Chapter XIV: In Doctor Fisher’s Gig 397 (7)

“I’d stop for them boys to-morrow, I declare I would,” said Mr. Tisbett to himself, rattling off on the way to collect his customers, “ef I warn’t engaged to bring up them folks from the city to the Potter farm. That’s jest it--this busy season--it beats all to know when I can git another chance so good as this was to-day, and no one to take this ere seat with me.” He slapped his knees with his horny hand in his vexation, and set about his day’s work in no very pleasant frame of mind.

“John!” An old yellow wagon, drawn by an older horse, rattled around a curve. “I say, John, stop, will ye?”

“I’m a-stoppin’ as fast’s I kin with my horses,” said Mr. Tisbett, pulling up his pair with a superior air. “What d’ye want, Mr. Potter?”

Mr. Potter guided his old horse up against the stage-driver’s pair, and bawled out, “Say, those folks ain’t a-comin’ to-morrow.”

“Them city ones?” asked the stage-driver.

“Yes,--a-comin’ Friday; just had a tel’gram.” Mr. Potter drew himself up with dignity to see the effect on the stage-driver. “’Twas brought by Hiram Pendleton’s son, an’ he come lickety-split--thought some one was dead, an’--”

“I don’t care about that,” said Mr. Tisbett, dismissing the narration by a wave of his hand as of no consequence whatever. “I’ll fetch ’em from Cherryville deepo Friday insted of to-morrow; that’s the idee, ain’t it?”

“Yes, ye see--” Mr. Potter stood up in his wagon, he was so anxious to get all the details of this change of plans in his city boarders well before the stage-driver’s mind, but that individual was already a good piece of his journey down the road, his horses kicking up a great dust while he cheered them on, for his spirits had risen very much indeed.

“Now I’ll take the Pepper boys to-morrow to Cherryville,” he declared, “an’ I’ve got to go round there to-night when I come home, so I’ll tell Mis’ Pepper.” This new plan almost made him forget his worry that otherwise would have seized him when he thought of the Little Brown House all so shut up and silent.

So all this is the reason why Joel and little David didn’t hear before that night that they were really and truly going to Cherryville on the morrow. Then the Little Brown House more than made up for being silent in the early morning!

“Oh, I wish you were going, Polly!” said Ben the next morning, when she ran out to the woodpile where he had to work that day to get some ready for Mamsie, and he rested his busy saw a moment.

“Oh, I’m going sometime,” said Polly, tossing back her brown hair, and trying to speak cheerily.

Ben’s face didn’t lighten a bit, as he took up his saw.

“And it’s too bad you can’t go,” said Polly. “Dear me!” and she clasped her hands tightly.

“Oh, I’m going sometime,” said Ben, repeating her words. Then he burst into a laugh. “But I’ve got to have this wood sawed first.”

“And I’ve got to wash those old breakfast dishes,” said Polly, skipping off to the kitchen door. “Misery me!” for there was Joel in a dreadful state of distress. He couldn’t find his cap; search for it high and low, it was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, I thought you were all ready, Joel!” cried Polly, in surprise.

“He was--he was,” gasped little Davie, tearfully, and getting in everybody’s way in his efforts to help along the search.

“Here comes the stage,” said Mrs. Pepper, looking out of the window. “Joel, run out and ask Ben to let you take his cap.”

“Oh, Mamsie,” began Polly, in dismay, who dearly loved, whenever any of them were going visiting, to have everything as fine as possible. But seeing Mrs. Pepper’s eyes, she didn’t finish with “Ben’s cap will be ever so much too big for him,” as Joel dashed off to ask him.

“You mustn’t keep Mr. Tisbett waiting,” said Mrs. Pepper, “so run along, boys,” as Joel raced back, cramming Ben’s worn cap on his head as he pranced down the path to be pulled up over the wheel by Mr. Tisbett, who performed the same good office for little David. At last a crack of the whip--and off they went.

Down to Badgertown Centre the old stage-coach swung along, the horses now at a “pretty pace,” as Mr. Tisbett called it, for he always made a good showing down the main street, till a sharp scream struck his ears.

“Hulloa there, what you about,” he called; “scaring the horses to death!” and he pulled them up shortly, and craned his neck at a woman running along the sidewalk, and shaking a small bandbox tied up with a cloth cover at him. “Stop--stop,” she gasped faintly.

“Ain’t I a-stoppin’?” said Mr. Tisbett, leaning both hands holding the old leather reins on his knees. “Gracious, ye don’t need to screech so, Mis’ Sprigg.”

“I was afraid,” panted the woman, coming up to the stage, “that--you--wouldn’t stop, Mr. Tisbett.” Her face was very red and the drops of perspiration rolled down either side.

“Well, I’m a-stoppin’ now,” said the stage-driver, while Joel and David peered around him to get as much as possible of the interview; “so if you’ll state what you want, I’ll be obleeged to ye, Mis’ Sprigg.”

“How much is’t to Cherryville?” asked Mrs. Sprigg, depositing her bandbox on the grass by the side of the road, and pulling out a big handkerchief to mop her hot face.

“Just what it always was; a quarter,” said Mr. Tisbett. “The price ain’t changed any since yest’day when you asked me, Mis’ Sprigg.”

“I didn’t know but what you’d take less when you’d had a chance to think over what good customers we’d been when we lived over to Cherryville,” said Mrs. Sprigg, scanning the stage-driver’s face with her beady eyes. “We alwus travelled with you, Mr. Tisbett,” she added wheedlingly.

“And how much did you travel?” said Mr. Tisbett, scornfully, shifting his quid of tobacco to the other cheek; “once in a dog’s age, ye come over to Badgertown.”

Mrs. Sprigg drew herself up to her greatest height, which wasn’t much, and her beady eyes snapped.

“Well, I can’t stop here with my horses coolin’ their heels _all_ day,” said the stage-driver. “Are you goin’ to get in for Cherryville or stay where ye be?” And he shook the reins suggestively.

“I’ve got to go to Cherryville,” snapped the little woman, snatching up her bandbox from the grass. “My sister’s husband took sick, an’ Eliza--”

“I can’t stop to hear about Eliza,” retorted the stage-driver, impatiently, and dropping the reins to clamber down over the wheel. “I’ve got some customers to pick up, an’ some passels, an’ I hain’t no time to waste in talk. Now, then, Mis’ Sprigg.” He set her bandbox inside with a hasty hand, then took hold of her arm to help her into the coach. “Step lively, there!”

“Wait a minute--” she shook him off to peer down the road. “Oh, here she comes!”

Mr. Tisbett flew around also to see coming down the road, making the dust fly well at every step, a small girl holding a basket which she swung back and forth vigorously.

“Hold it straight,” screamed the little woman, and she stamped her foot on the grass. “Martha Sprigg, don’t you know no better!” But Martha not hearing, as there were several noises emanating from the basket, kept up the swinging, and at last reached her mother, who first gave her a smart slap, and then, after getting the basket away from her, a shake.

“You’ve pretty near killed him, I ’xpect,” declared Mrs. Sprigg, bending over the basket in concern, from which a loud and indignant “Mee--ow!” pealed forth. “Now you go right straight back home, you naughty girl, you, and sew up that seam to that sheet, just as I told you.”

Martha looked longingly at the stage-coach, and the two boys perched up on top, then her gaze fell down to her mother. “I want to go,” she said boldly.

Mrs. Sprigg, with her foot on the step, having first seen Mr. Tisbett deposit her precious basket inside, turned in astonishment. “Well, I never!” she ejaculated.

“Let th’ little girl go, can’t ye?” said Mr. Tisbett, good-naturedly, on seeing Martha’s face; “’twon’t cost nothin’. I’ll take her without charge.”

For one second Mrs. Sprigg relented, being unable to pass anything by that did not cost. “No, indeed,” then she cried decidedly; “it’ll cost over there to Eliza’s for eatin’, an’ Martha’s got to do th’ work to home. Go right straight back!” She whipped her skirts about her feet and skipped into the stage-coach.

“Well, there, ye see, I can’t take ye; your Ma won’t let me,” said Mr. Tisbett, apologetically, to the little girl, who stood twisting her small red hands together and wistfully regarding his face.

“Oh, let her come, do let her come,” begged Joel, leaning forward on his high seat at the imminent risk of falling off on his nose; Davie crowding up close to his shoulder trying to see, too, and crying, “Please, Mr. Tisbett, let her come--”

“Can’t,” said Mr. Tisbett, swinging himself up to his seat; “that cantankerous old woman won’t let me--” the last under his breath.

Martha, seeing her last hope which had flamed high at Mr. Tisbett’s words, disappear, gave a loud scream of disappointment and flung herself face downward on the grass. The stage-driver, just picking up the old leather reins, paused and looked over his shoulder. “See here, Marthy, don’t cry. I’ll take ye some other day.”

Mrs. Sprigg poked her head, with its green veil tied carefully over her Sunday bonnet, out of the window to listen greedily. Martha sat up on the grass suddenly to brush away the tears.

“Yes, I will,” said Mr. Tisbett. “You be a good girl an’ run home now, an’ I’ll come for ye some other day,” and he whirled back in his seat. “G’lang!” And Mrs. Sprigg was picking herself back from the opposite leather-covered seat and straightening her bonnet after the jerk of the old coach as the horses sprang off.

“Oh, we can’t leave her,” screamed Joel, at the end of the seat, trying to see Martha; little Davie in just as much distress, huddled up in the middle.

“Look out--you set still,” roared Mr. Tisbett at Joel. “If you don’t, I’ll put you off, an’ you won’t go neither,” which had such good effect that Joel crowded up closely to Davie. “Oh, I will sit still, I will, Mr. Tisbett,” as they rumbled off, trying to make up for lost time on the way to the store where they were to pick up the other passengers and the parcels.

When this place was reached, there was a little detention to allow an old gentleman with crutches to get helped in and settled comfortably by his daughter, who was the only other passenger. And then their trunk, a small black leather one, was swung on behind, and the various parcels (for Mr. Tisbett, of course, carried the express to the different families between Badgertown and Cherryville) were packed in, and with a “good-by, Joel and David,” from Mr. Atkins, who came out on the steps to see them off, away they went again, not to stop except once or twice to give the horses a breathing spell, until they drew up at Cherryville Centre.

“It’s a dull day enough,” observed Mr. Tisbett, sociably, on one of these resting spells, and crossing his legs leisurely, “for trade, that is. Beats all how that Mis’ Sprigg’s tongue goes,” he pointed backward with his tongue toward the open window.

Joel, who cared little for Mrs. Sprigg’s tongue, now began to use his own, clamoring freshly to be allowed to drive, or at least, to hold the reins when the horses were resting.

“When you’re bigger, ye may,” said Mr. Tisbett, pushing back his straw hat from his forehead.

“I am bigger,” said Joel, straightening up.

“I see,” said the stage-driver with a loud “so ye be.”

“Then can’t I take ’em?” cried Joel, triumphantly.

“Well, ye’ll be bigger yet in a little while--you wait and see,” said Mr. Tisbett. “You’ll grow faster ef you’re quiet.”

“Will I?” cried Joel, eagerly.

“Yes, indeed,” the stage-driver nodded emphatically. “You’ll be as big as Ben if you don’t look out. That’s his cap, ain’t it, you’ve got on your head?”

Joel, at this, reminded of his head and what it carried, clapped his hands to it. “Yes, ’tis,” he nodded.

“Well, now, seem’ you’ve got Ben’s cap on your head, you ought to have some sense like Ben has, _in_ your head.” The stage-driver, at that, raised the reins and “g’langed” to his horses, and away they went once more settling down to work.

Suddenly all three up on the top seat began to be aware that there was a lively commotion down within the old stage, and a long crutch waved out of the window, besides various cries in as many different voices, made Mr. Tisbett think he must pull up his horses and get down and investigate, which he did at once, thrusting his red face in the window. “What in creation--” But he got no further, the young woman who had waved her father’s crutch to attract attention and stop the coach, vying with Mrs. Sprigg to make herself heard. The old gentleman said nothing, but his eyes blazed.

“One of you ladies, at a time,” begged Mr. Tisbett, waving his hands deprecatingly. “I’d be delighted to hear it all, if one of you would wait for th’ tother--”

But that was precisely what neither would do, but Mrs. Sprigg got her story in shrilly above the other woman.

“My cat’s gone--he’s let it out o’ th’ basket.”

“Indeed, I did not.” The old gentleman was so indignant, he found his voice.

“Pa hasn’t touched her old cat,” cried the young woman, angrily. “The very idea!”

“He’s done nothin’ but poke th’ basket all the while with his crutch,” declared Mrs. Sprigg, “ever sence he got in, an’ th’ cover’s flew up, an’ see there!” She held up the basket, and sure enough, the cover was up, and no cat there.

“Well, the cat’s under th’ seat prob’ly,” said Mr. Tisbett, in the midst of the babel of tongues. “I’ll wait while you get down an’ get her, Mis’ Sprigg, but you must hurry up.” With that he rested one foot on the step and his hands on the window casing, while with many mutterings about neighbors who wouldn’t keep their meddling sticks and crutches to themselves, and just as emphatic answers that there hadn’t been any meddling sticks and crutches, and that the rickety old cover was to blame for the whole performance, Mrs. Sprigg slid off from the old leather swinging seat and began to prowl about in the dark corners for her straying pet, when, without a bit of warning, out shot something big and furry over Mr. Tisbett’s head, clawing the straw hat as it went, to land a dozen feet away on the roadside, and disappear over the stone wall.

“My land o’ Goshen!” exclaimed the stage-driver, pushing back his straw hat where it had been thrust over his eyes, as Mrs. Sprigg’s face came up to the window. “Oh, my cat!” she screamed wildly, and rattling the door to get out; “catch him--catch him!”

“I’ll catch him,” cried Joel, tumbling off from his seat and down over the wheel, followed by Davie, who never stopped to think of what had seemed to him before to be a dangerous proceeding, and racing after Joel’s heels, both boys were soon over the stone wall.

“They’ll scare him worse,” cried Mrs. Sprigg, now down by the side of the road, and in a thicket of straggling blackberry bushes, and she wrung her hands.

“Plague take your old cat!” exclaimed Mr. Tisbett, in a panic over the boys. “Come back here--your Ma won’t like it,” he shouted, but he might as well have saved his voice, for it was carried off by the wind long before it could reach the two little flying figures, as they dashed up to the edge of a clump of bushes. But just here the unexpected happened--the cat with long leaps was making her way within the thicket, when a dog running through the bushes came face to face with her, nearly knocking her over, and Joel, seizing that instant, had her, though kicking and struggling dreadfully, held fast in his arms.

“I’ve got her--I’ve got her!” he yelled clear across the field, his black eyes shining in triumph, and running as fast as he could for her kicking and clawing, Davie stumbling along by his side, begging him to let her go, and wild with fright as he saw a long bloody scratch on one of the little brown hands.

“No, sir--ee!” declared Joel; “there, now, I’ve got your other old hind leg,” this to the cat, and gathering up the long paws with a good grip. “You can’t scratch me any more,” and presently he somehow got over the stone wall.

“Now give that pesky animal to me,” commanded Mr. Tisbett. So Joel, although he much preferred to put the cat himself into the basket, was obliged to hand it over and stand quietly by, while it was crammed into its prison. And then Mr. Tisbett remarking--“We won’t have no more stoppings out of _this_ stage till you get to Cherryville,” produced a rope from underneath the seat and securely tied on the cover, making it fast with a generous number of knots, and no one but Davie took any notice of Joel’s bloody little hands.

It wasn’t till they got to Cherryville and stopped at the Inn for dinner, Mrs. Sprigg and her cat and her bandbox having been dropped at “Eliza’s,” that the old gentleman as soon as he was helped up to the long piazza to sink down in one of the big chairs, said, “Hey, look at that boy,” and he rapped on the floor with his crutch; then pointed to Joel.

Joel put his hands behind his little blue cotton blouse. He had wiped them pretty clean, but couldn’t succeed in getting off all the dingy stains.

Mrs. Christy, the landlady, was bustling in the doorway, preparatory to ringing the big dinner-bell. “What’s that?” she said, peering at Joel.

“Nothing,” he tried to say, squirming worse than ever. But little Davie piped out, “It was the cat.”

“Let me see your hands,” said Mrs. Christy, giving up all thoughts just then of ringing the dinner-bell. So Joel had to show them. “O dear me!” she exclaimed. “Now that’s too bad, the cat must have hurt you just awful.”

“Phoh, she didn’t hurt much,” said Joel, trying to edge off, little Davie having the hardest work not to let the tears roll down his cheeks.

“You come right here,” said Mrs. Christy, “an’ wash ’em good an’ clean, an’ I’ll give you some court-plaster. Then, says I, you’ll be all ready to set down an’ eat when Mr. Tisbett is. Come along and take off your cap,” she said to David.

Joel clapped his hands up to his head, then stared at Davie, his black eyes getting bigger than ever. Little Davie, having been unable all this time to look higher than Joel’s poor hands, now stared back at him.

“Oh--oh!” he screamed in the greatest consternation; “it’s gone--it isn’t there. Oh--oh!” and in a minute the whole long piazza was in an uproar that brought every lodger to the scene. Ben’s cap was not only not on Joel’s head--it was nowhere to be seen.

Joel cried steadily all through dinner, the tears running down his round cheeks, without the slightest thought of the boarders staring at him, as he sat back in his chair; and all attempts to make him partake of the nice things that the landlady and “Mandy” piled on his plate, failed, while little Davie softly sobbed next to him, until good Mrs. Christy and the stage-driver were almost at their wit’s end. Finally the old gentleman at the other end of the long table, laid down his knife and fork, and exclaimed “Hem--” in such a loud voice, everybody knew he was getting ready to say something quite important.

“Here, boy--look here. _Hem!_” It was so very loud now and commanding that even Joel stopped a moment. Seeing this, Davie listened with all his heart. Could anything help them out of this dreadful trouble? _Ben’s cap lost!_ “I’ve got something for you that you’ll like a great deal better’n your old cap; it was too big anyway for you.”

“I wouldn’t like it better,” screamed Joel, a great deal worse than before; “this was Ben’s, and I’ve--lost--it!”

“Lavinia,” said the old gentleman, giving his daughter a little key out of his waistcoat pocket, “you go to my trunk and get out that little black cap.” He dropped his voice so that no one else could hear.

“Not the one you’re taking to Jim!” said Lavinia, whispering back.

“You do as I say,” commanded the old gentleman, fiercely. If he could have reached his crutch, he would have pounded the floor with it, but it was left in the corner of the big dining room. So Lavinia went off with the little key in her hand, and presently she came back with a brand new black cloth cap in the other hand.

“Now stick that on that boy’s head,” said the old gentleman. “Now, says I, whatever your--name--is, boy, you take Ben, whoever--he--is, that cap. He’ll like it a great deal better because it’s a new one. And then come back and finish your dinner, Lavinia.”

So Lavinia stuck the new black cap on Joel’s head as she went by his chair, and was just slipping into her own, when out jumped the stage-driver from his seat and picked it off, going up to the old gentleman at the head of the table. “Thank ye, sir, kindly, but all th’ same, it’s me that’s goin’ to get a new cap fer Ben Pepper, seein’ his’n has blew off from Joel’s head while he’s my comp’ny,” and he was just going back to his place when a frowsy-headed stable boy walked right into the dining room without waiting to ask any one’s leave.

“He said,” pointing with his thumb out toward the road, “I was to give you this to once’t. You dropped it when you was chasin’ th’ cat, and him an’ his dog found it,” and he held out Ben’s cap.

XI

A LITTLE YELLOW CHICKEN

“Polly,” said Phronsie, “I wish we could have cake every day.” She held carefully, a small bit saved after nibbling slowly around the edge of the piece in her hand, “Why can’t we, Polly?”

“Why can’t we what, Phronsie?” Polly, rushing around the old kitchen, the dish-cloth, which she had forgotten to put down, still in her hand, picked up a small bowl from the table and, knocking off a spoon that it had concealed, sent it clattering to the floor. “O dear me, I do wish Joel would ever put his things up,” she exclaimed in vexation.

“I’ll pick it up,” cried Phronsie, forgetting her cake-crumb so that it went flying off to the floor, too. “Let me, Polly, do,” she begged, running over to the table.

“Oh, no, never mind, Pet,” exclaimed Polly, very much ashamed of her impatience; “there, I have it,--well, oh, what did you want, Phronsie? O dear me,” she cried again, “I wonder when these old dishes will ever be done!”

“I’ll do them,” cried Phronsie, running after her eagerly as she bore them off to the big pan of water waiting for them, the dish-towel flapping from Polly’s arm; “please, Polly, I’m so big; do let me.”

“Nonsense, you’re no bigger’n a chicken,” exclaimed Polly, merrily setting down Joel’s mush-bowl and spoon among the other things the Pepper family had used at their simple breakfast.

“I’m not a chicken,” said Phronsie, in a grieved little voice, and standing quite tall.

“Oh, yes, you are,” declared Polly, gayly. Then, as she caught sight of Phronsie’s face, she turned her back on the big dish-pan, and seized her for a good hug. “A sweet, puffy little chicken,--there, and there, Phronsie Pepper!”

“Am I just like Mrs. Henderson’s chickens?” asked Phronsie, slowly, a light breaking over her face.

“Yes, as like as two peas,” declared Polly, shaking her head decidedly. “Oh, you can’t think, Phronsie. You’re just exactly like one of Mrs. Henderson’s chickens, every single bit.” With that she gave her another hug.

“Am I like the little yellow one, Polly?” asked Phronsie, as Polly at last set her free, and flew off to her long-delayed dish-washing, only to find the water cold. “Am I, Polly?”

“Eh, what?” asked Polly, wrinkling up her brow in dismay. “Now what shall I do,--that old stove!-- And the fire’s out, of course. O dear me, Pet, what is it?”

“Am I like the little yellow one, Polly?” asked Phronsie, thrusting her face in between Polly and the dish-pan. “Am I, Polly?”

“The little yellow what?” asked Polly, all her thoughts on her delayed morning work, and her hurry to pull out all those basting-threads on the coats Mamsie had just finished for Mr. Atkins, to surprise Mrs. Pepper when she had come home from Deacon Blodgett’s where she had gone to help in the spring cleaning.

“You said I was like Mrs. Henderson’s chickens,” said Phronsie, her lip beginning to tremble, “and can’t I be like the little yellow one? Please make me, Polly.” A big tear she was trying to keep back wouldn’t stay in its place, but ran down over the round cheek.

“Dear me, yes, of course, you can be like the little yellow chicken, Phronsie,” promised Polly, bursting into a merry laugh, and throwing her arms around her again, quite in dismay at the tear. “Now, then, just think, Phronsie, how cunning he was when he hopped all around after his mother, and--”

“Just like this,” laughed Phronsie, her tears all gone; and tumbling to all fours, she began to bob over the kitchen floor as a very fat, yellow chicken would be supposed to get along on its quite new little legs.

“Hah--hah!” scud,--scud, scamper,--and two boys came bounding in. “See Phronsie!” screamed Joel to little David, who came plunging after.

“I’m Mrs. Henderson’s little yellow chicken,” announced Phronsie, lifting a flushed face, and having very hard work to keep her pink apron from tripping her up.

“Hoh,--hoh, come on, Dave,” screamed Joel, flinging himself flat on the floor; “we’ll be the old hens. No, I’m going to be the rooster. Cock-a-doodle-doo!” With that he gave a terrible crow, and sprawled after Phronsie.

Little David, who very much wished to be the rooster, smothered a sigh, and immediately became one of Mrs. Henderson’s old gray hens. And being perfectly familiar with their proceedings from the many visits the children had been allowed to make to the parsonage hen-coop, he was soon clucking at a great rate, and following Joel and Phronsie about till the old kitchen rang with the noise of a farm-yard.

“Goodness me!” cried Polly, turning away from the dish-pan where she was trying to believe the water was hot enough to make the dishes as nice as usual. “Oh, what fun!” She rested her hands for a moment on the rim. Dear me, didn’t she just long to be down on the floor, and be an old hen with the others rampaging around the kitchen! But Mamsie was coming soon, and there were those basting-threads,--and beside, the dish-water would then be cold as a stone. It would never do to even think of it. So she flew back again, and made a great bustle with the cups and bowls and spoons trying to shut out the delightful noise. This was the reason she didn’t hear what followed.

“Oh, whickets!” Joel couldn’t help saying what Mamsie had reproved him for. Here was what looked like a piece of cake. It couldn’t be, really, for cake didn’t come to the Pepper household often enough to be found on the floor. But it surely looked like it; and Joel lost sight of the fact that he was a rooster, and rubbed his eyes. Yes, it surely was, and white cake, too, with even a bit of sugar frosting clinging to it. And yes, really and truly, there was half a raisin hiding in the corner. And Joel forgot still more that he was Mrs. Henderson’s rooster, and he sat down and gobbled up the bit, wishing that his farm-yard would always yield such rich pickings. If it would, he’d be willing to be a rooster forever.

“Let’s play Mrs. Henderson is going to feed us now,” David was saying, over in the other corner, to the little yellow chicken.

“Yes,” gurgled Phronsie, in delight; forgetting how tired she was, if only Mrs. Henderson was going to give them all their breakfast, and beginning to hop again.

“Look at Joel,” cried Davie, pointing a finger over where the rooster still sat, absorbed in the delightful memory of swallowing that cake-bit. Then the old gray hen flapped over there followed with very uneven plunges by the little yellow chicken who tried desperately to keep up. “We’re going to have some corn,” he shouted. “Hurry up, Joe, Mrs. Henderson’s coming with our breakfast.”

Joel at that was brought to. “Huh!” he sniffed, “I’ve had cake,” just as Phronsie came tumbling up, a very sorry looking, hot little chicken. She heard the word “cake.” “Oh, Joel,” she cried in a pleased little voice, and, trying to sit straight, only succeeded in rolling over in a heap. Both boys hopped over to her and pulled her up.

“Oh, where is it, Joey?” she cried, holding out both hands.

“Where’s what?” cried Joel, “--oh, the corn. Come on, Dave, Mrs. Henderson’s calling us. Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Away he hopped, and David, supposing Phronsie in the merry chase, hopped after, flapping his wings and calling to his chickens in just that motherly way he had admired so often in the parsonage old gray hens. Phronsie left alone, sat quite straight for a moment, then, despairing of being heard in the babel, began to search diligently for the precious cake-bit, that had been slowly saved till the last, because of that very corner of frosting and that half a raisin.

“Where’s Phronsie?” cried David, missing her from the corn breakfast. Joel whirled around, sending keen glances over the old kitchen. “There she is,” spying her pink apron back of Mamsie’s big calico-covered rocking-chair. “Come on, Phron,” he called.

Phronsie put out a worried little face around the calico valance. “I can’t find it,” she said.

“She’s lost something,” said Davie. With that he forgot he was an old gray hen, and sprang to his feet and ran over. Joel preferred to still be a rooster, so he hopped after, reaching the spot to hear David say, “She says she’s lost some cake.”

“Cake?” cried Joel, tumbling back to sit on his heels, and his black eyes stuck out.

“Yes,” said Davie, but he looked puzzled enough. “Oh, Phronsie, when did you have any cake?” he demanded incredulously. “We never have cake, you know. You’re playing.”

“No,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head very positively; “I did have some, really and truly. Polly gave it to me, and I lost it.” With that she began to feel carefully along the depths of the chair valance.

“O dear me!” it wasn’t in the least like a brave “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” that the big rooster now emitted, as Joel roared out something, and flew for Polly.

“Take care, Joe!” she warned, with her hands full of the dishes she was just going to pile on the shelves. “You ’most knocked off Mamsie’s cup!” and she turned pale with fright.

“I’ve eat it up!” wailed Joel, burying his black, stubby head in Polly’s apron.

“No, you haven’t broken it,” cried Polly, “don’t worry, Joe, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s eat, and I can’t give it back,” screamed Joel, burrowing deeper into her apron, thereby making all the dishes in Polly’s hands tremble violently.

“Joe Pepper,” cried Polly; “stop this minute. O dear me, every single thing will be smashed! What will Mamsie say?” At mention of Mamsie, Joel, although he still wailed on, stopped his struggling so that she was able to set the dishes safely on the table. “Now, see here.” She grasped his two shoulders and made him turn his face. “O dear me, what is the matter?” she cried aghast.

“I’ve eat it,” cried Joel, breaking into a roar, and not looking up, his black eyes raining tears.

“Eat what?” cried Polly, in great distress. “Stop screaming, Joe, and tell me this minute. What have you done?” She gave a great gasp, and instinctively turned a quick eye over to the corner where she could see David and Phronsie moving about, probably still as chickens, and not disturbed by Joel’s roars, supposing it a new phase of his playing at being a rooster.

“Oh, I’ve eat it,--don’t you understand, Polly?” screamed Joel, in a fresh burst, and stamping in his impatience; “and I can’t give it back.”

“Eat what?” demanded Polly, in bewilderment.

“The cake!” roared Joel. This time it was so very loud, no one could possibly think it was a rooster. So little Davie cried joyfully, “Oh, he’s found it, Phronsie,” and they both scuffed over.

“Oh, don’t let her come,” screamed Joel, in terror, and trying to hide behind Polly’s apron. But it was too late.

“He’s found it!” piped Phronsie, in a gleeful little voice, and holding up both hands. “Oh, give it to me, Polly, do.”

“Oh!” screamed Joel, huddling around Polly’s other side, and twirling her apron.

“Take care, Joe, you’ll break the strings,” she warned. “Now, children, you two go and sit down,” pointing to the wooden chairs ranged against the wall every day after breakfast was over, and the floor swept up, “just a minute, and I’ll come over to you.”

“But I want my cake, Polly, I do,” said Phronsie, reproachfully, and very much astonished at this delay, for Polly always attended to her at once. “Please, Polly, give it to me now,” she begged.

At this, Joel, on Polly’s other side, began to struggle in and out the apron depths worse than ever.

“Joe, be still,” commanded Polly, in her sternest tones. “If you don’t, you will have to go into the ‘Provision Room.’”

At these dreadful words little Davie’s cheek turned quite pale. What had Joel done? But Phronsie’s mind was all on her cake, and she continued to gaze at Polly in grieved astonishment, and to beg, “Please, Polly, give it to me now.”

“See here, Phronsie,” said Polly, at her wit’s end what to do; “you must be a good girl now, and do just as I say, else Mamsie will be so sorry when she comes home; so you must go and sit down in that chair till I go over to you.”

To make Mamsie sorry was as much worse than the loss of any cake could possibly be, and Davie saying, “Yes, come, Phronsie,” and taking her fat little hand, the two children went over to the spot indicated, and climbed up to the chairs just as Polly had told them to; little David with an awful feeling at his heart that Joel was in trouble.

“Now, Joel,” said Polly, mustering up as much cheer as she could, “you and I will go to the ‘Provision Room’ and--”

The two children over on their chairs with their ears pricked up for every word, heard “Provision Room,” and Davie screamed out, “Oh, don’t make him go there, Polly!”

“Oh, we’re going together,” said Polly, cheerfully, getting hold of Joel’s hand. “Joey has something he is going to tell me.”

“Ow!” exclaimed Joel, shrinking deeper into the apron.

“So come along, Joey.” And away they went, Joel wiping off the tears on the back of one grimy hand while Polly held fast to the other.

“There, now.” Polly sat down on the little stool in the middle of the old “Provision Room,” where, whenever the children were very naughty, Mother Pepper always had them sit alone until such time as she considered the punishment should be over. “You must tell me all about it, Joey.” He had flung himself down on the earth floor, and buried his head in her lap.

“I tell you I’ve eat it,” said Joel, in smothered gasps. “O dear me, boo--hoo!”

“Eat what?” asked Polly, still not understanding.

“The cake! I didn’t know it was Phronsie’s,” mumbled Joel, in a fresh burst. “Oh! And it was on the floor, and--and-- O dear me! I was Mrs. Henderson’s-- O dear me.”

“Yes, I know,” said Polly, quickly, glad to help him over the hard places, “one of the hens.”

“No, not the hen,” snorted Joel, in scorn, and raising his black head; “Dave was that, and I was the rooster--that big one, you know, Polly.”

“Yes, I know,” nodded Polly, quite pleased that he could be diverted even for a moment; “and so you picked up the cake from the floor. Was that it, Joe?”

“Yes,” down went Joel’s head again. “I didn’t know it was Phronsie’s, and now I can’t give it back,” he wailed, in a fresh burst.

“Um, mm--” Polly was lost in thought for a minute. What could she do to make up for this dreadful loss? She never could get another piece of cake to replace it. Such windfalls as this one, which Mrs. Atkins had given her the other day, didn’t happen often. And Polly, remembering how she had turned back on her way home from her errand to the store, when the wife of the storekeeper who lived in the ell, had rapped with her thimble on the window, and then with the words, “I had comp’ny to tea las’ night, an’ I want you should have this to eat on th’ way home, child,” she had put the precious portion in Polly’s hand, and Polly had run every speck of the way home, deciding to put it away to give to Phronsie sometime when it should most be needed, for the bit wasn’t large enough to be divided between the three “children,” as Polly and Ben always called the others. And now, only to think what trouble had come from it all!

“I’ve eat it,” Joel kept saying, in a steady refrain, and feeling it very cold comfort indeed to be brought to the “Provision Room,” by Polly, with no help to give. “O dear me!” he wailed on.

“I’ll tell you, Joel,” Polly exclaimed, and she gave a little jump from the stool so suddenly, that he nearly tumbled over on his back, “what you can do. It will be splendid, I think. Now, understand, Joel, you oughtn’t to have eaten up that cake when you found it. I gave it to Phronsie.”

“Where’d you get it?” demanded Joel, in great surprise.

So Polly related the whole story of the cake, only taking breath when Joel blurted out, “I wish Mrs. Atkins had given you a bigger piece.”

“For shame, Joe,” reproved Polly, sitting down on the stool again, and taking both of his hands in hers. “She was very good to give me this. Yes, you shouldn’t have eaten it up when you found it, but brought it to me. Never mind if you were the big rooster, the cake didn’t belong to you. But now it is eaten up, why, it must be made up to Phronsie in some way. And I’ll tell you how; but you’ve got to work because you ate the cake, you know.”

Joel nodded his black head and wiped off the last tear. Since Polly was going to fix it, it was going to be all right, and Phronsie would be pleased. “Tell on, Polly,” he begged eagerly.

“Well,” said Polly, “you know Phronsie has been wanting a little pie ever since Mr. Beggs, the ragman, gave her that cunning little tin plate with the letters all around the edge. Now, if Mamsie will let us use the flour, I’ll--”

“You’ll bake her one,” cried Joel, in glee. “Oh, hooray!” he jumped to his feet and shouted.

David with Phronsie, their hands folded in their laps, sitting up stiffly on their chairs in the old kitchen, gave a great sigh of relief at that shout. Everything was quite right with Joel once more, to be sure.

“Well, but,” said Polly, “you’ve got to work, you know, Joel.”

“I’ll make the pie,” declared Joel, turning a somersault, “and roll out the crust, and everything.”

“Oh, no, Joe,” cried Polly, in horror; “the very idea! Why, you never made a pie in your life.”

“But I’m going to this time,” declared Joel, pausing on the edge of another somersault, and cocking up one black eye at her. “You said so yourself, Polly Pepper, that I’d got to work; so there, now.”

“But I didn’t mean in that way, Joel,” said Polly. “O dear me!”

“Well, how will I have to work, then?” demanded Joel, getting up to his feet and regarding her with disfavor.

“Well, you know you ought not to have eaten up that cake,” said Polly, emphatically; “so, of course, you must work to pay it back. So you will have to pick berries, because there isn’t anything to make a pie of but berries. And you must pick them.”

“O dear me, I don’t want to,” grumbled Joel, who had his own ideas of what he intended to do the rest of that day. And no berries could be found nearer than a mile-and-a-half hot walk.

“For shame, Joe,” cried Polly, hotly, “you’ve eaten up Phronsie’s cake, and the only thing in this world I can think of to pay her back is to make her a pie on her own little new tin plate, and she can’t have it if you don’t go after the berries.”

“I’ll go,--I’ll go,” promised Joel, in alarm, his only fear now being that something would happen to prevent Phronsie from being paid back for her lost piece of cake, “but Dave’s got to go with me to pick the berries.”

“No, he hasn’t, Joel,” said Polly, firmly; “not unless he really wants to. And you must pick all the berries for Phronsie’s pie, anyway, and what Davie picks, if he really wants to go, must be brought home to Mamsie.”

So Joel, quite relieved that Phronsie was really to have her pie, if Mamsie would let them have the flour, and quite as sure that Davie would go to pick berries if invited, pranced off at Polly’s heels out of the “Provision Room.”

But the story was not told to Phronsie that day, for just as Polly ran over the rickety little steps into the old kitchen, a rap on the green door was heard. “There’s our Mr. Beebe,” screamed David, craning his neck to look out of the window. And Phronsie clapped her hands, and then they all rushed to the door. And there on the big flat stone was good Mrs. Beebe, and coming slowly up the path was Mr. Beebe, and there was the big black cloth bag hanging on Mrs. Beebe’s arm, and Joel smelt doughnuts before she ever got into the kitchen.

“You dear, precious, little creeters, you!” exclaimed old Mrs. Beebe, as they all surrounded her. “Get her Mamsie’s chair, Joel, do,” said Polly, “and I’ll untie your bonnet.”

“Let me,” begged Phronsie, standing on tiptoe, and putting up both hands. “I want to, dear Mrs. Beebe, I do.”

“So you shall,” said old Mrs. Beebe, smiling at her.

“Oh, Phronsie, you can’t do it,” said Polly in dismay.

“Oh, yes, I can,” declared Phronsie; “I want to, I do.”

“And so you shall, honey-bird,” declared Mrs. Beebe. So Phronsie was lifted up to the old lady’s lap, where she was kept from slipping off by Polly holding on to her, while she fumbled among the black ribbon strings, every minute getting them more mixed than ever; Mrs. Beebe smiling above them, and protesting she wouldn’t have any one but Phronsie Pepper untie them for the world.

“O dear me!” said Polly, the color rushing all over her round cheek. “Do let me help you, Phronsie. Joel, you come and hold Phronsie on to Mrs. Beebe’s lap. Now, Pet, I’ll show you how.”

“No, no,” protested Phronsie, shaking her yellow head, “my dear sweet Mrs. Beebe wants me to untie it, and I must do it all by myself.”

“She’s mussing them dreadfully,” Polly felt obliged to whisper over Phronsie’s head into Mrs. Beebe’s ear, but the old lady only smiled and said, “Never mind, I’ll run a hot flat-iron over ’em when I get home.”

All this time Mr. Beebe had found a chair for himself, and sat down, blowing his nose on his big bandanna, and alternately entertained by little David and Joel, who ran back and forth from him to Mrs. Beebe, as the untying of the bonnet was in progress.

“She never’ll get it done,” grumbled Joel, unable to keep his eyes from the big black bag that still dangled from Mrs. Beebe’s arm. It bulged generously, and the smell of its contents was getting into the very corners of the old kitchen. At last the bonnet was lifted from the old lady’s head, and Polly bore it carefully off to lay on the big four-poster in Mamsie’s bedroom.

“There, I did do it all myself,” announced Phronsie, clasping her hands in much satisfaction, as she slipped to the floor.

“So you did, dear.” Old Mrs. Beebe beamed at her and leaning over her she imprinted a kiss on the pink cheek. “Well, now, don’t you want to see what I’ve brought for you?” and she slipped the handles of the bag from her arm, and opened its mouth.

“Yes, I do,” said Phronsie, “very much indeed, dear Mrs. Beebe.”

“Bless your heart, you shall, and Joel and David, too,” said Mrs. Beebe. It was impossible for Joel to get closer to her than he at present was, and little Davie was wedged in the other side of Phronsie, as Polly came back from the bedroom.

“Now come, Polly,” said old Mrs. Beebe, as she drew out from the bag a big clean cloth that, unrolled, displayed a good half dozen of the sugariest doughnuts of most ample proportions, “there’s just one apiece, and one for your Ma,” she announced in huge satisfaction.

Old Mr. Beebe sat and laughed and mopped his face with his big bandanna all through the scene that ensued, as the children sat down on the floor and at once began work on their doughnuts, Polly first running to the closet to lay the two for Mamsie and Ben on a clean blue plate, and to shut the door fast.

“Oh, it’s so good of you, dear Mrs. Beebe,” she cried, dancing back to whisper this into the old lady’s ear.

“Well, now, you sit down and eat yours, Polly, child,” said old Mrs. Beebe. But first Polly had to run over to old Mr. Beebe’s chair because he nodded to her mysteriously and beckoned with a long finger.

“I’ve got some pep’mint sticks in my pocket,” he announced in a loud whisper, when she reached his side, “but Ma kinder thought ’twas better fer you to give ’em to th’ children to-morrow, an’ not on top o’ th’ doughnuts,” and he smuggled a wad into her hand. So Polly had to run off and slip that into the cupboard, too. Oh, such richness, and lasting over until to-morrow! “Did ever anybody have such a dear, good Mr. Beebe, and such a dear, good Mrs. Beebe as we have!” cried Polly, to herself as she tucked away her treasures. At last, there she was on the floor with the others and in the midst of the doughnut feast. And wasn’t it a feast, though!

Joel was through first, every crumb carefully picked up and swallowed. Little Davie, having eaten quite slowly, was just on the point of breaking off part of his doughnut to give to him, when old Mr. Beebe called out, “Now, then, Joel, my boy, you come along of me: I’m goin’ out to look at my horse.” So Joel clattered off with the old gentleman, well pleased with the invitation, and the kitchen toned down to quiet, only broken by Phronsie’s soft cooing to herself between the bites from her doughnut. At last she laid it down in Polly’s lap. “I’m going to get Seraphina and give her some,” she whispered.

“Where’s she goin’?” asked old Mrs. Beebe.

“She’s gone to get her doll,” said Polly, as Phronsie ran into Mamsie’s bedroom. When Seraphina wasn’t played with, she was laid in the bottom drawer of the old bureau, where the precious red-topped shoes were kept. And, presently, out came Phronsie hugging Seraphina and telling her all about the doughnuts and good Mrs. Beebe, who was her own dear, sweet Mrs. Beebe, until the old lady sat back and laughed till the tears came, and David and Polly had finished their doughnuts. And, then, back came old Mr. Beebe and Joel, who was in a great state of excitement, whooping it all out as soon as he got within the door. “Mr. Beebe’s going to take us to ride,” he screamed, “can’t we go, Polly,--say, can’t we,--can’t we?”

“Yes, do let ’em,” said Mrs. Beebe, “I’m goin’ to set an’ be comfortable in your Ma’s chair, an’ you go too, Polly,” she added. “There’s plenty of room, th’ boys can set in the back o’ th’ wagon.”

“Oh, I can’t,” said Polly, with a wistful glance out of the window at the big green wagon and the old white horse; “I’ve got to pick out basting-threads.”

“Can’t you leave ’em, Polly?” asked the old lady, kindly, with a glance at the flushed face.

“No,” said Polly, pushing back the brown rings of hair from her forehead, “because Mamsie wants to take the coats home to Mr. Atkins to-day. I ought not to have stopped so long,” she said remorsefully.

Old Mrs. Beebe gave a sigh, “I ain’t any good at pickin’ bastin’s,” she said; “my fingers is all thumbs at such work. Well, Polly, you fly and get th’ others ready, an’ then sometime Pa’ll come an’ give you a drive.”

So Polly flew to get Phronsie’s things on. Joel already was in the big wagon hallooing for David to hurry up. And then Seraphina’s bonnet must be tied on, for, of course, she must go too. And at last the three children, Phronsie carrying the remains of her doughnut to eat on the way, were off. Old Mrs. Beebe watched them from the window, and Polly hurried back up the path to fly to work over the basting-threads.

XII

AT THE PARSONAGE

Polly Pepper drew a long breath and stepped up on the flat stone before the parsonage door. Even then it was not too late to turn and run home! But Mamsie--oh, that would never do, for hadn’t Mrs. Pepper sent her with the blue bowl that had contained the little pat of butter, and her thanks for it! And if she, Polly, should turn her back on it all and run home, why, it would be such a dreadful thing and disgrace the Little Brown House forever. No, she must go through with it, and face Miss Jerusha, if, as she dreaded, that lady should come to the door. So she lifted the big brass knocker, and let it fall with a clang.

Heavy steps sounded along the oil-cloth on the hall and the big door was thrown open. Yes, it was just as dreadful as she expected! There was the minister’s sister.

“Go right away,” said Miss Jerusha, shaking a long, bony hand; “don’t you know any better’n to come to this door?”

“My mother sent me, and--” gasped Polly, with shaking fingers hanging fast to the little blue bowl.

“Your mother?--well, didn’t she know any better’n to have you come to this door?” broke in Miss Jerusha, with asperity; “an’ who is she, anyway?” all in the same breath.

“She’s Mrs. Pepper, and oh--”

“Oh, are you one of those Pepper children who live in that old brown house all down at the heel?” interrupted Miss Jerusha.

“Yes,” said Polly, with a warm little throb at her heart. Wasn’t it just the dearest place on earth, and what would she give to be there now!

“Well, you go right away,” commanded the minister’s sister, decidedly. “You needn’t come begging here. I declare, if you hain’t brought a bowl this blessed minute.”

“Oh, we never begged in our lives,” cried Polly, in horror, every bit of color flying from her round cheek. Then she jumped off from the door-stone, only one thought possessing her,--to get to Mamsie.

“Jerusha, who is it?” The parson’s wife came out of the keeping-room to the front door.

“Oh, some sort o’ a begging person,” said Miss Jerusha, shortly, and trying to slam the door fast.

“A begging person?” Mrs. Henderson being of another mind about the big door, was presently peering down the path. “Why, it’s Polly Pepper!” And she ran out after her.