Five Little Peppers and How They Grew Complete Text (Charming Classics)

by Margaret Sidney

  “Now,” said Mrs. Pepper, when order was restored, the floor washed up brightly, and every cup and platter in place, hobnobbing away to themselves on the shelves of the old corner cupboard, and Polly had come as usual with needle and thread to help mother—Polly was getting so that she could do the plain parts on the coats and jackets, which filled her with pride at the very thought—“now,” said Mrs. Pepper, “you needn’t help me this morning, Polly: I’m getting on pretty smart; but you may just run down to the parson’s, and see how he is.”

  “Is he sick?” asked Polly, in awe.

  To have the parson sick was something quite different from an ordinary person’s illness.

  “He was taken with a chill,” said Mrs. Pepper, biting off a thread, “so Miss Huldy Folsom told me last night, and I’m afraid he’s going to have a fever.”

  “O dear!” said Polly, in distress; “whatever’d we do, mammy!”

  “Don’t know, I’m sure,” replied Mrs. Pepper, setting her stitches firmly; “the Lord’ll provide. So you run along, child, and see how he is.”

  “Can’t Phronsie go?” asked Polly, pausing half-way to the bedroom door.

  “Well, yes, I suppose she might,” said Mrs. Pepper, assentingly.

  “No, she can’t either,” said Polly, coming back with her sun-bonnet in her hand, and shutting the door carefully after her, ’cause she’s fast asleep on the floor.”

  “Is she?” said Mrs. Pepper; “well, she’s been a-running so this morning, she’s tired out, I s’pose.”

  “And her face is dreadful red,” continued Polly, tying on her bonnet; “now, what’ll I say, mammy?”

  “Well, I should think ’twould be,” said Mrs. Pepper, replying to the first half of Polly’s speech; “she cried so. Well, you just tell Mrs. Henderson your ma wants to know how Mr. Henderson is this morning, and if ’twas a chill he had yesterday, and how he slept last night, and—”

  “Oh, ma,” said Polly, “I can’t ever remember all that.”

  “Oh, yes, you can,” said Mrs. Pepper, encouragingly; “just put your mind on it, Polly; ’tisn’t anything to what I used to have to remember—when I was a little girl, no bigger’n you are.”

  Polly sighed, and feeling sure that something must be the matter with her mind, gave her whole attention to the errand; till at last after a multiplicity of messages and charges not to forget any one of them, Mrs. Pepper let her depart.

  Up to the old-fashioned green door, with its brass knocker, Polly went, running over in her mind just which of the messages she ought to give first. She couldn’t for her life think whether “if ’twas a chill he had yesterday?” ought to come before “how he slept?” She knocked timidly, hoping Mrs. Henderson would help her out of her difficulty by telling her without the asking. All other front doors in Badgertown were just for ornament, only opened on grand occasions, like a wedding or a funeral. But the minister’s was accessible at all times. So Polly let fall the knocker, and awaited the answer.

  A scuffling noise sounded along the passage; and then Polly’s soul sank down in dire dismay. It was the minister’s sister, and not gentle little Mrs. Henderson. She never could get on with Miss Jerusha in the least. She told her mother once: “Miss Jerusha makes me feel as if I don’t know what my name is.” And here she was; and all those messages!”

  Miss Jerusha unbolted the door, slid back the great bar, opened the upper half, and stood there. She was a big woman, with sharp black eyes, and spectacles—over which she looked—which to Polly was much worse, for that gave her four eyes.

  “Well, and what do you want?” she asked.

  “I came to see—I mean my ma sent me,” stammered poor Polly.

  “And who is your ma?” demanded Miss Jerusha, as much like a policeman as anything; “and where do you live?”

  “I live in Primrose Lane,” replied Polly, wishing very much that she was back there.

  “I don’t want to know where you live, before I know who you are,” said Miss Jerusha; “you should answer the question I asked first; always remember that.”

  “My ma’s Mrs. Pepper,” said Polly.

  “Mrs. who?” repeated Miss Jerusha.

  By this time Polly was so worn that she came very near turning and fleeing, but she thought of her mother’s disappointment in her, and the loss of the news.

  “What is it, Jerusha?” a gentle voice here broke upon Polly’s ear.

  “I don’t know,” responded Miss Jerusha, tartly, still holding the door much as if Polly were a robber; “it’s a little girl, and I can’t make out what she wants.”

  “Why, it’s Polly Pepper!” exclaimed Mrs. Henderson, pleasantly. “Come in, child.” She opened the other half of the big door, and led the way through the wide hall into a big, old-fashioned room, with painted floor, and high, old sideboard, and some stiff-backed rocking-chairs.

  Miss Jerusha stalked in also and seated herself by the window, and began to knit. Polly had just opened her mouth to tell her errand, when the door also opened suddenly and Mr. Henderson walked in.

  “Oh!” said Polly, and then she stopped, and the color flushed up into her face.

  “What is it, my dear?” and the minister took her hand kindly, and looked down into her flushed face.

  “You are not going to have a fever, and be sick and die!” she cried.

  “I hope not, my little girl,” he smiled back, encouragingly; and then Polly gave her messages, which she managed easily enough now.

  “There!” broke in Miss Jerusha, “a cat can’t sneeze in this town but everybody’ll know it in a quarter of an hour.”

  And then Mrs. Henderson took Polly out to see a brood of new little chicks, that had just popped their heads out into the world; and to Polly, down on her knees, admiring, the time passed very swiftly indeed.

  “Now I must go, ma’am,” she said at last, looking up into the lady’s face, regretfully, “for mammy didn’t say I was to stay.”

  “Very well, dear; do you think you could carry a little pat of butter? I have some very nice my sister sent me, and I want your mother to share it.”

  “Oh, thank you, ma’am!” cried Polly, thinking, “how glad Davie’ll be, for he does so love butter! only—”

  “Wait a bit, then,” said Mrs. Henderson, who didn’t seem to notice the objection. So she went into the house, and Polly went down again in admiration before the fascinating little puff-balls of chickens.

  But she was soon on the way, with a little pat of butter in a blue bowl, tied over with a clean cloth, happy in her gift for mammy, and in the knowledge of the minister being all well.

  “I wonder if Phronsie’s awake,” she thought to herself, turning in at the little brown gate; “if she is, she shall have a piece of bread with lots of butter.”

  “Hush!” said Mrs. Pepper, from the rocking-chair in the middle of the floor. She had something in her arms. Polly stopped suddenly, almost letting the bowl fall.

  “It’s Phronsie,” said the mother, “and I don’t know what the matter is with her; you’ll have to go for the doctor, Polly, and just as fast as you can.”

  Polly still stood, holding the bowl, and staring with all her might. Phronsie sick!

  “Don’t wake her,” said Mrs. Pepper.

  Poor Polly couldn’t have stirred to save her life, for a minute; then she said: “Where shall I go, mammy?”

  “Oh, run to Doctor Fisher’s; and don’t be gone long.”

  Polly set down the bowl of butter, and sped on the wings of the wind for the doctor. Something dreadful was the matter, she felt, for never had a physician been summoned to the hearty Pepper family since she could remember, only when the father died. Fear lent speed to her feet; and soon the doctor came, and bent over poor little Phronsie, who still lay in her mother’s arms, in a burning fever.

  “It’s measles,” he pronounced, “that’s all; no cause for alarm; you ever had it?” he asked, turning suddenly around on Polly, who was watching with wide-open eyes for the verdict.r />
  “No, sir,” answered Polly, not knowing in the least what “measles” was.

  “What shall we do!” said Mrs. Pepper; “there hasn’t any of ’em had it.”

  The doctor was over by the little old table under the window, mixing up some black-looking stuff in a tumbler, and he didn’t hear her.

  “There,” he said, putting a spoonful into Phronsie’s mouth, “she’ll get along well enough; only keep her out of the cold.” Then he pulled out a big silver watch. He was a little thin man, and the watch was immense. Polly for her life couldn’t keep her eyes away from it; if Ben could only have one so fine!

  “Polly,” whispered Mrs. Pepper, “run and get my purse; it’s in the top bureau drawer.”

  “Yes’m,” said Polly, taking her eyes off from the fascinating watch by a violent wrench; and she ran quickly and got the little old stocking-leg, where the hard earnings, that stayed long enough to be put anywhere, always found refuge. She put it into her mother’s lap, and watched while Mrs. Pepper counted out slowly one dollar in small pieces.

  “Here sir,” said Mrs. Pepper, holding them out towards the doctor; “and thank you for coming.”

  “Hey!” said the little man, spinning round; “that dollar’s the Lord’s!”

  Mrs. Pepper looked bewildered, and still sat holding it out.

  “And the Lord has given it to you to take care of these children with; see that you do it!” and without another word he was gone.

  “Wasn’t he good, mammy?” asked Polly, after the first surprise was over.

  “I’m sure he was,” said Mrs. Pepper. “Well, tie it up again, Polly, tie it up tight; we shall want it, I’m sure,” sighing at her little sick girl.

  “Mayn’t I take Phronsie, ma?” asked Polly.

  “No, no,” said Phronsie. She had mammy, and she meant to improve the privilege.

  “What is ‘measles’ anyway, mammy?” asked Polly, sitting down on the floor at their feet.

  “Oh, ’tis something children always have,” replied Mrs. Pepper; “but I’m sure I hoped it wouldn’t come just yet.”

  “I shan’t have it,” said Polly, decisively; “I know I shan’t! nor Ben—nor Joe—nor—nor Davie—I guess,” she added, hesitatingly, for Davie was the delicate one of the family; at least not nearly so strong as the others.

  Mrs. Pepper looked at her anxiously; but Polly seemed as bright and healthy as ever, as she jumped up and ran to put the kettle on.

  “What’ll the boys say, I wonder!” she thought to herself, feeling quite important that they really had sickness in the house. As long as Phronsie wasn’t dangerously sick, it seemed quite like rich folks; and she forgot the toil and the grind of poverty. She looked out from time to time as she passed the window, but no boys came.

  “I’ll put her in bed, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, in a whisper, as Phronsie closed her eyes and breathed regularly.

  “And then will you have your dinner, ma?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper, “I don’t care—if the boys come.”

  “The boys’ll never come,” said Polly, impatiently; “I don’t believe—why! here they are now!”

  “O dear!” said Joel, coming in crossly, “I’m so hungry—oh—butter! where’d you get it? I thought we’d never get here!”

  “I thought so, too,” said Polly. “Hush! why, where’s Ben?”

  “He’s just back,” began Joel, commencing to eat, “and Davie; something’s the matter with Ben—he says he feels funny.”

  “Something the matter with Ben!” repeated Polly. She dropped the cup she held, which broke in a dozen pieces.

  “Oh, whocky!” cried Joel; “see what you’ve done, Polly Pepper!”

  But Polly didn’t hear; over the big, flat doorstone she sped, and met Ben with little David coming in the gate. His face was just like Phronsie’s! And with a cold, heavy feeling at her heart, Polly realized that this was no play.

  “Oh, Ben!” she cried, flinging her arms around his neck, and bursting into tears; “don’t! please—I wish you wouldn’t; Phronsie’s got ’em, and that’s enough!”

  “Got what?” asked Ben, while Davie’s eyes grew to their widest proportions.

  “Oh, measles!” cried Polly, bursting out afresh; “the hate-fullest, horridest measles! and now you’re taken!”

  “Oh no, I ain’t,” responded Ben, cheerfully, who knew what measles were; “wipe up, Polly; I’m all right; only my head aches, and my eyes feel funny.”

  But Polly, only half-reassured, controlled her sobs; and the sorrowful trio repaired to mother.

  “O dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Pepper, sinking in a chair in dismay, at sight of Ben’s red face; “whatever’ll we do now!”

  The prop and stay of her life would be taken away if Ben should be laid aside. No more stray half or quarter dollars would come to help her out when she didn’t know where to turn.

  Polly cleared off the deserted table—for once Joel had all the bread and butter he wanted. Ben took some of Phronsie’s medicine, and crawled up into the loft, to bed; and quiet settled down on the little household.

  “Polly,” whispered Ben, as she tucked him in, “it’ll be hard buckling-to now for you, but I guess you’ll do it.”

  5

  More Trouble

  “O dear!” said Polly to herself, the next morning, trying to get a breakfast for the sick ones out of the inevitable mush; “everything’s just as bad as it can be! they can’t ever eat this; I wish I had something nice.”

  “Toast some of the bread in the pail, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper.

  She looked worn and worried; she had been up nearly all night, back and forth from Ben’s bed in the loft to restless, fretful little Phronsie in the big four-poster in the bedroom; for Phronsie wouldn’t get into the crib. Polly had tried her best to help her, and had rubbed her eyes diligently to keep awake, but she was wholly unaccustomed to it, and her healthy, tired little body succumbed—and then when she awoke, shame and remorse filled her very heart.

  “That isn’t nice, ma,” she said, glancing at the poor old pail, which she had brought out of the Provision Room. “Old brown bread! I want to fix ’em something nice.”

  “Well, you can’t, you know,” said Mrs. Pepper, with a sigh; “but you’ve got butter now; that’ll be splendid!”

  “I know it,” said Polly, running to the corner cupboard where the precious morsel in the blue bowl remained; “whatever should we do without it, mammy?”

  “Do without it!” said Mrs. Pepper; “same’s we have done.”

  “Well, ’twas splendid in Mrs. Henderson to give it to us, anyway,” said Polly, longing for just one taste; “seems as if ’twas a year since I was there—oh, ma!” and here Polly took up the thread that had been so rudely snapped; “don’t you think, she’s got ten of the prettiest—yes, the sweetest little chickens you ever saw! Why can’t we have some, mammy?”

  “Costs money,” replied Mrs. Pepper. “We’ve got too many chickens in the house to have any outside.”

  “O dear!” said Polly, with a red face that was toasting about as much as the bread she was holding on the point of an old fork, “we never have had anything. There,” she added at last; “that’s the best I can do; now I’ll put the butter on this little blue plate; isn’t that cunning, ma?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper, approvingly; “it takes you, Polly, to fix things nicely.”

  So Polly trotted first to Ben, up the crooked, low stairs to the loft; and while she regaled him with the brown toast and butter, she kept her tongue flying on the subject of the little chicks, and all that she saw on the famous Henderson visit. Poor Ben pretended hard to eat, but ate nothing really; and Polly saw it all, and it cut her to the heart—so she talked faster than ever.

  “Now,” she said, starting to go back to Phronsie, “Ben Pepper, just as soon as you get well, we’ll have some chickens—so there!”

  “Guess we shan’t get ’em very soon,” said Ben, despondently, “if I’ve got to lie
here; and, besides, Polly, you know every bit we can save has got to go for the new stove.”

  “O dear!” said Polly, “I forgot that; so it has; seems to me everything’s giving out!”

  “You can’t bake any longer in the old thing,” said Ben, turning over and looking at her; “poor girl, I don’t see how you’ve stood it so long.”

  “And we’ve been stuffing it,” cried Polly merrily, “till ’twon’t stuff any more.”

  “No,” said Ben, turning back again, “that’s all worn out.”

  “Well, you must go to sleep,” said Polly, “or mammy’ll be up here; and Phronsie hasn’t had her breakfast either.”

  Phronsie was wailing away dismally, sitting up in the middle of the old bed. Her face pricked, she said, and she was rubbing it vigorously with both fat little hands, and then crying worse than ever.

  “Oh me! Oh my!” cried Polly; “how you look, Phronsie!”

  “I want my mammy!” cried poor Phronsie.

  “Mammy can’t come now, Phronsie, dear; she’s sewing. See what Polly’s got for you—butter: isn’t that splendid!”

  Phronsie stopped for just one moment, and took a mouthful; but the toast was hard and dry, and she cried harder than before.

  “Now,” said Polly, curling up on the bed beside her, “if you’ll stop crying, Phronsie Pepper, I’ll tell you about the cunningest, yes, the very cunningest little chickens you ever saw. One was white, and he looked just like this,” said Polly, tumbling over on the bed in a heap; “he couldn’t stand up straight, he was so fat.”

  “Did he bite?” asked Phronsie, full of interest.

  “No, he didn’t bite me,” said Polly; “but his mother put a bug in his mouth—just as I’m doing, you know,” and she broke off a small piece of the toast, put on a generous bit of butter, and held it over Phronsie’s mouth.

  “Did he swallow it?” asked the child, obediently opening her little red lips.

  “Oh, snapped it,” answered Polly, “quick as ever he could, I tell you; but it wasn’t good like this, Phronsie.”