THE FAMOUS PEPPER BOOKS

By MARGARET SIDNEY

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

BOSTON

Ben and Polly held their breath. What if they shouldn’t fit!—Page [43].

FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS
IN THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE

BY
MARGARET SIDNEY
Author of “Five Little Peppers and How they Grew,”
“Five Little Peppers Midway,” “Five Little Peppers
Grown Up,” “Ben Pepper,” “A Little Maid of
Concord Town,” “Two Little Friends in
Norway,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY HERMANN HEYER

BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

PEPPER
TRADE MARK
Registered in U. S. Patent Office.

Copyright, 1907, by Harriett M. Lothrop.
Published, August, 1907.
All Rights Reserved.
Five Little Peppers
in the Little Brown House.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

PREFACE

“What ever became of Polly Pepper’s famous Chicken Pie, and also Phronsie’s red-topped shoes?” the friends of the “Five Little Peppers” keep asking. “We have searched through all the Pepper Books, and cannot find them. Please give us those two stories again.”

At last all these requests are granted in this book, containing, first of all, those two stories that make the very beginning of all the records of the Pepper Family. Indeed, there wasn’t any Pepper Family before they were written; nor any Little Brown House, not a sign of one; nor any Badgertown even, till Margaret Sidney one day wrote “Polly Pepper’s Chicken Pie” and sent it to the Wide Awake Magazine.

And no one could be more astonished than was she—for the record was so simple—when the editor wrote for another one just like it. So “Phronsie Pepper’s New Shoes” was written.

And then—well, the editor wrote that the Wide Awake must have enough stories for one year, to be connected. So Margaret Sidney had to go regularly after that to the “Little Brown House” and write down all the records just as Mrs. Pepper and the Five Little Peppers told them to her, and then those insatiable editors wrote that they must have a book—nothing more nor less—because the children’s letters to them from all over the country demanded it. So that was the way it all began. And of course the two separate stories—the motif, as it were, for the book—had to be left out.

So here they are now in the post of honor—leading off in the very front of the volume, as is quite proper; the other stories (which are all just newly written expressly for this book) following humbly after in the wake of Phronsie’s red-topped shoes.

MARGARET SIDNEY.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

I
POLLY PEPPER’S CHICKEN PIE

TO begin with, it was the most remarkable chicken that was to have made the famous pie for Thanksgiving. But alas! A sad mishap befell the Pepper family.

In the first place none of the family ever knew where it came from. Ebenezer, or Ben, as he was usually called, found it one day in a swamp, down by the meadow as he was digging sweet-flag to sell, in order to get some money to buy a pair of boots for the coming winter. It was not hurt, only it couldn’t get out. The wonder is, how it ever got there. However, Ben didn’t stop to think of that; he must set to work to get Master Chick out. So, forgetting flag-root in his eagerness, he took an old fence rail, and by dint of poking and urging it, and tumbling around in the bog till he was pretty wet himself, he at last had the satisfaction of obtaining his prize.

It proved to be a fine black chicken, a shanghai, and grasping it tightly under one arm, its eyes protruding with fright, Ben flew home, and bursting into the door of the Little Brown House, astonished them all by thrusting the long-legged black fowl before their faces, nearly upsetting Polly as he did so, who was helping her mother pull out the basting-threads of the coat Mrs. Pepper had just finished on the edge of the twilight.

The chicken gave a shrill scream, and this was the first introduction to its future home.

“Goodness me, Ben!” ejaculated Polly, “you scared me ’most to death, and you’ve broken my box.”

“What is it?” exclaimed Mrs. Pepper; “is it a crow?”

“Ho! Ho! Crow, Mother?” replied Ben, holding the chicken firmly by one leg, “It’s the—well, the most beautiful bird you ever saw! Hey, Polly, look!” he flapped the shanghai over Polly’s brown head as she disconsolately groped around on the kitchen floor for her scattered spools, and the cover of her cherished box.

“I don’t care for any old birds, Ben Pepper. See there!” and she brought to light from under her mother’s chair the dilapidated cover.

“Oh, Polly, I’m real sorry. Come, I’ll give you half of the chicken. See, he’s real big, and won’t he grow into a buster! And then, perhaps,—hooray, Polly; why, then we’ll have him for Thanksgiving, and you can make your pie, you know.”

“Will you really, Ben?” relented Polly, as she sat on the floor.

“Yes, certain true, black and blue!” solemnly said Ben.

“Hooray, then!” screamed Polly, “and, Bensie, I’ll make the crust awfully thick, and it’ll be ’most all drumsticks,” and she danced a whirligig in the middle of the old kitchen floor.

“Queer kind of crust, I should think; drumstick crust,” retorted Ben.

“Oh, you Benny goose!” flung back Polly, as she went up to hug her mother’s neck; “Mammy, when is Thanksgiving? Is it more than six weeks, anyway, before it comes?”

“Let me see,” said Mrs. Pepper, laying down her work. “Oh, yes, it’s July now. Yes, you’ll have to wait four months. But perhaps you can’t have it at all, for if the chicken belongs to anybody round here you must give it back. Let me see it, Ben,” and his mother grasped the leg of the bird, which all this time was squawking dismally, and amid the groans from Ben, and the wails from Polly, she repeated: “yes, if you can find out where it belongs, you’ve got to carry it back.”

“What, and have no chicken pie!” exclaimed Polly. “Why, we can’t, Mother, we’ve waited so long for our pie, and I’ve never tasted one. We can’t give it back!”

“For shame, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, sternly, “the chicken doesn’t belong to you, and I should rather you’d never taste a morsel of chicken pie than to get one underhand. But put him away now, children,” she said in a kinder tone, as she saw the sorrowful faces before her; “he can sleep in the box the gray goose had in the shed, for to-night anyway, and then in the morning we’ll send him home if he’s got any to go to.”

“And we won’t have anything left but the old gray goose,” mourned Polly; “I wish the old thing was dead, I do!”

“Why, Polly Pepper! And then we wouldn’t have anything,” said Ben, preparing to take his chicken out to its quarters for the night.

“Well, I don’t care,” said Polly, as she followed; “I’m tired of seeing her round, anyway.”

Now, all this time, the younger Peppers were away by chance from the old kitchen, or there would have been more of an uproar still, over the advent of the chicken. The two small boys were busy on the edge of Farmer Brown’s cow-yard, where in a dirty pool of water they were having the highest glee over the sailing of a boat, composed of one of Polly’s old shoes with a rag for a sail. Well was it for the chicken that they were missing at the reception, else it would have been almost torn to death with delight. And Sophronia, or Phronsie, had been put to bed early this afternoon, so she was tucked away fast asleep under the gay, patched bedquilt of the old crib.

There was no father in this Pepper household. He died when Phronsie was a baby, and Mrs. Pepper struggled along bravely, making coats to put bread into her own and her children’s mouths. And the children, healthy and rugged, and happy-go-lucky, came up or “scrambled up,” as Mrs. Pepper said, and fairly made the little old brown house ring with their cheery life.

Polly was ten, and Ben one year older, and it was the one great ambition of their lives “to help Mother.” The only thing in which Ben could really boast superiority over Polly, aside from his being a boy while she was only a girl, was the fact that once on a great and memorable visit with his father to a neighboring farm, he had eaten a piece of chicken pie; oh, so perfectly splendid! And to Polly, who had never tasted or even seen one, he dilated upon it, till she was nearly wild with curiosity and longing at the delightful vision he brought up.

“Oh, Ben, was it good?” she would say the five-hundredth time, as in some interval when work “slacked up,” perhaps when they crouched at dusk on the kitchen floor, the wink of fire from the old stove lighting up their absorbed little faces, they imagined or played they had all their fancied dreams or wildest wishes realized.

“Yes, you better believe!” Ben smacked his lips; “seem’s if I taste it now!”

“Well, how did it taste?” questioned Polly, still for the five-hundredth time.

“Oh, like,—well, like everything nice; there was fat, and wing, and oh, the wishbone, Polly, and a thick crust, oh, thicker’n my hand, and the juice was prime, and, well, it was all the nice tastes together you ever had in your life, Polly Pepper!”

“O dear!” Polly would sigh, “don’t you s’pose we’ll ever have one, Ben? I could make one, I know; I can ’most see one now, you’ve told me about it so many times.”

And Polly would shut her eyes, and give herself up to the delicious thought till she had to hop up to put the children to bed, or to help Mother in the many ways in which she knew so well how to save her steps. And now here was a fine chicken come right to their very door!

The Pepper family had no cow, nor pig, nor even a chick. The only thing of life in the animal kingdom belonging to the household was an old gray goose; too old and tough to benefit any one by her death. She was just as cross as she could be, or at least she might have amused the children and been of some comfort. She had grown for ever so long in her present quarters, wandering around the poor Little Brown House and shed, picking up a scanty living and taking thanklessly all the bits that the children still conscientiously fed her.

Polly and Ben had glorious visions of the day when they would “buy Mammy a cow,” and many were the talks and plans as to exactly what kind it should be. But nothing ever came their way, until this black chicken appeared right in the old kitchen, and all for Thanksgiving, too! That is, if they could keep him; for Polly and Ben, albeit the conflict within, conscientiously obeyed the commands of their mother and made inquiries far and near as to the ownership of Master Shanghai. Nobody knew anything of him, and he seemed indeed to have dropped down from the clouds. Clearly he was to remain at the Peppers’, and, as day after day passed by and they were not forced to give him up, their spirits rose, until the gayety over the future festival assumed the jolliest aspect. They already saw in imagination the glorious pie completed, and decking the festival board which Polly declared “must be trimmed with flowers.”

“Whew! Where are you going to get flowers?” demanded practical Ben.

“I don’t care; we must!” persisted Polly. “Folks always have them at a party, and we’ll get them someway; you’ll see.”

But although Ben always stanchly pinned his faith to whatever Polly said, on this occasion he only gave a little sniff. It was too good to be true.

So time passed on. The chick was fed, often by the scrimping of Polly’s, or Ben’s, or Joel’s, or David’s, or little Phronsie’s plate, or, as it frequently happened, by all of them, each stealing out secretly to do it. Consequently he grew and throve famously, his thin frame filling out, until he enjoyed his new quarters so well that he confided in a burst of delight one day to the old gray goose his pleasure and delight at the attention he was receiving.

“Humph!” said the old goose, with a knowing look, “you don’t know as much as you will in a short time, say in November.”

Now what these mysterious words of the cross old goose meant, or even what November was, the chicken was unable to tell, having never in his short life seen a November; so he went to work, digging and scratching over the old stony ground, and soon forgot all about it.

But as time passed on, the hints of the goose grew broader and deeper, till at last the shanghai, politely but plainly one day, asked her to explain and tell him exactly what she did mean. This was the week before Thanksgiving, a cold, dreary afternoon, and the two inhabitants of the old worn shed were perched on a rail shivering with the cold, and engaged in a conversation that caused Shanghai to shiver even more with fright. Inside the house, the fun had commenced.

The plans were all made, it is true, weeks before; but there remained that mysterious consulting and “talking over” which is half the pleasure, and at last it was decided that Ben could actually go up to the store to-night when he carried home Mr. Atkins’s coat, and buy half a pound of raisins for the pudding. For Mrs. Pepper, seeing the joy and excitement of the children, scrimped and twisted her scanty earnings till she could contribute to the feast, and “you shall have the pudding, children,” an announcement which was received with a perfect babel of delight. And Joel stood on his head in the corner, and waved his feet in the air, unable to express his joy in any other appropriate way.

Now, nothing remained but to kill the black chicken, which Ben was to do on the morrow morning, for Polly declared, as that would be Saturday, it must be done that day, “and then we shan’t have to think it’s got to be done, over Sunday, you know, Bensie, dear.”

The feathers, David said, must be for a pillow to put at the mother’s back when she sewed; a proposition that made Mrs. Pepper beam an appreciative smile, for Davie was “Mother’s boy.”

“And, oh, Ben, you can’t think how perfectly elegant the crust is going to be! Mamsie, now, don’t I know?” and Polly began a rapid jargon of the directions her mother had given her of the way they made chicken pies when she was a girl.

Poor woman! Very few had come in her way during her married life. Thankful enough was she when bread and milk were plentiful; and of late years mush and brown bread took the place of more elaborate fare.

“Oh, and I say,” broke in Joel, “I’m going to have the wishbone—so there!”

“No, you mustn’t, Joel; Davie’s younger,” said Polly, decisively.

“Well, Phronsie’s youngest,” retorted Joel.

“Yes, you’re right there,” declared Ben. “Phronsie, you’re the girl for the wishbone. Do you hear, Puss, and you must wish with me,” tossing her up in the air.

“No, no, I spoke for you, Phronsie,” screamed Joel. “Say you’ll wish with me.”

“What is it, Ben?” said little Phronsie; “what is a wissbone?”

“Oh, you little goose,” began Joel, but Polly gave him a pinch to make him stop.

“Let her alone, Joel,” said she. “Phronsie, you’ll see when Thanksgiving comes, and that’s next week. Come and see, now, if the flour is all right.”

And Polly spun along to the little old cupboard in the corner, the whole troop at her heels, to inspect the precious materials. The flour had been measured out certainly a week or more, and there it stood in the bag in the old yellow pudding-dish. Everything was in readiness. There was the lard near by in a cracked bowl, and to the five pairs of happy, expectant eyes directed to these festive preparations, no sight could have been more delightful.

“Well, children,” said Polly, as she shut the cupboard door fast with an important air, “we must get up early in the morning, there’ll be so much to do. Now, Phronsie, it’s time for you to go to bed.”

“Oh, no, I’m not one bit tired,” protested Phronsie, in an injured tone. But while Polly went to bring the little flannel nightgown to undress her by the kitchen fire, Phronsie’s little yellow head bobbed ominously, and she nearly fell off her stool, so that Ben had to carry her in his arms into the bedroom, after all.

All this while, in the thick dreary November twilight, the old gray goose and the black chicken were talking busily. The old goose was so jealous and determined to make the last hours of the chicken very miserable, that she dilated at length and with great exactness on the dreadful fate that awaited him on the morrow; and painted in fearful words the awful ending of being baked in pieces in a pie!

“I’ve seen ’em!” she declared, with the air of one who knew what she was talking about. “Year after year, hens and chickens, yes, and geese, too, stepping around in the morning, oh, so happy and smart, and then at evening they would go past here to market all stiff and stark, with their heads off, and Mr. Brown’s boy holding ’em by their legs! All for pies, and so that people may eat themselves sick. And they call that a Thanksgiving!”

How the chicken shook! It almost fell from its perch; but it was very dark, so the old goose couldn’t see very well. Shanghai wouldn’t, for all the world, have had her jealousy rewarded by a sight of the terror she had inspired, so he controlled himself like a brave little fellow, and although his heart was beating dreadfully, he commanded his voice enough to ask, “Well, why weren’t you, then, baked in a pie along with the others?”

“What,—why—well,” stammered the goose, “they were going to kill me time and again, but, well, the fact is, they thought so much of me they couldn’t bear to.”

In spite of its fright, the black chicken couldn’t help laughing softly to himself as he sat there on the rail.

“Well, come, you’d better go to bed,” snapped the old goose; “they’ll come for you bright and early in the morning. I heard ’em saying so.”

“In that case,” declared the black chicken, drawing himself up on his long legs, “they won’t find me here; that’s all I’ve got to say.”

“Why, where will you go?” demanded the old goose, sticking out her long neck in amazement.

“Oh, I’m going to set out for my fortune,” gayly replied the chicken. “At any rate, I can’t fare worse than to be baked in a pie. Baked in a pie, forsooth! I think I see myself staying here for that! No, good night, Mrs. Goose. Thank you, for all your kindness; I’m off!”

“Yes, and be stuck again in a bog for your pains,” scornfully hissed the old goose, seeing it was useless to remonstrate further. The black chicken had hopped off from the rail, and, its long legs going at a pretty smart pace down the hill, it was soon out of sight.

Brightly rose the sun next morning, clear and cold. The air smelt of everything spicy and suggestive of the approaching holiday. Ben sharpened the old hatchet, the other children running away, for at the last minute they declared they didn’t want the chicken killed. They’d rather go without the pie. But Mrs. Pepper and Ben talked until they made them see it was no worse than if they had bought the chicken. Fowls had to be killed and eaten, and they couldn’t afford to keep the black chicken any longer. And the mother stopped Phronsie’s screams as she ran to hide her head in her lap, and wiped away the tears that ran down the little cheeks. Joel and David relented at last, and joined Ben as he hurried out of doors. And Polly, as she began to wash the breakfast dishes to be ready to help pick the chicken, tried to be gay, and to hum a scrap of a song to reassure Phronsie, when Joel burst into the old kitchen and after him, little Davie.

“’Tisn’t there!” shouted Joel. “No, ’tisn’t either!” gasped little David.

Polly whirled around with the dish-cloth in her hand, and stared. “What?” she exclaimed.

“No, ’tisn’t, I say,” screamed Joel, and then he began to cry as hard as he could.

“Oh, Joe, what is the matter?” implored Polly, and then Mrs. Pepper, thinking that Joel was hurt, dropped her work to hurry over. And Ben came running in, his ruddy face quite white, and his blue eyes big with distress.

“Come, boys, quick, and help me look for him,” and he seized Joel’s arm. “The chicken’s gone,” he explained to the distressed group.

Joel gave a louder scream at that.

“Stop, Joel,” said Polly. “Oh, isn’t it under the shed, Ben?” and she rushed out, dish-cloth in hand, followed by Mrs. Pepper and all the others.

“I don’t believe he’s there,” said Ben, gloomily, and so it proved. Neither there, nor in any other hiding-place, no matter how long and thoroughly they searched, could they see the black chicken. There was the old gray goose as usual, stalking around and stretching her long neck to see everything, while the children flew hither and thither calling the chicken. They searched adjoining meadows, and little David ran down to the brook to see if he had fallen in there.

At last, toward noon, tired and hot, they were obliged to give up all hope. And a most distressed little bunch of children went slowly into the Little Brown House; and oh, dismal enough, a pouring rain set in, splashing the small-paned window as if crying with them.

“Don’t you see you’re making Mamsie feel bad?” whispered Polly, hoarsely, to Joel, and she pointed over to the corner where Mrs. Pepper was trying to sew.

Little David, at that, went behind the door and struggled to keep back the tears. “I can’t help it,” sniffled Joel; “now we can’t,—we can’t,—”

“Be still,” said Polly, pulling his sleeve, and turning her back on the old cupboard, where the flour bag stood up so smartly, all ready in the old yellow bowl. “Oh!” Then she gave a jump into the middle of the floor.

“Oh, what is it?” they all screamed. Little Davie ran out from behind the door to hear.

“Why,” and Polly’s brown eyes grew very big, “oh, let’s have the old gray goose!”

“The old gray goose!” they all echoed, dreadfully disappointed, while Joel cried harder than ever, and little Davie slipped off toward the door again.

“I shouldn’t think you’d say so,” said Ben, in disapproval, and wondering at Polly, for she always helped out in any trouble.

“Well, now, I think Polly’s plan is a very good one,” said Mother Pepper, over in her corner. “You can’t get the chicken, and you must have your pie; it’s as good as commenced, and the old goose ought to be killed anyway; she’s getting so cross, it isn’t safe to have her around after she bit Sally Brown the other day. So, as Polly says, why not try it? There’ll be a pie anyway.”

“Oh, Mamsie!” cried Polly, flying over to her with rosy cheeks to throw her arms around her neck. “I’m so glad you think it’s right to try it,” smothering a sigh at thoughts of the pie they might have had.

“Indeed, I do, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, with a little pat on the brown head; “there, child, now run off to your work,” and she picked up her needle to make it fly faster than ever.

“It won’t be chicken pie,” said Joel, disconsolately, who had wiped his black eyes at these first signs of cheer.

“Well,” said Ben, stoutly, and swallowing hard, “if we can’t have chicken pie, why, we must take the next best, and that’s goose,” and he pretended to laugh heartily at his joke.

“And,” said Polly, running back to the little bunch of Peppers in the middle of the kitchen, for Davie wisely concluding since Mamsie thought Polly was right, everything was coming out well somehow, had hurried back to the others, “it’s all we’ve got left; but why didn’t the old goose run away, I wonder!”

The idea of the old gray goose running away, set them all into such a fit of laughter, that when they came out of it, the affair was as good as settled. The chicken pie was to be goose pie, and such a goose! The tables were turned decidedly; the old goose, huddling into the shed from the November rain and chuckling to herself, had called down on her own head a sure retribution.

The old gray goose was killed. Polly went bravely to work as if the pleasure of making the most beautiful chicken pie in all the world was before her. And the “children,” as Polly and Ben always called the three younger ones in the Pepper brood, laughed and sang and danced about, through all the preparations when they couldn’t help them forward, and almost forgot they had ever intended to have a chicken pie.

And they had a pudding on Thanksgiving Day. Oh, yes, and a famous one it was! And at the last minute, old Mrs. Beebe, whose husband kept a little shoe-shop in Badgertown Centre, stopped in their old wagon, with some beautiful asters.

“Here, children, ’s some posies for your table. I’ve got more’n I want; I’m real sorry you had such a time about your pie.” And afterward, in the midst of the festivities at home, she broke out, “I declare, I was ’most beat to see them little dears behave so nice, and flyin’ round pretendin’ they’d rather have a tough old goose than not.”

So Polly had her flowers after all, and she dressed the pie gayly with them.—Page [20].

So Polly had her flowers after all, and she dressed the pie gayly with them, stifling a sigh as she put them over the old goose; and they laughed and ate, to be sure, not so much as if tender chicken had been on their plates. However, it turned out better than they had expected, Polly having persistently boiled it before it was cut up to be baked in the pie. And so they hurried over that part of the repast; they were all in such a hurry to get to that elegant pudding. That was just magnificent, and done to a turn; and to Joel’s great delight, fairly beaded with plums. Wasn’t it splendid, though!

But at last the feast was all over, and they finally pushed back their chairs, leaving the biggest part of the goose pie untouched.

“Now,” said Phronsie, “where’s my wissbone, Polly? I want my wissbone, I do.”

“Oh, darling,” cried Polly, catching her up from the high-chair, “you’ll have to wait for next Thanksgiving for that. ’Tisn’t our fault you can’t have it, Phronsie; the black chicken ran away with it.”

II
PHRONSIE’S NEW SHOES

POLLY was working hard to make the fire burn. Something was the matter with the old stove that morning. There had been a big crack for some time at the back that let in the air alarmingly; but Ben had stuffed this up with putty the week before, and it had done very well; but just as Polly had washed up the breakfast dishes this morning, and was going to put her pans of bread into the oven, out tumbled the putty, the old black stove grew cold, and everything came to a standstill. The truth was, the poor old stove was about worn out.

“O dear!” said Polly, “now what’s going to be done! Why couldn’t it have waited, and Ben’s away, too!”

She flew around for something to stop up the hole with; she couldn’t find any putty, of course, but nothing else appeared. So she got down on the floor before it and rattled the dampers, and put in more wood. She was kneeling in front of it, her face very red with her exertions, and trying to push a refractory smouldering log of wood into a more “burnable” position, when Phronsie emerged from the bedroom with a very injured expression. “Oh, Polly, I’m so hungry!”

“Why, Phronsie,” said Polly, giving the log a push, “you can’t be.”

“Oh, but I am, Polly,” said Phronsie, shaking her head decidedly. “I know I am very hungry.”

“Well, wait just a bit, dear—oh, why won’t you stay where you ought to! (this to the log). You won’t act so when Ben comes, old log! Yes, Phronsie, in a minute!”

“Oh, let me get it, Polly,” said the little girl, eagerly. “Let me, do!”

“Do you think you can?” said Polly, resting a minute, her black hands stuck straight out before her as she sat on the floor.

“Oh, yes! just as nice,” said Phronsie; “it’s only some bread, Polly.”

Phronsie’s delight was to be thought big enough to help, to go to the bread-pail that hung under the little old steps that ran down into a small shed or provision room where the Pepper family always kept their slender stock of eatables. “Provision Room” was a good name for it, Polly had once said, because “there always ’s plenty of room for provisions, even if there are no provisions.” Polly knew there were some good bits from breakfast that Phronsie could easily get, so she said “yes” rather absently, and Phronsie trotted off.

As she passed the cupboard door, she spied the old bread-knife lying on the shelf. “Suppose,” thought Phronsie, “I should have to cut some bread—I know how—I do truly. I better take the knife, I think.” So she reached up, took the knife, and proceeded to go down the rickety steps. Now, why she should have stumbled this particular morning is more than anybody can tell. Yet, she certainly did; and the first thing Polly heard was a knock, then a rolling, then a sharp and loud cry. “Oh, what is the matter, Phronsie dear! I’m coming!”

Springing up, leaving the stove door wide open, she flew over the old steps, finding Phronsie in a little screaming heap at the bottom.

“Oh, darling baby! dear little Phron! don’t cry!” said Polly, gathering her up. “There, there.”

Sitting on the lowest step with her in her arms, she saw the knife off at some little distance, where it fell on the floor. “Oh, Phronsie, you didn’t take the knife! Oh!” she added faintly, as she saw a stream of blood roll over Phronsie’s pink apron, and great dabs on her face. White as a sheet, Polly never knew how she looked Phronsie over; but she soon saw the trouble came only from her little fat thumb, which, after the first fright, Phronsie protested was the only place that “hurt.”

Strange as it may seem, Phronsie had rolled over and over the steps, with the knife in her hand, and sustained no injury beyond a rather deep cut in her thumb, which, however, bled enough to have caused greater fears. Polly sopped up the tears from the child’s bloody little face, and rolled the poor thumb in her handkerchief. Then she set Phronsie down, pulled out her feet, felt of her joints, and made her get up and walk back and forth. She drew a long breath. “Well,” she said in the greatest relief, “there aren’t any bones broken anyway. Oh, Phronsie, do you feel bad anywhere else?”

“No,” said little Phronsie, “only my thumb.” And she stuck up the little dingy wad, and when she saw it, began to cry again.

“There, there, Polly’s darling! now, let’s see what we can do!” Polly cooed away as she waddled up the steps with Phronsie in her arms.

The first thing that met her view, was the old black stove, now utterly hateful, with the fire all out. “Oh, you old ugly thing!” said she, “think what you’ve done this morning!” And then she set herself to work over Phronsie.

In the first place, she knew she must get some court-plaster, for the cut was bleeding pretty fast. “Now, Phronsie, you sit just as still as everything.” Polly had put her in Mammy’s old rocking-chair. “And, childie, you can have this.” A most magnificent thing it seemed to Phronsie, and it stopped her tears at once, for it was a piece of cake, rather hard to be sure, but still beautiful. Polly had saved it up, since it had been given them, as a treat, and the children were going to have it this very night.

There wasn’t any court-plaster in the house, but she knew old “Grandma Bascom” had some. Her cottage was just down at the end of the lane; so leaving Phronsie munching her cake, she sped over, and rushed in without knocking, for the old lady was deaf, and wouldn’t have heard, anyway. “Oh, if you please, Grandma, Phronsie’s got hurt! May I have some court-plaster?”

“Why, for the land’s sake! your ma’s got hurt, did you say?” said the old lady, stopping her sweeping in the middle of the floor, and leaning on the broom.

“No, marm; Phronsie!” screamed Polly in the old lady’s ear. “Mamsie’s away.”

“She is, though?” said Grandma, kindly; “now that’s too bad; ’n what did you say you want?”

“Court-plaster,” said Polly, “and could you hurry?—for her thumb’s bleeding so.”

“Yes, yes, to be sure,” said the old lady, laying down her broom, and waddling to the cupboard. She brought a big cracked sugar-bowl to the table, then adjusted her spectacles, and diving down into the depths brought up paper after paper of herbs, salve, etc., till Polly thought she would go wild.

“Oh, I don’t believe you’ve got any,” she said.

“Yes, yes, I have, child; don’t be so fast; I remember where I put it; ’twan’t in this bowl, after all! I give some to Jane Dusenberry’s folks, when her pa got cut with a scythe. You know Jane?” And Grandma paused, and rested both hands on the bowl to relate the dreadful accident.

“Yes, yes,” said Polly, “but I can’t leave Phronsie. Oh, I can get it for you, if you’ll only tell me where it is.”

“Hadn’t you better run right home, and stay along of Phronsie, dear, and I’ll step over and bring it soon’s I get on my cap, and,” looking around the room, “get fixed up just a mite!” said the old lady.

“If you please, I must have it now,” said Polly, in utter dismay, who knew what Grandma’s “settling her cap,” and fixing up, meant.

So Mrs. Bascom finally produced a roll of ancient court-plaster out of some unseen drawer in the cupboard, the requisite amount was carefully cut off, and Polly bounded over to poor little Phronsie, whose supply of cake had given out, and who, consequently, as she sat curled up on the old chair, was surveying the poor little bandaged thumb ruefully.

The cut was soon nicely stuck together; her dirty little pink apron taken off; herself washed, and the tangled yellow curls all brushed and stroked by Polly’s kind hands. And then Polly began to look around. Her mother, she knew, wouldn’t be back until night. She had a chance to make some jackets for the minister’s boys, so she was at the parsonage for the day. Ben was chopping wood, one of the odd jobs he picked up now and then; he might be in any time, it only depended on the length of the job. Where Joel and David were, Polly, for the life of her, couldn’t have told. Their whereabouts were often shrouded in mystery. In the midst of it, just as Polly was saying, while she gave the last curl a brush, “There, dearie, you’re all right again; now I must get at my old stove, hateful thing!” the door opened and in walked Ben. “Oh, Ben!” she cried, and she almost burst into tears, “I’m so glad you’ve come!”

And Phronsie, with a most important air, began to announce, “I’ve cut my thumb, oh, and it bled; see, Bensie, see!” And the child held up the wounded little hand carefully wrapped up in a clean, old handkerchief.

“Whew!” whistled Ben, as he stood still. “What’s been happening? What is it, Polly?”

“Oh, Ben, such a fall!” answered Polly, kissing Phronsie tenderly; and she then gave him the whole account, interspersed with Phronsie’s corrections, when she considered anything left out.

Ben petted Phronsie to her heart’s content, patted the poor little hand sympathetically, and tried to think of something he could give her to show his sorrow. But he could think of nothing, till Polly leaned over and whispered something in his ear.

“The very thing!” he shouted.

“Sh! sh! but isn’t it?” said Polly, skipping, “if Mammy’ll only say yes!”

“What is it, Ben?” said Phronsie. “I’m big enough now to know secrets, and besides, I’ve cut my thumb.”

“I know, Pet, and you wait a little,” said Ben, “and you’ll know. Halloa, what’s the matter with your stove, Polly?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Polly, despairingly. “It won’t burn! the putty fell out, Ben, and I’ve put in wood, but it won’t do anything; and there’s my bread, see! it’ll be spoilt, and what’ll we do, then, I wonder!”

“Shan’t we have anything to eat then, Polly?” said little Phronsie, with big eyes.

“Yes,” said Ben, quickly, “I’ll go out and bring home lots of chipmunks, Phronsie, a hundred, say, and we’ll hang ’em up all round the kitchen, and they’ll last us a year.”

“I don’t think I should like chipmunks, Ben,” said the child, gravely.

“Oh, Ben, do stop laughing,” said Polly, “for it is really dreadful if we can’t eat the bread.”

Ben was already on his knees before the stove. He fussed and worked over it, and had recourse to his putty again, which Polly remarked might stay as long as he was putting it in; and finally the old stove concluded to make the best of it, and try again. So in a short space of time there was a bright, cheerful fire crackling and snapping, the bread was in the oven, and Polly was flying around making up for lost time.

About dinner-time, Joel and David made their appearance, as hungry as two little beavers. Polly’s bread wasn’t done, so they had to content themselves with the old crusts in addition to their hasty-pudding. What a fuss they made over little Phronsie! Everything had to be gone over again for their benefit, the handkerchief to be taken off, and the thumb exhibited, and Joel felt very bad because Polly wouldn’t allow him to pull up the court-plaster to see exactly what kind of a cut it was. “Just one little end, Polly, I should think you might; it’ll stick down again just as easy.” But Polly was firm.

Phronsie was the pet of the household. Anything harming her hurt them all. Into each heart she crept, though in a different way, making a place not filled by any other. She was the baby; and to see Phronsie hurt, almost took away the boys’ appetites, the most touching way in which they could show their grief. After dinner, Joel rehearsed Phronsie’s adventure, trying to roll down the old steps, just as she said she did. “Phoh! it don’t hurt any,” he said.

“Well, but take the knife, Joe,” said Davie, “take the knife; that’ll hurt, I guess.”

“No,” said Ben, “we’ve had enough cuts to-day; don’t let’s make any more trouble for Mamsie. What’ll she say now, I wonder?”

Nightfall brought Mrs. Pepper, tired with her toil; but oh! so thankful, while she held her baby in her lap, that the kind Father in Heaven had watched over the Little Brown House in her absence.

There was nobody to little Phronsie’s mind like her mother. Cuddled up there to her warm breast, while Polly got the cup of tea that had been kept warm for Mamsie by the stove, she told over in childish way the story that Polly had already rehearsed so fully to the mother’s anxious ears, not forgetting—and here the child hung her head—the recital of taking the bread-knife and the sad consequences ensuing. And then it all came out—Polly’s and Ben’s secret—and after its disclosure Phronsie was decidedly glad that she had been hurt.

For some time, ever since Phronsie could remember, she had been promised a pair of new shoes, very new, for her own; just as soon as the mother could get together money that could be spared for their purchase. She had never had a pair really bought for her. Joel’s and David’s were generally so worn and holey, long before there was a chance of their outgrowing them, that there was no hope from that quarter.

Once, Mrs. Pepper had made a mistake in buying a pair for David. They proved to be much shorter than at first supposed, and put him in so much pain when wearing them that they were put by for Phronsie; the beauty of them was gone, however, before David complained of them. And once a lady in the village gave Mrs. Pepper a half-worn pair of her little daughter’s; so that no “new shoes” had ever come to Phronsie,—that greatest delight in a child’s life.

For a long time then she had had the promise. It seemed to her interminable, but she waited patiently; only sometimes when she got to thinking of them, it seemed as if she couldn’t wait any longer. And Polly caught her one day saying to Seraphina, her doll, when she thought no one was near:—

“Well, do you suppose I’ll ever get my new shoes? Not till I get to be a big woman, I guess!”

Polly couldn’t stand that, and she privately told Ben that they must contrive some way and get them soon. And now Ben’s wood-choppings had helped some, and Mrs. Pepper had been able to get more work than usual, so that Polly, during that dismal morning, had been thinking perhaps now they could do it. And when would they ever want to do more for poor little Phronsie! She wouldn’t be able to play for some time, for the cut would be very painful. Oh, if Mammy would only say yes!

And Mrs. Pepper had said “yes!” and the children had shouted and shown in different ways their delight; only Phronsie, the one most interested, sitting there in her mother’s lap, had just clasped her little hands together as tight as she could for the thumb, and given an ecstatic long sigh.

So it was all settled—“really and truly settled,” as Phronsie said. To-morrow Polly and Ben should take her to the town to be fitted, if Mr. Brown would let them have his wagon.

“Oh, mayn’t we go, too?” cried Joel; “we can sit in behind. Say, now, Mammy, mayn’t we?”

“Do, Mammy!” said David.

“Well, I don’t see why not, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Pepper; “’Twon’t cost anything; the wagon’s going anyway, and the horse is strong—if you’ll be good, Joey.”

“Oh, won’t I, though!” said Joel, giving his mother a hearty kiss, while little David beamed his satisfaction.

Ben ran over to Deacon Brown’s to ask him about the horse and wagon. The answer was all right, for the Deacon wanted him to do an errand in town; so the wildest hilarity reigned in the Pepper household that night.

“Oh, Ben, will they be red-tops, do you think?” whispered little Phronsie, privately.

“Yes, I guess so, Puss,” whispered Ben, back again, inwardly resolving if there was a pair of “red-topped” shoes in the store, that were otherwise just right, Phronsie should have them.

So on the morrow, after they had their early dinner, the old wagon was driven up to the door with a flourish by Ben, who guided the ancient but tough old roadster with a dignity befitting a better horse. Joel and David had already secured reserved seats, having run over ahead to the Deacon’s shed and got in first. And there they sat, dangling their legs over the back of the wagon as they laughed and crowed in utter delight.

Phronsie stood in the doorway holding Polly’s hand. It was a decidedly solemn undertaking to her, this setting out on this great and weighty expedition, and the child’s heart was about as full as it could hold of anticipation and happiness. Oh, the pains that had been taken to get her ready! Ben said that Polly began before they got up in the morning.

At any rate, everything had been brushed, patted and pulled into place on Phronsie a dozen times by each member of the family before they were quite satisfied. But, at last, they had acknowledged that nothing more could be done; and, as Polly tied the waves of yellow hair back with a little blue bow, Mrs. Pepper stepped off, set her head on one side critically, and said:—

“Well, I’m sure, child, if you only behave as well as you look, you’ll do!”

And then Phronsie was told to go and sit in her little chair and not move till it was time to put on her hood and sack. Any other child than Phronsie would have hated all this fuss and trouble, but to her it was only part of the extreme delight; so she stuck out the patched, worn little shoes before her, and thought of the new ones.

“Oh, Ben’s coming, Polly!” called Mrs. Pepper, from the window where she sat sewing. “He’s just driving down the hill! Hurry, child! I’ll put on Phronsie’s things.”

“Yes, Mamsie,” said Polly, from the bedroom, in a great twitter, “I’m coming.”

And now they were all ready, and Mrs. Pepper on the steps gave her last injunction to Polly, who held tightly the old leather purse, with the precious money, in her hand,—“to be sure and take the right change,” and “to get them plenty broad” (not the change, but the shoes), and “not to let anything happen to Phronsie;” “oh! and not to get them ‘rights and lefts,’ you know, but ‘evens,’ Polly,”—all of which directions she had given carefully before. All this made great confusion, of course, but it only added to the general delight, while Joel and David were screaming in chorus for them to “come or they’d be late!”

But at last they were off, and Mrs. Pepper from the doorstep shaded her eyes with her hands—perhaps the sun was too bright for them. Her precious load of little ones; might she only have more sunshine to put into their lives! Well, at least, they should enjoy this, bless them!

Merry was the ride to town. Once Polly was afraid she had dropped the old purse when she leaned over to tie Phronsie’s tippet a little tighter, and they were all aghast for a minute at this tremendous fright; but, on Ben’s pulling up the old horse, she found it in her lap safe and sound. So they were merrier than ever out of contrast, and Deacon Brown’s horse so far overcame his usual melancholy manner as to quite enjoy the jolly crowd behind him, and to gallop and plunge in quite a festive manner along the road.

At last they turned into the village street and came in sight of the shops. Then it was that Phronsie sat straight up and began to look eagerly from one side to the other. They passed the milliner’s, gay with ribbons and spring bonnets, and two or three other stores of various descriptions, until they came to a little unpretending shop, crowded in between two others, over whose green door hung the modest sign of “J. Beebe, Boots and Shoes.”

When Phronsie caught sight of the little window strung with shoes of every size, from the littlest wee ones up, she cried out, “Oh, there ’tis, Ben! there ’tis! Oh, do stop!” long before they reached it.

“Yes, yes, child,” said Polly, “Ben’s going to. Joe, now you mustn’t! You know you told Mamsie you’d be good.” For Polly saw premonitory signs of Joe’s giving one of his awful whoops to announce their arrival.

The whoop died away in Joe’s throat as he reflected he never should get another chance to come “to town” with Polly, who was quite fastidious as to manners, if he indulged too boisterously now.

So they bundled out and up the steps, Joel quite gallantly opening the door for his sisters, to atone; while Ben fastened the horse to the well-worn post.

Old Mr. Beebe, smiling at the thought of customers, came, rubbing his hands, out from his little room at the back that served his old wife and himself as both parlor and kitchen. Oh, how magnificent it all looked to Phronsie! Oh, so many shoes, and such beautiful ones! Where did all the people live who could want so many! Great green things, that she found afterward were boxes, had shoes and slippers hanging and dangling to them; and then, away up by the top of the shelf were boots,—oh, as big as Ben’s!—and all around the little dingy room were rubbers, shoes, and slippers wherever there was a spot big enough to contain them. And, over and above it all, such a lovely smell of leather. Well, it was the most delightful place!

“And now, my little dears, what can I do for you to-day?” said old Mr. Beebe, pleasantly looking from one to another of the happy group, including Ben who had now joined them.

“If you please,” said Polly, with quite a matronly air, “it’s for Phronsie.”

“Is it, though?” said the old man, “then we must get her a nice pair, don’t you think?” And he beamed at her so kindly over his old spectacles that he quite won her heart over again, for the Pepper children were always delighted when an errand took them to his little shop; he was such a kindly, fresh, little old man.

“Now if you’ll sit right down here, my little girl, we’ll see what we can do for you.” And he brought a little wooden chair and placed it in the middle of the room.

Obediently, Phronsie sat down and confidently put her rusty little patched shoe upon Mr. Beebe’s knee.

“So, so!” he said, “and you thought you’d have a new pair of shoes this morning, and you thought you’d see what I’d got for you, didn’t you?” he added to make conversation, the others meanwhile encircling Phronsie and watching her with the most intense interest.

“Oh, I’ve never had a pair for my very own,” said the little girl, simply.

“Haven’t you, now?” said the old man, kindly. “Well, then, I don’t see but we must make this the best pair you’ve ever bought,” and he laughed and shook his sides till his spectacles nearly tumbled off; and all the children laughed with him, he was so jolly.

Then he got up and rummaged among some boxes over in the corner, until he emerged from them with two or three pairs of little shoes hanging over his arm.

“There, now, here’s a pair,” he said, and he proceeded to try on a beautiful shiny shoe over Phronsie’s little red stocking. It just fitted; but Polly saw to her dismay that it was “rights and lefts.”

“Oh, Ben,” she whispered to him aside, “they won’t do, and they’re lovely; for Mamsie said, you know, we must be sure to get ‘evens.’”

“Well, we can try again, then,” said Ben, “he’s got plenty more, I s’pose.” And he told Mr. Beebe the difficulty.

But Ben was wrong. It wasn’t so easy to fit Phronsie’s little fat foot thus nicely again, and Mr. Beebe brought forward shoe after shoe until they were almost in despair.

In the meantime, Ben kept his own counsel. He walked around the shop to see if he could possibly spy out a pair of “red-topped ones.” If he couldn’t, he wasn’t going to take away Phronsie’s pleasure in the plain ones by mentioning it. But no delightful “red-topped ones” appeared, or showed signs of appearing, and he had almost given up the idea, when—

“Stay! wait a bit!” said the old man; “now I remember I made a pair once for the squire’s little daughter down to the Point, but her ma didn’t take ’em, she thought they were too small. Maybe they’ll just fit. I shouldn’t wonder, now.”

And he ambled away to the farther part of the room; there, from underneath a shelf, he produced a pair, saying as he brought them towards the children, “But perhaps you’ll object to them for being red-tops.”

“Object to them!” Phronsie screamed right out. “Oh, Ben, he did have them!” And then she was so ashamed she hid her face in Polly’s cloak, while Ben explained to delighted Mr. Beebe, who began to try them on.

Ben and Polly both held their breath. What if they shouldn’t fit! But on the little shoe went; snugly it buttoned up; and then Mr. Beebe told Phronsie to stand up.

“Stamp in it, child. Why, it looks as if ’twas made for her, don’t it?” he said, pleased almost as the children.

The price, too, was just right. Polly didn’t know, as she counted out the money into the old man’s hand, that at least a quarter of their value was deducted. Phronsie wouldn’t have the shoe taken off; so the old man cut the string, buttoned on its mate, and rolled up the poor little old ones in a bit of newspaper.

“There, now!”—and then he put into her hand a most beautiful button-hook; it had a bright little handle that looked like silver, and it was just as cunning as it could be,—“that’s from me! And you’ll come and see the old man again, won’t you, dear, and tell him how the shoes go?”

And then Mrs. Beebe had to come in to see the “Pepper children” and to ask after their mother; and to hear all about Phronsie’s accident of the day before; and then she must run out and get a doughnut apiece for them all, out of the big stone pot; and for Phronsie, a big piece of cinnamon candy extra.

And then they all said “good-by,” and “Oh, thank you!” added Polly, “ever so much!”

Out again and into the old wagon.

“I say,” said Joel, “that’s prime! Don’t I wish some of us had to get new shoes every day!” And he settled back to a huge bit of his doughnut.

Over, back, and away they went home, only stopping to do Deacon Brown’s errand. Phronsie would keep sticking her feet out from under the old shawl to be sure that her shoes were really there, despite Polly’s fear that she would take cold; for it was getting towards evening and a little chilly.

Such an uproar as they had when they got home. The shoes were admired and admired again, Mrs. Pepper protesting that she couldn’t have done better if she had gone herself; as indeed she couldn’t. And she praised the children heartily for their good behavior. As for Phronsie, she danced around the old kitchen till the “red-tops” seemed only little specks of color.

“I’m going to have ’em to sleep with me anyway, Polly,” she declared, as Polly insisted on taking them off at last.

So to bed Phronsie trudged, grasping the precious shoes tightly to her breast. And when Polly went to get into the big bed with her mother, she peeped the last thing at Phronsie and laughed right out. One small, red-topped shoe was clasped in the little well hand; the other, tucked up on the pillow, had settled right down over her nose.

III
THE LITTLE TIN PLATE

“O DEAR me!” exclaimed Polly, out in the “Provision Room.” “What’s that?”

A loud noise struck her ear, and she dropped the end of the big bag, out of which she was getting some potatoes for dinner and stopped to listen. There it was again.

“Oh, my goodness me!” Polly gave a merry little laugh, “It’s at the door,” and dropping the tin pan she had brought for the potatoes, she skipped nimbly over the big bag. “P’raps it’s somebody come to call;” for Polly dearly loved to be elegant, and nothing could have been so truly magnificent as to have callers in their very best clothes come and rap at the old green door. She had often imagined how they would look. And now, “Perhaps—just perhaps,” she thought, as she skipped along over the rickety steps leading up to the kitchen, “that there is one really and truly come to see us!”

She raced through the kitchen and threw open the old door, the color flying up to her brown hair, and her eyes sparkling. A man was standing on the old flat stone, and pressed up close to the green door.

“Oh, Mr. Beggs!” cried Polly, the color dropping all out of her cheek in her disappointment. He wasn’t a caller, not a bit of it, only the ragman who drove through Badgertown once in a while, and collected the rags and old bottles at the houses. And in return he gave tinware of every description and brooms and wooden pails. There, off by the old gate, was his big red cart, waiting in the road.

“Yes, I’ve come.” Mr. Beggs pushed back his flapping straw hat from his forehead, and pulling out a big red cotton handkerchief from the pocket of his much-worn linen coat that flapped around his legs, he wiped his forehead vigorously. “Call’ated your Ma was ready maybe to trade to-day.”

“We don’t have many rags, Mr. Beggs,” said Polly, stifling her disappointment. “You know Mamsie told you not to trouble to stop often because—”

“I know—I know,” said Mr. Beggs, interrupting. Then he leaned against the door-casing to rest on one foot while he talked. “But then I alwus d’rather stop, for you might get ready to trade. An’ tain’t no trouble to me, cause it rests th’ horse. Is the boys to home?”

“No,” said Polly, “they went off to dig flag-root.”

“Pshaw, now.” The ragman pushed the old straw hat farther off from his head till it began to look like a new background for it. “Why couldn’t they have dug flag-root any other day, pray tell,” he exclaimed in vexation; “I was a-goin’ to take ’em to ride on my cart.”

“O dear me!” exclaimed Polly, just as much distressed, and clasping her hands, “now, isn’t that too bad, Mr. Beggs!”

“’Tis,” said Mr. Beggs, gloomily. “I got to go all down round about here, an’ over to the Hollow.”

Polly couldn’t say anything. To go “all down round about here and over to the Hollow” on top of the red cart was such an enchanting thing, and now the boys must lose it all!

“An’ I ain’t comin’ this way agin this summer,” said Mr. Beggs, as if the other statement was not as bad as it possibly could be.

“O dear me!” said Polly again.

“I s’pose you an’ th’ little gal wouldn’t go, now.” The ragman pointed a dingy thumb into the kitchen to indicate Phronsie.

For one wild moment Polly thought, “Oh, Mamsie wouldn’t care, and I never get the chance if the boys are home.” And she took one rapturous step to get Phronsie from the bedroom where she was washing “Baby”; then she turned and stood quite still. “No,” she said.

“Well, you come right along,” said Mr. Beggs, well pleased to see her start for Phronsie. “I’ll wait for ye an’ th’ little gal,” and he was already slouching down to the old gate.

“I can’t go,” called Polly after him.

“Yes, come right along,” the ragman kept saying, so of course he couldn’t hear any one else talk.

“I can’t go, and Phronsie can’t either.” Polly panted it out as she went flying down the path after him, and she took hold of the end of his old brown linen coat as he had one foot on the trace preparing to jump up to his seat.

“Pshaw, now!” exclaimed Mr. Beggs, pausing to regard her ruefully. “Ye can’t?”

“No,” said Polly. She couldn’t trust herself to look at the dear, delightful tin things hanging all down the side of the cart. What a lovely music they must make jingling together as the old horse jogged along on his way! And the brooms stuck up at the corners, and smelling so nice and new, and the quantities of other things, they might be the most beautiful in all the world hidden within, that Mr. Beggs would take out when customers were ready to buy. And she must give it all up!

“Pshaw, now—yer Ma won’t care, an’ I ain’t a-comin’ this way agin this summer.” Mr. Beggs didn’t take his foot from the trace while he argued it out. “An’ I’m goin’ all down round about here, an’ home by the Hollow.”

“O dear!” Polly turned off and threw herself down on the grass just beside the road. “I must go,” she cried passionately to herself. “I’ve never been, and I can’t get the chance again.” Then Mamsie’s face seemed to hop right up before her, saying only one word, “Polly.”

“So run along an’ git your bunnit, an’ bring th’ little gal.” Mr. Beggs, seeing everything now fixed to his satisfaction, mounted his cart, and took up the well-worn leather reins.

“No,” said Polly. She was standing by the cart now. “I can’t go, Mr. Beggs. I thank you, sir, very much, but Mamsie wouldn’t like it; that is, I can’t ask her.” The brown eyes seemed to say more than the words, for the ragman, giving a long whistle to vent his regrets, clacked to the old horse, and away the red cart rumbled down the dusty road, leaving Polly standing on the grass by its side.

And the two little boys, hurrying around by the back way, found her so, just as the red cart turned the corner of the road.

“Joel!” cried Polly, turning around. “Oh, I thought you’d gone to dig flag-root.”

“So we did,” grumbled Joel, “but Davie forgot the knife.”

“I did, Polly,” confessed little Davie, hanging his head.

“Never mind, now,” cried Polly, in such a twitter she jumbled up her words, “the ragman—Mr. Beggs—oh, Joe, run after him—”

“Where?” cried Joel, his black eyes roving wildly. To have Mr. Beggs with them was an event not to be missed. “Where, Polly?” twitching her sleeve.

“There,” Polly cried, just as wildly and pointing in the direction in which the ragman had disappeared; “oh, run, Joe,—he’s been here to take you and Davie to ride on his cart.”

It wasn’t necessary to tell Joel to run after that, and even Davie showed a nimble pair of heels, and presently they were lost to view, and Polly was left alone to go in and get the potatoes for dinner.

Joel roared so hard at every step of the road in pursuit of the red cart that when he finally did come up with it, he had little breath left. Mr. Beggs had slackened speed at the beginning of the hill, and was now ruminating sourly over his failure to give pleasure to the Little Brown House people, when he heard a faint piping sound that made him crane his neck to look around the stack of brooms to see where it came from. “We’re going,” gasped Davie, running to the side of Joel, both boys having anxious hands outspread.

“Jerusalem, and th’ natives!” ejaculated the ragman, pulling the old horse up straight. “I thought you was a-diggin’ flag-root.”

“We were,” gasped David. But it wasn’t until they were both fairly on the cart and beside Mr. Beggs on the seat, that breath could be wasted to relate the whole, “Only I forgot the big knife.”

“I’ll drive,” declared Joel, promptly. To talk about digging flag-root was well enough when there was nothing greater as a subject, but now—and he made a dash at the leather reins.

“Not yit,” said the ragman, holding them fast in his horny hand. “Well, I never!” and he slapped his knee with the other fist. “Ain’t this just—well, Jerusalem, an’ th’ natives—’tis!”

“When can I, say?” Joel pounded Mr. Beggs’s knee, and fastened his black eyes pleadingly on the face under the old straw hat. Little Davie had lapsed into a state of silent bliss, and was hanging to the edge of the seat where it turned up on the outside. “Say, Mr. Beggs, when will you let me drive?”

“You be still,” said Mr. Beggs, turning a pair of ruddy cheeks on which a broad smile of satisfaction played; “I’ll let you drive when the time comes.”

“When is it coming?” asked Joel, in impatience.

“’Tain’t never comin’,” said Mr. Beggs, “if you ain’t still, an’ behave yourself.”

Joel, very much alarmed at this, sank back in his seat, and kept still till it seemed to him that the ragman had forgotten his promise, so he slid forward and began to clamor again.

“Can I—you said you would,” he teased, stretching out both brown little hands.

“I said when ’twas time,” replied Mr. Beggs, coolly.

“’Tisn’t ever going to be time,” declared Joel, quite gone in despair.

The ragman burst out laughing, but seeing Joel’s face, and also that little Davie on the other side was leaning forward much disturbed since something that Joel didn’t like was being said, he added kindly, “now, Joel, I’ll let you take th’ reins when we come to that house. See it?” and he pointed off with his whip.

“Where—where?” cried Joel, eagerly, and jumping up to his feet.

“Sit down,” cried Mr. Beggs, pulling him back. “Land o’ Goshen, you’ll be out an’ break your neck; then you never’d go with me agin, an’ what would your Ma say?”

“Well, where is the house?” cried Joel, struggling to get a sight of it. “I can’t see it.”

“You will in a minnit—there, now, look.”

It wasn’t necessary to advise this as Joel’s black eyes were doing their best to acquaint their owner with an idea as to how soon the little brown hands could hold those reins. And at last he squealed right out, “Oh, there ’tis—oh, goody! I’m going to drive, Dave, I am, soon’s we git up to that house,” pointing to a red farm-house set back from the road and in between two tall poplars.

When they arrived, he was in great excitement, not caring in the least for the pleasure of hearing Mr. Beggs calling out, “Ra-ags—Ra-ags,” in a tone that began in a sort of a roar, and ended in a little fine squeal that seemed to vanish into thin air; but it always brought every farmer’s wife and daughter to the window or door, eager to turn the last year’s or half year’s supply of carefully hoarded rags and old bottles to good account. For sometimes, if Mr. Beggs could not dispose of his tinware and brooms and pails which, of course, he much preferred to do, he would count out pennies and five-cent pieces, so that new ribbons or a bit of lace would be possible for such as cared for finery.

But little Davie, if it were possible to add to his bliss as he sat there clinging to the edge of his seat on the top of the red cart, now experienced that increase of delight, and he hung entranced as Mr. Beggs bawled again impressively, “Ra-ags—Ra-ags!” as they came almost up to the poplars.

A woman thrust her head in a sweeping-cap out of the side door. “The ragman’s here, Em’line!” she screamed. Then she ran out to the grass-plot. “Here, stop, Mr. Beggs,” she called frantically, waving both hands.

“All right, marm,” said the ragman, pulling up his old horse. “I’m a-stoppin’; you needn’t screech so.”

“You said I might drive when we got here.” Joel turned on him perfectly furious, his black eyes flashing.

“Well, an’ so you may,” replied Mr. Beggs, composedly, preparing to get down over the wheel. “But we ain’t a-goin’ to run over Mis’ Hinman. When we start from here, Joel, you can have them lines. Now, then, both o’ you boys can git down an’ stretch your legs, while I dicker with th’ women folks.”

Joel, seeing that this was all he could get, suffered himself to be helped down from the cart, and little Davie followed, for both of them hung absorbed over the exciting bargaining and exchange that now took place.