a little stool, and ate away with only one thought--“Oh, how good it was! And wouldn’t it be prime if they could ever have such splendid things at the Little Brown House for dinner!”

“We must give him something to eat before we clean him up, Ma,” Miranda had whispered out in the kitchen, after closing the wash-shed door, “for he’s half starved. My, what _will_ Mrs. Pepper say, an’ how could Pa git us in such a scrape!”

But after the last morsel was carefully scraped from his plate, Miranda, remarking that it looked as if it had been washed, Joel straightened up and clamored for work again.

“What’ll we put him at?” she whispered, carrying out the plates and knife and fork to the kitchen sink.

“My land, I’m sure I don’t know,” said old Mrs. Peters, helplessly. “There’s enough work, goodness knows, in th’ house to do, but nothin’ to set a boy on. It beats me, Mirandy.”

“Well, there’s some that’s got to be found,” said Miranda, decidedly. “Meanwhilst, we’ll just whip off his clothes, an’ I’ll run ’em through th’ tub.”

“What’ll he put on?” cried the old lady, aghast.

“Why, there’s John’s things up in th’ attic,” said Miranda; “I’ll run up and fetch ’em.”

Which she did, and although John, when he left home to go to sea, was a lad twice the size of Joel Pepper, and his garments left behind had been hanging in the garret ever since, to the great delight of the moths, Joel not only made no objections to being inducted into them, but his face actually shone with pleasure at the prospect. Now, he was big, indeed!

“I can roll up your sleeves,” said Miss Miranda, reassuringly, as the well-worn edges dangled over his hands.

“Did John roll ’em up?” asked Joel, regarding her movements with suspicion.

“No, of course not,” said Miranda, briskly, “but he was bigger’n you be. Why, he was almost a man.”

“Then, I don’t want ’em rolled up,” said Joel, trying to get away from her long fingers, “and I’m almost a man, too. See how big I am, Miss Miranda.”

But, notwithstanding, Miranda went on pinching and rolling the sleeve-ends, and at last she threw Joel’s little blue cotton jacket and trousers into the nearest tub. “There,” she said, surveying him and her work, “at least, you’re clean.”

“An’ I’ve thought of some work he could do,” said old Mrs. Peters, looking in at the door.

“That’s th’ best thing of all,” said Miranda, soaping the stains vigorously; “I can wash an’ iron, but I can’t pick out work for a boy. What is’t, Ma? It’s got to be somethin’ not near to Pa,” she said in a lower tone.

“Your Pa can’t hear nor see this,” said Mrs. Peters. “It’s to pick over apples down cellar. They’re all a-rottin’ an’ spilin’ like all possessed.”

“The very thing!” exclaimed Miranda, joyfully. “Now, you run along, Joel, with Ma. She’ll set you to work.”

It was impossible for Joel to run in the garments that he now was in, but that seemed to him of small importance, since a man was not supposed to run down the cellar stairs.

So, down he went, and presently he was seated in the Peterses’ cellar on an old butter-tub, turned upside down, and before a great pile of apples, from which he was to pick out the decayed ones.

“And mind, Joel, don’t put any specked ones in there.” Old Mrs. Peters pointed a long thin finger over to the big basket set for the purpose.

“No, I won’t,” said Joel, all his eyes on the great pile of apples, and his mouth watering.

“An’ you may have one.” The old lady leaned over John’s coat sleeve, to whisper it, as if afraid that the ceiling above would tell the story to Pa, snoring in his big chair in the kitchen.

“Can I?” cried Joel. “Oh, goody!”

“Hush, hush,” said Mrs. Peters, catching his arm. “Yes, you may have two, only you must take specked ones, Joel.”

“Well, that boy’s fixed.” Mrs. Peters came toiling up the cellar stairs and into the wash-shed. “So he’s quiet about some work to do. But how’ll we pay him, Mirandy?”

Mirandy leaned her soapy hands on the rim of the tub. “I s’pose I’ll have to break into that egg money,” she said.

IX

OVER AT GRANDMA BASCOM’S

“No, children,” Mrs. Pepper shook her head, and bent closer over her sewing in the west window.

There was an awful silence in the old kitchen. Only Phronsie moved uneasily and put her hand up to Polly’s chin to turn the face down, so that she might see into the brown eyes. But Polly wouldn’t look.

“Oh, we can’t give it up, Mamsie,” at last she burst out passionately. And that set Joel off.

“No, no,” he howled, “we can’t, Mamsie.” And then little Davie blubbered; he couldn’t help it on hearing Joel, and he hid his face on his sleeve.

“Can’t is a very poor word to use, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, dryly, “when folks know what ought to be done.”

“But, Mamsie,” cried Polly, deserting the ring of children sitting on the floor, to rush tumultuously over to the sewing corner. Phronsie immediately got up and pattered after her, Joel following after, little David sitting quite still, and sobbing softly into his sleeve, “don’t you see, oh, don’t you see, Mamsie, that we’ve never had a chance to go,--to go to Cherryville before, and we’ve wanted to for so long.”

She thrust her face with a little white line around the mouth, up against the buttonhole where Mrs. Pepper was setting fine stitches.

“We’ve wanted to,” cooed Phronsie, who didn’t yet half know what it was all about, only that Polly wanted something dreadfully, and she patted her mother’s knee to attract attention.

“Take care, Polly,” warned Mrs. Pepper; “you almost stuck that needle into you.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” said Polly, recklessly, and brushing back her hair from her flushed face. But she dodged the busy needle. “You see, Mamsie.”

“Yes, you see, Mamsie,” shouted Joel.

“I see,” said Mrs. Pepper, gravely. She lifted her face for a minute, and Polly’s heart smote her when she saw how very pale it was; then the stitches were set as quickly as ever.

“And if we’ve got to give it all up--” Polly really couldn’t stop by this time, but the words came rushing out over each other for all the world just like a noisy little brook tumbling over the stones in its way, “All the fun driving in Miss Parrott’s coach, to stay with Grandma Bascom all day,--why, we can’t, Mamsie!” Down went her brown head in Mother Pepper’s lap; and she sobbed as if her heart would break.

“No, we can’t,” cried Joel, in a loud voice. “See Polly cry, Mamsie!” He pointed a surprised and shaking finger at the brown head buried in Mother Pepper’s work. At that, Phronsie gave a sharp little scream. Mrs. Pepper put aside Mr. Atkins’s coat with its last-but-one buttonhole half done.

“Joel!” she said.

When Mother Pepper spoke in that tone, it was not necessary for further reproof. And Joel immediately hung his head and blubbered out something. But Phronsie continued to scream on, and flung her arms around Polly’s shaking figure.

“Now Phronsie’s Mother’s little girl.” Mrs. Pepper drew her off to the side of her chair. “Stop crying and look up here, child.”

Phronsie raised her head obediently and wiped off the tears on her fat little hand. “Polly’s crying,” she announced, her lip still quivering.

“I know it; Mother’ll take care of Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper; “now you go with Joel, and play out of doors till I call you.”

“Dave must go, too,--can’t he, Mamsie?” broke in Joel.

“Yes, Davie can go, too,” Mother Pepper tried to smile over at him where he crouched on the floor. “Now go along and be good children.”

“I want Polly,” said Phronsie, with a lingering glance at the figure still half-hidden in Mamsie’s lap.

“No, Polly must stay with me. Go along, Phronsie, and be Mother’s good child.”

“I will be Mother’s good child,” hummed Phronsie. So Joel took her hand, and somehow little David found his feet, and stumbled out after them, and shut the green door fast.

In about half an hour, “tap,--tap,” on one of the little window panes. There was Mrs. Pepper rapping with her thimble.

“Hi--yi!” screamed Joel, catching sight of her face in the midst of a merry game of tag. “She says, come in!” and off he plunged for the house.

“We must wait for Phronsie,” said little David. But Joel was already in the old kitchen, and at last David found Phronsie on her knees watching the progress of a fuzzy yellow caterpillar in the middle of the grass-plot. She had forgotten all about “tag,” in which she was supposed to be an active participant.

“See, Davie, one of his legs is sick,” she cried, “poor little thing.”

“Oh, no, he isn’t sick,” said David; “he’s only slow. Come, Phronsie, and leave the old woolly boy alone.”

“No, he’s sick, the poor little woolly boy,” persisted Phronsie, “and I’m going to take him in to Mamsie.”

“Well, Mamsie wants us to come in,” said David, impatiently; “so do hurry, Phronsie.”

“Does Mamsie want us to come in?” asked Phronsie.

“Yes, she does. She called us from the window.”

“Then I shall go in,” declared Phronsie, getting up from her knees and patting her hands clean, “but I’m going to take my little woolly boy in, Davie.” So she picked him off gently from the grass, and setting him on her other hand, came slowly after David, who was running on before.

“Do hurry, Phronsie,” he begged, coming back to hasten matters; “there, don’t you see your woolly boy isn’t lame? he’s walking up your arm like everything.”

“He likes it,” said Phronsie, subduing all desire to get free, since this promenade appeared to be so well suited to the caterpillar. “He’s getting all well, Davie.”

“Well, he isn’t going to walk up your arm like that,” declared Davie, unceremoniously picking off the caterpillar; “now, Mister Woolly Boy, I’ll carry you.”

“Oh, no, no, Davie, let me,” cried Phronsie, holding out her hands; “he’s my very own woolly boy, and I like him.”

“Well, hold him in your hand, then,--like this.” Davie doubled over Phronsie’s fat little thumb and the fingers. “Not too tight or you’ll squash him.”

“What’s squash?” asked Phronsie, trying to peek in the cracks between her fingers at her treasure.

“Why, smash,” said David; “you’d smash him all to bits, and then there wouldn’t be anything left of him but his fur coat and the juice.”

“What’s juice?” asked Phronsie.

“Oh, that’s his insides,” said Davie; “take care now, don’t squeeze him.”

“Wouldn’t there be any little woolly boy inside of his fur coat?” asked Phronsie, stumbling along with the greatest difficulty, both eyes fastened on her closed hand.

“No, not a single thing,” asserted Davie, positively; “why, here’s Polly!”

“Well, children,” said Polly, running down to meet them, “why didn’t you come in when Mamsie called?”

“Oh, Phronsie found an old caterpillar,” said David, discontentedly. To have missed any of Mamsie’s calls put him out dreadfully.

“No, he’s a woolly boy,” corrected Phronsie; “see, Polly, and he’s sick.” She held up her hand for Polly to look through the cracks.

“Well, never mind, Pet,” said Polly; “Mamsie wants us now, and we must hurry, for we are all to go to Grandma Bascom’s.”

“Aren’t we going to--” began David.

“No,” said Polly, quickly. “We are going to Grandma’s, and we are going to have a real good time, Davie.”

With that she took Phronsie’s disengaged hand, “Come on,” and away they all sped into the Little Brown House.

And in five minutes it really seemed as if no such wonderful invitation had been received as that which Miss Parrott had sent down in a prim little note this morning. It had begged Mrs. Pepper to allow the four children (Ben was away at work on Deacon Blodgett’s woodpile) to drive over to Cherryville, under the care of her coachman, who had to take the big family barouche there for some slight repairs. Was ever such a wonderful treat! And just the day before they had promised Grandma Bascom, who was sick in bed with the rheumatism, to spend this very morning with her. Polly was to bake the bread and tidy up the little cottage, and the two boys were to split the kindlings and feed the hens; Phronsie’s part being to sit on the gay patched bedquilt by Grandma’s side and read aloud to her, the old lady being deaf as a post, and the book generally upside down never making any difference in the enjoyment.

“Now, then,” Mother Pepper had deserted her sewing, and was bustling around helping to get the children started.

“You better take Grandma a piece of that butter, Polly,” she said; “put it in the blue bowl.”

“Not the butter Mrs. Henderson sent us, Mammy?” said Polly, pausing in getting Phronsie’s clean pink pinafore over her head.

“Yes, and you can toast her some bread,” said Mrs. Pepper. “And, boys, you must hurry. You better start first, and tell Grandma that Polly and Phronsie are coming.”

“Tell Grandma I’m coming,” piped Phronsie, as Polly whirled her around to button up the back of the pinafore.

“Hooray,--come on, Dave!” shouted Joel, banging out of the doorway with little Davie at his heels.

And at last, Polly and Phronsie were on the flat door-stone, ready to start.

“O dear me!” Polly, the little blue bowl in her hand, turned back. “Oh, Mamsie, I’m _so sorry_!” and she hid her face in Mother Pepper’s neck.

“There,--there, Polly!” Mrs. Pepper patted the brown head with firm fingers, “that’s all been settled now; remember it only wastes time to fret over the past. Hurry along to Grandma; she needs you.”

“I will, Mamsie,” promised Polly, struggling with her tears. “Come, Phronsie.”

But Phronsie had to turn back, too. “Oh, Mamsie,” she begged, just as if she hadn’t said the same thing a dozen times before, “do take care of my poor little woolly boy, ple--ase, Mamsie!”

“I will, I will,” nodded Mother Pepper, smiling at her baby. So hand in hand Polly and Phronsie hurried off, and Mrs. Pepper went back to the kitchen window to watch for the Parrott coach, which having in any case to pass on this road to Cherryville, would waste no time in stopping at the Little Brown House.

“So I can give him the message, as well as to send word to Miss Parrott, that the children can’t go,” she said, as she picked up her neglected work to fly at it faster than ever; for that coat and the other three finished ones must be taken to Mr. Atkins just as soon as all were completed. Notwithstanding her hurry, Mrs. Pepper stopped once or twice to brush something away from her black eyes, that seemed to trouble her. At last she said, “Bless them--pleasure and good times will come to them sometime,--they must!” And then her needle flew faster than ever, to make up for lost time.

“Now, boys,” said Polly, when the four children had scampered down the lane, bringing up breathlessly at the door of the little cottage, “you must go right to work, after you’ve said ‘Good morning,’ to Grandma, on splitting the kindlings in the shed, and pile ’em up nicely. And, Joel, don’t ask her any questions; you know how to do it all.”

“Grandma may want ’em done different to-day,” said Joel, stoutly.

“No, she won’t,” said Polly, decidedly; “shoo, there!” this to an old hen who stepped out to the flat door-stone, as Polly opened the door.

“Let me shoo ’em! I’ll do it,” cried Joel, excitedly, pushing past Polly and flapping his arms; “shoo, there; scat you!”

“So will I,” cried David, following suit, and screaming with all his might, the poor old hen flying wild and squawking dismally.

Phronsie sat right down on the old flat stone. “Don’t let ’em do it, Polly,” she begged; “Grandma’s poor old biddies; Polly, please stop them,” lifting a distressed little face.

“Boys,--boys!” called Polly. But they had raced around the cottage. Meantime a big white hen stepped out from under the old kitchen table and hopped leisurely out past Phronsie sitting on the door-stone.

“Misery me!” exclaimed Polly, “there’s ever so many in here. Grandma didn’t see them probably when she shut the door. There, make her go off, Phronsie. Shoo--shoo!” and Polly flew around the little old kitchen brandishing a dish-towel, thereby making two or three other hens waddle and squawk in great distress.

“I’ll help you,” cried Phronsie, diverted from her lively interest over the white hen, and slipping off from the door-stone she ran into the kitchen. “Biddy--biddy--biddy,” only succeeding in getting dreadfully in the way, so that the hens squawked and flew about worse than ever.

“It’s a mercy that Grandma can’t hear them,” said Polly, pausing a minute to wipe her hot face. “Oh, you stupid things, can’t you see the open door? There, Phronsie, you stand over in that corner, that’s a good girl, and drive them this way. There, says I!”

But despite all this nice plan, the big clumsy creatures preferred to hop and dive under the table and chairs, and back of the wood-box, and any and everywhere but out of doors.

At last Polly sank down in a chair. “They won’t go out. O dear me, what shall I do!”

“Won’t they ever go out of Grandma Bascom’s kitchen?” asked Phronsie, deserting her corner to run over to Polly. “Say, Polly, won’t they ever?” as Joel with Davie at his heels whooped in.

“Oh, whickets!” exclaimed Joel, at sight of the hens. Then began such a lively chase that Polly had all she could do to restrain the boys and comfort Phronsie, while the little old kitchen rang with the noise. At last, out flew and plunged the hens over the flat door-stone and Joel screamed with delight, “There, sir, they’re all gone!” And Davie wiped his hot face and panted out, “Yes, they’re all gone!”

“No, they haven’t, Joel,” Polly exclaimed; “there’s one going into the bedroom. O dear me!”

“I’ll drive her out,” cried Joel, in huge delight and prancing across the little old kitchen.

“No, you mustn’t, Joe,” declared Polly, seizing his arm. “You’ll scare Grandma to death. Here, give me that broom.”

“You can’t do it as good as me,” grumbled Joel, while they all followed Polly, broom in hand, into the bedroom.

“Oh, you pretty creeters, you,” cried Grandma, raising her head in its big ruffled cap, from the high pillow of the four-poster and beaming at the whole bunch. “So you’ve come to see Grandma, haven’t you?”

“There’s a hen under your bed,” announced Joel, without any preamble, and marching up to the bedside.

“Hush, Joe,” said Polly. Then she laid her rosy cheek against the withered one under the big flapping ruffles.

“Good morning, Grandma.”

“You needn’t sweep up just yet,” said Grandma, with an eye for Polly’s broom.

“I’m not sweeping,” said Polly, rosier than ever.

Then she tried to lift Phronsie up on to the gay patched bedquilt by Grandma’s side.

For the first time in visiting Grandma Bascom, Phronsie pulled back. “I want to tell poor old biddy to go out,” she whispered, struggling violently; “let me tell her, Polly, do,” she implored.

“No, no, Phronsie,” said Polly, holding her fast, “you must do as I say, Pet, or else you’ll have to go home.”

So Phronsie, two big tears splashing their way down the pink cheeks, was set on the bed by Grandma’s side.

“O dear me!” exclaimed the old lady, in the greatest distress at the sight of these, “what in the world is the matter? Didn’t she want to come to see Grandma?” So Polly had to lean over and scream as much of the whole story about the hens as was possible into the old lady’s ear.

Meantime, Joel had determined to see to the old hen himself; so he had crawled under the bed, and by dint of wriggling smartly back and forth had at last caught her by one leg; since forgetting how she had crept in under the valance, she ran round and round in a vain effort to get out.

And presently amid a terrible squawking, out he came, flushed and triumphant, dragging her after him.

“I did get her,--bad old thing!” he cried jubilantly, his black eyes flashing. “See, Polly, see, Grandma!” and he swung the poor bird up before them.

Phronsie gave a loud scream.

“Joel Pepper!” cried Polly, bounding after him. But Joel was already out through the kitchen, and with a wave of his hand sending the clumsy old hen over to the grass-plot in front of the door. “Shoo, now, scat!” he said, which being just what best suited the hen at this time, she plunged in under the currant bushes, to relate her story to some other hens who came running to the spot.

All this delayed the work of the morning. But at last Polly saw the two boys splitting and piling the kindlings neatly, and Phronsie was reading most importantly aloud to Grandma, who alternately dozed, and opened her eyes, saying, “You pretty creeter, you!” while Polly herself was busy as a bee over her housewifely tasks.

At last the bread was baked (Mrs. Pepper having run over and made it the night before) and Polly drew a long breath, then ran into the little bedroom. “Well, Phronsie, Pet, now you must hop down and play, and I’ll stay with Grandma,” and there was Phronsie fast asleep, one hand up across Grandma’s little plaid bed-shawl, while Fox’s “Book of Martyrs” had slipped to the floor.

“She’s tired to death,” cried Polly, to herself; “well, now she shall have a good nap. And Grandma is asleep, too, so that’s a comfort.”

And she went out softly and closed the door; then ran around to the woodshed where the boys were.

“Oh, Polly!” cried Joel, pitching a stick of kindling over on the pile. “See what we’ve done!” and his round cheeks glowed with delight. Little drops of perspiration were rolling down Davie’s face.

“Oh, I never saw such a pile!” exclaimed Polly, “and Grandma’ll be so pleased. Now you two boys may stop working.”

“Goody!” cried Joel, picking up another stick to give it a good fling, and prancing off to the door, “Come on, Dave.--Oh, Polly, I’m so hungry.”

“So you must be,” said Polly, sympathetically. “Stop, Davie, didn’t you hear me say you needn’t work any more? Dear me, how hot you are!”

“I just want to finish this stick, Polly,” said little Davie, holding it up, while Joel kept calling: “Oh, come along, Dave,” ending with, “I’m so hungry, Polly.”

“Well, just that one,” said Polly, relenting; “then you two boys are to go home and wash your hands and faces, and you’ll find the bread and the mush and molasses in the pantry, Mamsie said.”

“Have we got to come over here afterward?” asked Joel, with impatient black eyes.

“Yes, of course,” said Polly, “but you are not to split kindlings any more. Mamsie said only do that once. And you’ve such a nice pile, boys.”

“It’s just a bully pile!” cried Joel, running over to regard it affectionately, and kicking a stray stick with his foot.

“Joel, what did you say?” cried Polly, in dismay.

Joel hung his black head, and dug the toe of his old shoe into the woodshed floor.

“Mamsie wouldn’t like that,” said Polly, soberly, “so you must never, never, as long as you live and breathe, Joel Pepper, say it again.”

“Oh, I won’t, I won’t,” promised Joel, eagerly. “Polly, I won’t, truly.”

“That’s right,” said Polly. “Now run along and get your bread and mush, and then come right back here.” And off the boys clattered.

And as soon as Phronsie woke up, then she was hungry, so Polly took her hand and raced down the lane, for Mother Pepper had told the children to come home for anything to eat, and there Polly found the two boys sitting by the kitchen table busy over their mush-bowls.

“It’s good,” declared Joel, just putting in a big spoonful, and he smacked his lips.

“O misery, what a face, Joe!” exclaimed Polly, with a grimace; “the molasses is all up to your ear.”

“That’s because Dave jogged my arm,” said Joel, composedly, and going on with his consumption of mush.

“Well, go and wash it off,” said Polly; “yes, yes, Pet, I’ll get you some mush, but you must have on your eating-apron first.”

“I don’t want to wash my face yet,” grumbled Joel, eating away faster than ever. “It’ll get all dirt again; Dave’ll joggle me some more.”

“Oh, no, I won’t,” declared little Davie, in distress, “and I didn’t mean to before, only I was trying to get the molasses pitcher. Truly, I didn’t, Polly.”

He laid down his spoon, and his blue eyes filled with tears.

“I know, Davie,” Polly stopped to smile at him, as she came back with Phronsie’s eating-apron and tied it under her chin. Then she lifted her up to her high-chair.

“Yes, Joel, for shame to want to sit still and eat with such a sticky face.”

“I’m going to kiss Phronsie, first,” said Joel, dropping his spoon and springing out of his seat.

“No indeed, Joel Pepper,” cried Polly, putting up both hands, “the very idea; you’ll stick her all up.”

“Then I’ll kiss Dave,” declared Joel, bursting into a laugh.

But little David, ducking his head beneath his arm and Polly saying, “Joel Pepper!” in a way that he never remembered disobeying, Joel marched off to the sink, and presently came back, his round face red and shiny, to bestow attention again on his mush-bowl.

But they didn’t go back to Grandma Bascom’s after all that day, for just then in came Mother Pepper, her black eyes shining.

“Mamsie!” they all screamed in joy, Phronsie laying down her spoon and beginning to clamber out of her high-chair.

“There, there, baby, sit still.” Mother Pepper put her hand on the fat little shoulder. “All of you children stay just where you are. No, no, Polly, I’ll take off my bonnet. Yes, Mother’s got home sooner than expected, for Mrs. Blodgett has had company come; so when I got there, after taking back the coats to Mr. Atkins, there wasn’t anything to do.”

It was a long speech for Mrs. Pepper to make, and then she went into the bedroom and the children’s spoons clicked faster than ever.

“Now we must be good as can be,” said Polly to the others, “and run right back to Grandma’s without making any fuss.”

“I shall tell Mamsie I don’t wan’t to go,” announced Joel, having eaten as much as he could, and giving a long stretch, “I’m awful tired, Polly.”

“Awfully,” corrected Polly, who was very particular about her speech as well as other matters; “you do say such perfectly dreadful things, Joel.”

“It is awful,” persisted Joel, obstinately.

“No,” said Polly, shaking her head, “it isn’t; you must say ‘awfully,’ Joe.”

“But I don’t want to,” said Joel, setting his little white teeth together firmly.

Davie at that turned to him in a worried way. “Oh, do say it, Joe,” he begged.

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Pepper, coming out from the bedroom and looking from one to the other.

“Oh, I will,” cried Joel, swallowing very hard. “I will, Polly. It is awfly; Polly, it is.”

He got out of his chair, and ran around to her side.

“Polly,” he whispered, pulling her ear down to his mouth, “it _is_ awfly.”

“All right.” Polly turned, and set a little kiss on his red cheek.

“Well, now, children,” Mrs. Pepper was saying, with a happy smile over at the two, “I don’t want any of you to go back to Grandma’s, for I am going myself.”

“Oh, Mamsie!” exclaimed Polly, in dismay, “do let us. Really and truly, Mamsie, we want to.”

“No, I don’t think it’s best,” said Mother Pepper, decidedly. “You’ve all been good children I know, and--”

“We’ve made the biggest pile of kindlings, Dave and me,” cried Joel, excitedly flying over to her; “look in the woodshed, Mammy.”

“So I believe,” cried Mrs. Pepper, in a pleased way; “I’ll look in the woodshed, Joe and Davie,” and she beamed at them both.

“And I read to Grandma,” said Phronsie, bobbing her yellow head over her mush-bowl at her mother. “I did; and Grandma, she liked it, she did.”

“That’s a good child,” cried Mrs. Pepper, going over to her baby.

“Well, now you may all have the afternoon to play in, for I am going to take care of Grandma myself.”

“Oh, whoopity!” screamed Joel, making for the door.

X

THE STAGE RIDE

“G’lang there, whoa!” Mr. Tisbett brought up in fine style with one of his best flourishes in front of the well-worn gate to the Little Brown House, and swept it with a confident gaze.

But instead of seeing Joel and David, nearly overcome with joy, rush out of the house and run wildly down the pathway, there was absolutely nobody stirring that he could see, and all was quiet except the droning of the bees in the meadow across the road.

“Beats all natur where they be.” The stage-driver, unable to get any satisfaction by staring, took off his old straw hat and violently scratched his head. This afforded him some peace of mind, but the silence continuing, except for the bees and the twitters of an inquisitive bird or two hopping to a near-by branch by the roadside to see what it was all about, he sat back on the old leather-covered seat and drew a long breath.

“Whew!” Then he laid the well-worn reins down and clambered from his perch to the ground, and with a “Stand still there,” to his horses,--a command they were always perfectly willing to obey,--he slouched up to the old green door and gave two emphatic raps, but nobody answered them.

Now by this time Mr. Tisbett was convinced that the most important business in all this world was to get Joel and David and start them on that long-promised ride over to Cherryville on top of his stage-coach. The invitation, with a message “to be lively and not keep me waiting,” had been sent to them only the afternoon before. Mr. Tisbett had left it at the village store to be delivered to one of the Pepper children or their mother, it being the day when Mr. Atkins expected some coats to be called for. But Phronsie had been sick and fretfully clung to Mother Pepper, and as Polly had a great deal more work to do than usually fell to her share, the coats were not called for, of course. And as a consequence, Mr. Atkins promptly forgot all about the matter until shutting-up time came.

“Oh, good gracious, Jonah!” he exclaimed, slapping the counter and looking up with a very distressed face; “if I haven’t clean forgot all about Mr. Tisbett’s takin’ them Pepper boys to ride to-morrow.” He ran to the door and looked up and down the long dusty road. There wasn’t a sign of a person, to say nothing of a stray boy.

“They’d be thick as a swarm if you didn’t want ’em,” said the storekeeper, discomfited. “I declare, I’ll go myself.” He pulled off his old linen coat on the way to his home, which was entered by a door from the shop leading into the ell.

“I’m goin’ out, Sarah,” he said in a high sharp key, not made pleasanter by smelling the hot beefsteak pie he knew was being borne to the supper table at this very moment.

“Hey?” Mrs. Atkins set down the pie in its place before his plate and stared at him.

“I said I was goin’ out,” repeated the storekeeper, irritably, and turning his back to the pie, while he wriggled into his out-of-door coat hanging behind the kitchen door.

Mrs. Atkins deserted the supper table to run over and look at his face. “You goin’ out before supper?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Atkins, sharply, and pulling his coat sleeves down; “’cause I know I won’t do it after, for no one,” it being the storekeeper’s nightly habit to fall asleep after his evening meal in the big easy-chair, and when he awoke from that, he would have neither inclination nor time to make evening calls. “I’ll tell you about it when I get home, Sarah,” and he crammed his hat on his head and started for the door.

Sarah Atkins ran around him to get there first. “You’ll tell me now, Silas,” she said quietly; “where on earth are you goin’ without your supper?”

“Down to Mis’ Pepper’s,” said the storekeeper, brought to bay.

“Down to Mis’ Pepper’s?” repeated his wife. “Has anything happened there?”

“No,” said Mr. Atkins, and then the story came out.

Just then there was a vigorous knocking set up at their front door. It was so imperative that both the storekeeper and his wife hastened with all speed to answer it.

“I thought you was never comin’.” Little Sally Brown stood there on the step with a very injured countenance.

“You only just knocked,” said Mrs. Atkins, exasperated. “Now what do you want?”

“Some sugar--” said Sally; “two pounds--” Mr. Atkins, when he saw who the visitor was, had retreated a few steps with premonitions of a call to the store.

“Sugar?” he now cried sharply; “at this time of night--the store’s all shet up.”

“Yes,” said Sally, “we’ve got comp’ny.”

This piece of news, ordinarily exciting enough to be followed up, was cut in twain by Mr. Atkins suddenly crying out, as he pressed forward eagerly, “See here, you’ll go to Mis’ Pepper’s for me, Sally?”

“No,” said Sally, decidedly; “I’m goin’ home.”

“You’ll go to Mis’ Pepper’s for me, or you’ll get no sugar _from_ me,” declared the storekeeper, just as decidedly, Mrs. Atkins during this colloquy exclaiming--“So she can--Sally can tell Mis’ Pepper,” joyfully to herself, as she followed the other two all the way through the kitchen to the shop door. For Sally, wisely concluding to take the best that was offered her, finally assented to Mr. Atkins’s proposal, and seized the paper of sugar, saying, “Yes, I’ll go.”

“Be sure you’ve got the message right,” said Mr. Atkins, holding her arm until she had gone over the message three times to make certain that there could be no mistake. “Mr. Tisbett is comin’ to-morrow mornin’ to take Joel and David to Cherryville. Be ready sharp at eight o’clock.”

At last the weary storekeeper and his wife were back in their kitchen. “Now that’s done,” and he took off his out-of-door coat and hung it up with an air of relief.

“The pie’s all cold,” declared Mrs. Atkins, in vexation, and she twitched it off the table.

“Bring it back, Sarah,” said her husband; “I’m hungry as a wolf.”

“It’s cold as a stone,” said Mrs. Atkins, pausing to turn a vexed face.

“Well, cold or hot, I’m goin’ to have some,” said Mr. Atkins, dropping into his seat at the supper table and laying hold of his knife and fork.

So the beefsteak pie was dumped down on the table in front of his plate once more, and Mrs. Atkins slipped into her seat to pour out the tea.

Meantime Sally Brown ran like a good one up the hill and down again, fully intending to drop the parcel of sugar at home and then off over cross lots to the Little Brown House, but dashing into the kitchen she found herself in the midst of the entire family gathered around a common centre, so, dropping the brown-paper bundle on the table, she burst in among the group to hear what the excitement could be.

“Oh, ain’t it too cunnin’ for anythin’!”

“Yes,” said another voice, “it’s cute as can be!” And there was “Cousin Callena’s” little girl, part of the company, simpering and bridling with delight, and holding up a big doll in a pink satin dress and a red hat and white lace veil.

Sally’s mouth opened wide, but she had no time nor breath to scream. The minute Cousin Callena’s little girl saw her, she lowered the doll immediately to put both arms around it. “You shan’t see it,” she declared, with all the triumph of possession.

“For shame, Flora!” cried her mother, “when you’ve come visitin’.”

But Flora, not considering it necessary to part with her usual manners just because she was visiting, kept on hugging her doll and swaying back and forth, repeating in a sing-song voice, “You _shan’t_ see it--you shan’t.”

“I will,” declared Sally, passionately, and with very red cheeks trying to thrust herself nearer for a better view.

“And so you may,” said Cousin Callena, very much ashamed, and reaching over she first bestowed a smart slap on Flora’s shoulder; then she twitched the doll out from her arms. “There, now, I’ll take it myself. Come over here, Sally, and I’ll show it to you.”

Flora gave a loud scream, but, seeing it was useless to follow her mother, she threw herself flat on the floor and sobbed and kicked her heels all the while the resplendent doll in the pink satin dress and red hat and white lace veil was being exhibited in another corner of the kitchen.

And when Sally Brown next remembered the message to the Peppers, it was along toward the middle of the following morning. She had “eaten and slept” on nothing but that magnificent doll, being unable to get it out of her thoughts for a moment. When the message did flash through her mind, she started, and without a word to any one, raced off across lots as fast as she could to the Little Brown House. It was as silent and empty as when the stage-driver had visited it.

“Oh, well, Mr. Tisbett’s taken Joel and Davie,” said Sally to herself, running all about the Little Brown House, and peeping into the west window where Mrs. Pepper usually sat sewing. “An’ the rest have gone, too,” she added enviously; “an’ I hain’t never been a stage-ridin’,” and she disconsolately got herself back home.

It was just about this time that Mrs. Pepper, sewing away for dear life over in Grandma Bascom’s cottage, looked up.

“It’s time to make Grandma some tea, Polly,” she said.

“O dear me, so it is,” said Polly, setting up the broom neatly and drawing a long breath. “Mamsie, it wouldn’t be near so hard to get this floor clean if these old hens wouldn’t keep coming in. There’s one now!” and Polly flew for the broom again to brandish it wildly after the marauder. “They get the feathers all over everything.”

“Shut the door then, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper.

“Oh, they come in just as easily in that hole over by the corner.” Polly pointed to it with her broom.

“Is there a hole there, Polly?” asked Mrs. Pepper, in surprise.

“Yes, Mamsie,” said Polly, “there is. I’m going to put that box up against it,” which was no sooner said than done, Polly dragging up an empty soap box for the purpose. “There, now, old hens, I guess you won’t get in,” she cried, rubbing her hands in satisfaction.

“Ben must mend that hole just as soon as he has a chance,” said Mrs. Pepper, snipping off her thread, while Polly set back the broom and ran over to the stove to get Grandma’s tea.

“Isn’t it good that Phronsie sleeps so long, Mamsie?” said Polly at last, while she was waiting for the old kettle to boil, and coming up to her mother’s chair.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper. She looked tired and worried, but she smiled. “She’ll be all right, I think,” she hastened to say.

“I guess she’s better because you brought her over to Grandma’s,” said Polly, with a happy little laugh, and balancing herself first on one set of toes and then on the other. “Isn’t she, Mamsie?”

“Maybe,” said Mrs. Pepper, then she laughed too, a sound that made Polly happier yet. “I think the kettle has boiled, Polly.”

“I believe it has,” laughed Polly, skipping back to the old stove.

And then when Grandma had had her tea and eaten the toast that Polly had made to go with it, and Polly had washed and wiped the dishes, Phronsie on the other side of Grandma’s big bed turned over and put out her hand. “I’m so hungry, Polly,” she said.

“Oh, Pet, are you awake?” Polly ran around the old bed and covered her face with kisses; “and you’re all well, aren’t you, Pet?”

“No,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head as well as she could for Polly hugging her, “but I’m very hungry, Polly. I am truly.”

“Well, and you shall have something,” declared Polly, flying off into the kitchen to tell Mrs. Pepper all about it.

So Mamsie dropped her sewing and went in to look at Phronsie to see how she really was. And everything had to be told to Grandma, who by this time was in a bad fright lest Phronsie were worse. And then Grandma said Phronsie must have toast, too, and so Polly ran out to make that. And presently Phronsie was sitting up, propped against a pillow close to Grandma’s, and eating with great satisfaction all around a crispy, crinkly slice of toast that Polly brought to the side of the bed with a great flourish on a piece of paper, pretending it was a napkin.

And then Polly curled up at the foot of the bed and laughed, and told Phronsie a merry little story about Parson Henderson’s chickens that Phronsie always considered part of the eating process. And Grandma “ohed” and “ahed” through it all, although she hadn’t heard a word, and everything was getting on as fine as could be, and Mrs. Pepper out in the kitchen gave a sigh of relief as her needle flew faster than ever. “It surely hasn’t hurt Phronsie to bring her over, and Grandma needed us after that chill;” for Polly had run back through the lane after an early visit to the cottage, saying that “Grandma is awfully cold, and she can’t get warm, and she’s all huddled up over the stove.” And Mrs. Pepper had bundled up Phronsie in an old quilt and carried her over, telling Polly to bring the coat she was trying to finish and the work-basket. And then Ben and Joel and Davie had all hurried off to work together, for the two little boys were to help Ben at Deacon Blodgett’s on this morning.

“It’s so funny to lock the door,” said Polly to herself, as she swung the old key on her finger and skipped down the lane. “O dear me, wouldn’t it be nice to ever go off into the woods and pick flowers, and run--O dear me--and stay as long as I wanted to--just think--oh!” But here she was at Grandma Bascom’s, and ever so much work to be done.