There was a bumping noise coming from the Provision Room that sounded ominous, and then a smothered sound of words, followed by a scuffling over the old floor.
“Boys!” called Polly. No answer; everything was just as still as a mouse. “Joel and David!” called Polly, again, in her loudest tones.
“Yes,” came up the crooked stairs, in Davie’s voice.
“Come up here, right away!” went back again from Polly. So up the stairs trudged the two boys, and presented themselves rather sheepishly before the big chair.
“What was that noise?” she asked; “what have you been doing?”
“Warn’t nothing but the pail,” answered Joel, not looking at her.
“We had something to eat,” said Davie, by way of explanation; “you always let us.”
“I know,” said Polly; “that’s right, you can have as much bread as you want to; but what have you been doing with the pail?”
“Nothing,” said Joel; “’twouldn’t hang up, that’s all.”
“And you’ve been bumping it,” said Polly; “oh! Joel, how could you! You might have broken it; and then what would mamsie say?”
“I didn’t bump it worse’n Davie, so there!” said Joel, stoutly, with his hands in his pockets.
“Why, Davie,” said Polly, turning to him sorrowfully, “I shouldn’t have thought you would!”
“Well, I’m tired of hanging it up,” said little Davie, vehemently; “and I said I wasn’t a-going to; Joel always makes me; I’ve done it for two million times, I guess!”
“Oh dear!” said Polly, sinking back into the chair, “I don’t know what I ever shall do; here’s Phronsie hurt; and we want to celebrate to-morrow; and you two boys are bumping and banging out the bread pail, and—”
“Oh! we won’t!” cried both of the children, perfectly overwhelmed with remorse; “we’ll hang it right up.”
“I’ll hang it,” said Davie, clattering off down the stairs with a will.
“No, I will!” shouted Joel, going after him at double pace; and presently both came up with shining faces, and reported it nicely done.
“And now,” said Polly, after they had all sat around the stove another half-hour, watching and sniffing expectantly, “the cake’s done!—oh! dreadful! It’s turning black!” and quick as a wink Polly twitched it out with energy, and set it on the table.
O dear! of all things in the world! The beautiful cake over which so many hopes had been formed, that was to have given so much happiness on the morrow to the dear mother, presented a forlorn appearance as it stood there in anything but holiday attire. It was quite black on the top, in the center of which was a depressing little dump, as if to say, “My feelings wouldn’t allow me to rise to the occasion!”
“Now,” said Polly, turning away with a little fling, and looking at the stove, “I hope you’re satisfied, you old thing! You’ve spoiled our mamsie’s birthday!” and without a bit of warning, she sat right down in the middle of the floor and began to cry as hard as she could!
“Well, I never!” said a cheery voice, that made the children skip.
“It’s Mrs. Beebe; oh, it’s Mrs. Beebe!” cried Davie; “see, Polly.”
Polly scrambled up to her feet, ashamed to be caught thus, and whisked away the tears; the others explaining to their new visitor the sad disappointment that had befallen them; and she was soon oh-ing, and ah-ing to suit even their distressed little souls.
“You poor creeters, you!” she exclaimed at last, for about the fiftieth time. “Here, Polly, here’s some posies for you, and—”
“Oh, thank you!” cried Polly, with a radiant face, and burying her face in the bunch for a good sniff; “why, Mrs. Beebe, we can put them in here, can’t we? the very thing!” And she set the little knot of flowers in the hollow of the cake, and there they stood and nodded away, to the delighted children like brave little comforters, as they were!
“The very thing!” echoed Mrs. Beebe, tickled to death to see their delight; “it looks beautiful, I declare! and now, I must run right along, or pa’ll be worrying;” and so the good woman trotted out to her waiting husband, who was impatient to be off. Mr. Beebe kept a little shoe-shop in town; and always being of the impression if he left it for ten minutes that crowds of customers would visit it, he was the most restless of companions on any pleasure excursion.
“And Phronsie’s got hurt,” said Mrs. Beebe, telling him the news, as he finished tucking her up, and started the old horse.
“Ho? you don’t say so!” he cried; “whoa!”
“Mercy!” said Mrs. Beebe; “how you scared me, pa! What’s the matter?”
“What?—the little girl that bought the shoes?” asked her husband.
“Yes,” replied his wife, “she’s hurt her foot.”
“Sho, now,” said the old gentleman; “that’s too bad,” and he began to feel in all his pockets industriously; “there, can you get out again, and take her that?” and he laid a small piece of peppermint candy, thick and white, in his wife’s lap.
“Oh, yes,” cried Mrs. Beebe, good-naturedly, beginning to clamber over the wheel.
So the candy was handed in to Phronsie, who insisted that Polly should hold her up to the window to thank Mr. Beebe. So amid nods and shakings of hands, the Beebes drove off, and quiet settled down over the Little Brown House again.
“Now, children,” said Polly, after Phronsie had made them take a bite of her candy all around, “let’s get the cake put away safe, for mamsie may come home early.”
“Where’ll you put it?” asked Joel, wishing the world were all peppermint candy.
“Oh—in the cupboard,” said Polly, taking it up; “there, Joe, you can climb up, and put it clear back in the corner; oh! wait; I must take the posies off, and keep them fresh in water;” so the cake was finally deposited in a place of safety, followed by the eyes of all the children.
“Now,” said Polly, as they shut the door tight, “don’t you go to looking at the cupboard, Joey, or mammy’ll guess something.”
“Can’t I just open it a little crack, and take one smell when she ain’t looking?” asked Joel; “I should think you might, Polly; just one.”
“No,” said Polly, firmly; “not one, Joe; she’ll guess if you do.” But Mrs. Pepper was so utterly engrossed with her baby when she came home and heard the account of the accident, that she wouldn’t have guessed if there’d been a dozen cakes in the cupboard. Joel was consoled, as his mother assured him in a satisfactory way that she never should think of blaming him; and Phronsie was comforted and coddled to her heart’s content. And so the evening passed rapidly and happily away, Ben smuggling Phronsie off into a corner, where she told him all the doings of the day—the disappointment of the cake, and how it was finally crowned with flowers; all of which Phronsie, with no small pride in being the narrator, related gravely to her absorbed listener. “And don’t you think, Bensie,” she said, clasping her little hand in a convincing way over his two bigger, stronger ones, “that Polly’s stove was very naughty to make poor Polly cry?”
“Yes, I do,” said Ben, and he shut his lips tightly together. To have Polly cry hurt him more than he cared to have Phronsie see.
“What are you staring at, Joe?” asked Polly, a few minutes later, as her eyes fell upon Joel, who sat with his back to the cupboard, persistently gazing at the opposite wall.
“Why, you told me yourself not to look at the cupboard,” said Joel, in the loudest of stage whispers.
“O dear me! that’ll make mammy suspect worse’n anything else if you look like that,” said Polly.
“What did you say about the cupboard?” asked Mrs. Pepper, who caught Joe’s last word.
“We can’t tell,” said Phronsie, shaking her head at her mother; “’cause there’s a ca—”
“Ugh!” and Polly clapped her hand on the child’s mouth; “don’t you want Ben to tell us a story?”
“Oh, yes!” cried the little one, in which all the others joined with a whoop of
delight; so a most wonderful story, drawn up in Ben’s best style, followed till bedtime.
The first thing Polly did in the morning was to run to the old cupboard, followed by all the others, to see if the cake was safe; and then it had to be drawn out, and dressed anew with the flowers, for they had decided to have it on the breakfast-table.
“It looks better,” whispered Polly to Ben, “than it did yesterday; and aren’t the flowers pretty?”
“It looks good enough to eat, anyway,” said Ben, smacking his lips.
“Well, we tried,” said Polly, stifling a sigh; “now, boys, call mamsie; everything’s ready.”
Oh! how surprised their mother appeared when she was ushered out to the feast, and the full glory of the table burst upon her! Her delight in the cake was fully enough to satisfy the most exacting mind. She admired and admired it on every side, protesting that she shouldn’t have supposed Polly could possibly have baked it so well in the old stove; and then she cut it, and gave a piece to every child, with a little posy on top. Wasn’t it good, though! Like many other things, the cake proved to be better on trial than it looked, and so turned out to be really quite a good surprise all around.
“Why can’t I ever have a birthday?” asked Joel, finishing the last crumb of his piece; “I should think I might,” he added, reflectively.
“Why, you have, Joe,” said Ben; “eight of ’em.”
“What a story!” ejaculated Joel; “when did I have ’em? I never had a cake; did I, Polly?”
“Not a cake-birthday, Joel,” said his mother; “you haven’t got to that yet.”
“When’s it a-coming?” asked Joel, who was decidedly of a matter-of-fact turn of mind.
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Pepper, laughing; “but there’s plenty of time ahead.”
4
Trouble for the Little Brown House
“Oh, I do wish,” said Joel, a few mornings after, pushing back his chair and looking discontentedly at his bowl of mush and molasses, “that we could ever have something new besides this everlasting old breakfast! Why can’t we, mammy?”
“Better be glad you’ve got that, Joe,” said Mrs. Pepper, taking another cold potato, and sprinkling on a little salt; “folks shouldn’t complain so long as they’ve got anything to eat.”
“But I’m so tired of it—same old thing!” growled Joel; “seems as if I sh’d turn into a meal-bag or a molasses jug!”
“Well, hand it over, then,” proposed Ben, who was unusually hungry, and had a hard day’s work before him.
“No,” said Joel, alarmed at the prospect, and putting in an enormous mouthful; “it’s better than nothing.”
“O dear!” said little Phronsie, catching Joel’s tone, “it isn’t nice; no, it isn’t!” and she put down her spoon so suddenly that the molasses spun away in a big drop, that trailed off the corner of the table, and made Polly jump up and run for the floor-cloth.
“Oh, Phronsie,” she said, reprovingly; “how could you? Never mind, pet,” as she caught sight of two big tears trying to make a path in the little molasses-streaked face, “Polly’ll wipe it up.”
“Shan’t we ever have anything else to eat, Polly?” asked the child, gravely, getting down from her high chair to watch the operation of cleaning the floor.
“Oh, yes,” said Polly, cheerfully, “lots and lots—when our ship comes in.”
“What’ll they be?” asked Phronsie, in the greatest delight, prepared for anything.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Polly; “ice-cream for one thing, Phronsie, and maybe, little cakes.”
“With pink on top?” interrupted Phronsie, getting down by Polly’s side.
“Oh, yes,” said Polly, warming with her subject; “ever an’ ever so much pink, Phronsie Pepper; more’n you could eat!”
Phronsie just clasped her hands and sighed. More than she could eat was beyond her!
“Hoh!” said Joel, who caught the imaginary bill of fare, “that’s nothing, Polly. I’d speak for a plum pudding.”
“Like the one mother made us for Thanksgiving?” asked Polly, getting up and waiting a minute, cloth in hand, for the answer.
“Yes, sir,” said Joel, shutting one eye and looking up at the ceiling, musingly, while he smacked his lips in remembrance; “wasn’t that prime, though!”
“Yes,” said Polly, thoughtfully; “would you have ’em all like that, Joe?”
“Every one,” replied Joe, promptly; “I’d have seventy-five of ’em.”
“Seventy-five what?” asked Mrs. Pepper, who had gone into the bedroom, and now came out, a coat in her hand, to sit down in the west window, where she began to sew rapidly. “Better clear up the dishes, Polly, an’ set the table back—seventy-five what, Joel?”
“Plum puddings,” said Joel, kissing Phronsie.
“Goodness!” ejaculated Mrs. Pepper; “you don’t know what you’re saying, Joel Pepper; the house couldn’t hold ’em!”
“Wouldn’t long,” responded Joel; “we’d eat ’em.”
“That would be foolish,” interposed Ben; “I’d have roast beef and fixings—and oysters—and huckleberry pie.”
“O dear!” cried Polly; “how nice, Ben! you always do think of the very best things.”
But Joel phoohed and declared he wouldn’t waste his time “over old beef; I’d have something like!” And then he cried: “Come on, Dave, what’d you choose?”
Little Davie had been quietly eating his breakfast amid all this chatter, and somehow thinking it might make the mother feel badly, he had refrained from saying just how tiresome he had really found this “everlasting breakfast,” as Joel called it. But now he looked up eagerly, his answer all ready. “Oh, I know,” he cried, “what would be most beautiful! toasted bread—white bread—and candy.”
“What’s candy?” asked Phronsie.
“Oh, don’t you know, Phronsie?” cried Polly, “what Mrs. Beebe gave you the day you got your shoes—the pink sticks; and—”
“And the peppermint stick Mr. Beebe gave you,” finished Joel, his mouth watering at the remembrance.
“That day, when you got your toe pounded,” added Davie, looking at Joel.
“Oh!” cried Phronsie; “I want some now, I do!”
“Well, Davie,” said Polly, “you shall have that for breakfast when our ship comes in then.”
“Your ships aren’t ever coming,” broke in Mrs. Pepper, wisely, “if you sit there talking—folks don’t ever make any fortunes a-wishing.”
“True enough,” laughed Ben, jumping up and setting back his chair. “Come on, Joe; you’ve got to pile to-day.”
“O dear!” said Joel, dismally; “I wish Mr. Blodgett’s wood was all afire.”
“Never say that, Joel,” said Mrs. Pepper, looking up sternly; “it’s biting your own nose off to wish that wood was afire—and besides it’s dreadfully wicked.”
Joel hung his head, for his mother never spoke in that way, unless she was strongly moved; but he soon recovered, and hastened off for his jacket.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you do the dishes, Polly,” said David, running after Joel.
“I’m going to help her,” said Phronsie; “I am.”
So Polly got the little wooden tub that she always used, gave Phronsie the well-worn cup-napkin, and allowed her to wipe the handleless cups and cracked saucers, which afforded the little one intense delight.
“Don’t you wish, Polly,” said little Phronsie, bustling around with a very important air, nearly smothered in the depths of a big brown apron which Polly had carefully tied under her chin, “that you didn’t ever-an’-ever have so many dishes to do?”
“Um—maybe,” said Polly, thoughtlessly. She was thinking of something else besides cups and saucers just then; of how nice it would be to go off for just one day, and do exactly as she had a mind to in everything. She even envied Ben and the boys who were going to work hard at Deacon Blodgett’s wood-pile.
“Well, I tell you,” said Phronsie, confidentially
, setting down a cup that she had polished with great care, “I’m going to do ’em all to-morrow, for you, Polly—I can truly; let me now, Polly, do.”
“Nonsense!” said Polly, giving a great splash with her mop in the tub, ashamed of her inward repinings. “Phronsie, you’re no bigger than a mouse!”
“Yes, I am,” retorted Phronsie, very indignantly; her face began to get very red, and she straightened up so suddenly to show Polly just how very big she was that her little head came up against the edge of the tub—over it went! a pile of saucers followed.
“There now,” cried Polly, “see what you’ve done!”
“Ow!” whimpered Phronsie, breaking into a subdued roar; “oh, Polly! it’s all running down my back.”
“Is it?” said Polly, bursting out into a laugh; “never mind, Phronsie, I’ll dry you.”
“Goodness me, Polly!” said Mrs. Pepper, who had looked up in time to see the tub racing along by itself towards the Provision Room door, a stream of dish-water following in its wake, “she’s wetter’n a rat! Do get off her things, quick.”
“Yes’m,” cried Polly, picking up the tub, and giving two or three quick sops to the floor. “Here you are, Pussy,” grasping Phronsie, crying as she was, and carrying her into the bedroom.
“O dear!” wailed the child, still holding the wet dish-towel; “I won’t ever do it again, if you’ll only let me do ’em all to-morrow.”
“When you’re big and strong,” said Polly, giving her a hug, “you shall do ’em every day.”
“May I really?” said little Phronsie, blinking through the tears, and looking radiant.
“Yes, truly—every day.”
“Then I’ll grow right away, I will,” said Phronsie, bursting out merrily; and she sat down and pulled off the well-worn shoes, into which a big pool of dish-water had run, while Polly went for dry stockings.
“So you shall,” said Polly, coming back, a big piece of gingerbread in her hand; “and this’ll make you grow, Phronsie.”
“O-o-h!” and Phronsie’s little white teeth shut down quickly on the comforting morsel. Gingerbread didn’t come often enough into the Pepper household to be lightly esteemed.
Five Little Peppers and How They Grew Complete Text (Charming Classics) Page 3
