Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  Poor little Emily Proudie never had that pleasure. From the time she was a baby, she has had constantly one, two, or three attendants, whose sole business it is to play with her and to contrive playthings and amusements for her, — and a very wearisome time they all have had of it. Yes, I do believe that if little Emily, without any more of a gift of being pleased than falls to the lot of all children, had been brought up exactly as Pussy Willow was, she would have been far happier than she is now.

  There is another reason why Pussy Willow was growing up happy, and that is, that she was every day doing something that she felt was of some use. When she was so little that her head scarcely came above the table, she used to stand propped on a small stool and wash the breakfast cups and spoons, — and very proud she was of doing it. How she admired the bright bubbles which she could make in the dean, soapy water, and how proud she was of seeing the cups and spoons look so clear and bright as she rubbed them with her towel! — and then, getting down, she would trip across the kitchen with them, one or two at a time, and, rising on her little toes, by great good luck she could just get them on to the cupboard shelf; and then she would hang her towel on its nail, and empty her dish-pan, and wipe off the table, and feel quite like a large woman in doing it.

  When Pussy was ten years old, her mother one day hurt her arm by a fall, so that she had to wear it in a sling. This would not be an agreeable thing to happen to anybody’s mamma; but Pussy’s mother had no servants, and everything that was to be eaten in the house had to be made up by her one pair of hands, and she therefore felt quite troubled, as the house was far from neighbors, and there were a husband and four hungry young men to be fed.

  In a city you can send out to a bakery; but in the country what is to be done I “I really think you’ll have to harness and drive the old mare over to Aunt Judy’s, and get her to come over,” said Pussy’s mother.

  “That’s a trouble,” said her father. “The hay is all ready to get in, and there will certainly be rain by afternoon. The horse cannot possibly be spared.”

  “Now, mother, just let me make bread,” said Pussy, feeling very large. “I’ve seen you do it, time and time again, and I know I could do it.”

  “Hurrah for Pussy!” said her brothers;—”she’s a trump. You let her try, — she’ll do it.”

  “Yes, yes,” said her father. “I’d rather have my little Pussy than a dozen Aunt Judys.”

  Pussy was wonderfully elated by this praise, and got one of her mother’s aprons and tied it round her, — which, to say the truth, came quite down to her ankles, and made her feel very old and wise.

  Her mother now told her that she might go into the buttery and sift eight quarts of flour into the bread-tray, and bring it out, and she would show her just how to wet it.

  So away went Pussy; and right pleased was she to get her little rosy hands into the flour. It was far more amusing than making believe make bread with sand, as she had often done when she and Bose were out playing together. So she patted and sifted, and soon came out lifting the bread-tray, and set it beside her mother.

  “Now scatter in a handful of salt,” said her mother.

  Pussy did so.

  “Now make a little hole in the middle, and measure three gills of yeast, and put that in the hole.”

  Pussy found this quite easy, because their tin quart-measure was marked around with rings for the gills; and so, when her yeast was up to the third ring, she poured it into the hole in the middle of the flour, and began stirring it with a spoon, till she had made a nice little foamy lake in the middle of her mountain of puffy white flour.

  “And now for your wetting, Pussy,” said her mother. “You want about a quart of hot water and a quart of good milk to begin with, and we’ll see how you go on. But I’m a little afraid you’re not strong enough to knead such a big batch.”

  “Oh, mother, I’m a large girl now,” said Pussy, “and you’ve no idea how strong I am! I want to knead a real batch, just such as you do, and not a little play batch, — a baby’s batch.”

  “Well, well, we’ll try it,” said her mother; “and I’ll pour in your wetting.” So she began to pour in, and Pussy plumped in both hands, and went at her work with a relish.

  The flour stuck to her fingers; but she stirred about with vigor, and made her little hands fly so fast that her mother said they did the work of bigger ones. By and by the flour was all stiffly mixed, and now Pussy put out all her little strength, and bent over the tray, kneading and kneading, and turning and turning, till the paste began to look white and smooth.

  “Oh mother, I like this! — it’s the best fun I ever had,” said Pussy. “How soft and smooth I am getting it! It’s beginning to rise, I do believe, this very minute; I can feel it rising under my hands. I shall be so proud to show it to father and the boys! Mother, you’ll always let me make the bread, won’t you?”

  “We’ll see,” said her mother. “Mind you knead in every bit of the flour. Don’t leave any on the sides of the pan. Bub all those ragged patches together, and knead them in. You are getting it quite smooth.”

  In fine, Pussy, elated, took up the whole white round cushion of dough and turned it over in the tray, as she had seen her mother do, and left one very little fist-mark in the centre. “There now, Mrs. Bread, there you are,” she said; “now I shall tuck you up warm and put you to sleep, till it’s time to take you up and bake you.” So Pussy covered her bread up warm with an old piece of quilt which her mother kept for this special purpose; then she washed her hands, and put away all the dishes she had been using, and swept up the flour she had dropped on her mother’s clean, shining floor.

  “And now, mother, shall I put on the dinner pot?” said Pussy, who felt herself growing in importance.

  “Yes, you may put it on; and then you may go down cellar, and get a piece of beef and a piece of pork, and bring them up for dinner.”

  And away tripped Pussy down cellar, and soon appeared again with her pan full of provisions. After that she washed the potatoes and turnips, and very soon the dinner was on the stove, boiling.

  “Now, Pussy,” said her mother, “you can go and play down by the brook for an hour and a half.”

  “Mother,” said Pussy, “I like working better than play.”

  “It is play to you now,” said her mother; “but if you had to do these things every day, you might get tired.”

  Pussy thought not, — she was quite sure not. Nevertheless, she took her Dolly and Bose, and went down to the brook, and had a good time among the sweet-flags. But her mind kept running on her bread, and every once in a while she came running back to peep under the little quilt.

  Yes, sure enough, there it was, rising as light and as nice as any Pussy’s heart could desire. And how proud and important she felt!

  “It was real lively yeast,” said her mother. “I knew it would rise quickly.”

  Well, I need not tell my little readers the whole history of this wonderful batch of bread, — how in time Pussy got down the moulding-board, all herself, and put it on the kitchen table; and how she cut her loaves off, and rolled, and kneaded, and patted, and so coaxed them into the very nicest little white cushions that ever were put into buttered bake-pans. One small portion Pussy left to be divided into round delicate little biscuits; and it was good fun for her to cut and roll and shape these into the prettiest little pincushions, and put them in white, even rows into the pans, and prick two small holes in the top of each.

  When all these evolutions had been performed, then came the baking; and very busy was Pussy putting in her pans, watching and turning and shifting them, so that each might get its proper portion of nice, sweet, golden-brown crust.

  She burnt her fingers once or twice, but she didn’t mind that when she drew her great beautiful loaves from the oven, and her mother tapped on them with her thimble and pronounced them done. Such a row of nice loaves, — all her own making! Pussy danced around the table where she had ranged them, and then, in the pride of her
heart, called Bose to look at them.

  Bose licked his chops, and looked as appreciative as a dog could, and, seeing that something was expected of him, barked aloud for joy.

  That night Pussy’s biscuits were served for supper, with the cold beef and pork, and Pussy was loudly praised on all sides.

  “Wife, you’ll take your ease now,” said her father, “since you have such a little housekeeper sent to you.”

  Pussy was happier that night than if three servants had been busy dressing dolls for her all day.

  “Mother,” she said, soberly, when she lay down in her little bed that night, “I’m going to ask God to keep me humble.”

  “Why, my dear Δ

  “Because I feel tempted to be proud, — I can make such good bread!”

  CHAPTER V

  PUSSY WILLOW was so happy and proud at her success in making bread, that she now felt a very grown-up woman indeed; and her idea of a grown-up woman was, as you will see, that of a person able and willing to do something to some useful purpose. Some of my readers may think that a little girl ten years of age could not knead up and bake a batch of bread like that which Pussy is described as doing; but they must remember that little girls who grow up in the healthy air of the mountains, and who have always lived a great part of their time in the open air, and have been trained to the use of their arms and hands from early infancy, become larger and stronger than those who have been nursed in cities, and who never have done anything but arrange dolls’ baby-houses, and play at giving and receiving company.

  Pussy was as strong a little mountaineer as you could wish to see; and now that her mother was laid up with a lame arm, Pussy daily gloried in her strength. “How lucky it is,” she said to herself as she was dressing in the morning, “that I have got to be such a large girl! What mother would do without me, I’m sure I don’t see. Well now, if I can make bread and biscuit, I’m sure I can make gingerbread and pies; and father and the boys will never miss anything. Oh, I’ll not let grass grow under my feet.”

  This was in the dim gray of the morning, before another soul was awake in the house, when Pussy was up bright and early; for she had formed the design of getting up and making breakfast ready, all of her own self, before anybody should be up to call her or ask her to do it. For you must know it was Pussy’s nature to like to run before people’s expectations. She took a great interest in surprising people, and doing more than they expected; and she thought to herself, as she softly tiptoed down the stairs: “Now I shall have the fire all made, and the tea-kettle boiling, by the time that mother wakes. I know she’ll wake thinking ‘I must go and call Pussy, and ask her to get breakfast.’ How surprised she’ll be to find Pussy up and dressed, the fire made, and the kettle boiling, and breakfast just ready to go on!”

  So Pussy softly felt her way into the kitchen, where it was hardly light as yet, and found the water-pail, and then, opening the kitchen-door, she started for the little spring back of the house for a pail of water. It had been Pussy’s work from her earliest years to bring water from this spring to her mother, — at first in tiny little pails, but gradually, as she grew older and bigger, in larger ones, till now she could lift the full-sized water-pail, which she had on her arm.

  “So here you are, Mr. Robin,” said Pussy, as she stepped out of the door and heard a lively note struck up from the willow-bush by the window. “You and I are up early this morning, ar’n’t we? Ha, ha, old Mr. Chipmunk, — is that you? Take care of yourself, or I shall catch you. You are up getting breakfast for your family, and I for mine. Mother is sick, and I’m housekeeper now, Mr. Chip.” So saying, Pussy splashed her pail down among the fern-leaves that bordered the edges of the spring, and laughed to see the bright, clear water ripple into it; and having filled it, she drew it up all glittering and dripping with diamond-bright drops, which fell back again into the little spring.

  “There’s a girl for you!” said old Mother Fern, when Pussy had turned her back on the spring. “That girl does credit to our teaching. Every feeling of her heart is as fresh and clear as spring-water, and she goes on doing good just as the brook runs in a bright, merry stream. That girl will never know what it is to be nervous or low-spirited, or have the dyspepsia, or any of the other troubles that come on the lazy daughters of men. And it all comes of the gifts that we wood-fairies have brought her. She takes everything by the smooth handle, and sees everything on the bright side, and eqjoys her work a great deal more than most children do their play.”

  Meanwhile Pussy had gone in and kindled the fire in the stove, and set over the tea-kettle, and now was busy sifting some meal to make some com-cakes for breakfast.

  “I’ve seen mother do this often enough,” she said, “and I’ll surprise her by getting it all nicely into the oven without her saying a word about it.” So she ran in all haste to the buttery, where stood a pan of milk which had turned deliciously sour, and shook and quivered as she moved it, like some kind of delicate white jelly with a golden coating of cream over it. - A spoonful of soda soon made this white jelly a mass of foam, and then a teacupful of bright, amber-colored molasses was turned into it, and then it was beaten into a stiff mass with the sifted corn-meal, and poured into well-buttered pans to be baked. Pussy was really quite amused at all this process. She was delighted to find that the cake would actually foam under her hands as she had often seen it under her mother’s, and when she shut the oven-doors on her experiment it was with a beating heart.

  “I do believe, mother,” said Pussy’s father, opening one eye and giving a great stretch,—”I do believe Pussy is up before you.”

  “Good child!” said her mother, “she is making the fire for me. With a little instruction she will be able to make a corn-cake nicely.”

  Pussy’s voice was now heard at the door. “Mother! mother! sha’n’t I come in and help you dress?” — and a bright little face followed the voice, and peeped in at the crack of the door.

  “Thank you, dear child; I was just thinking of coming to call you. I wanted you to make the fire for me.”

  “It’s made, mother, — long ago.”

  “What a good girl! Well then, you may just get a pail of water and fill the tea-kettle.”

  “I got the water and filled the kettle half an hour ago, mother,” said Pussy, “and you can’t think how it’s boiling! puffing away like a steamboat, — and I’ve put the coffee on to boil, and” —

  “You have been a very good girl,” said her mother, as Pussy was helping her into her gown. “You are such a nice handy little housekeeper that I think I can easily show you how to get the whole breakfast. Wouldn’t you like to have me teach you how to mix the corn-cakes!”

  Oh, then how Pussy laughed and crowed, as she led her mother into the kitchen, and, opening the oven-door, showed her corn-cakes rising as nicely as could be, and baking with a real lovely golden brown! And besides that there were slices of ham that she had cut and trimmed so neatly, lying all ready to be put into the frying-pan.

  How Pussy enjoyed that breakfast! The cakes were as light and golden as her mother’s best, and Pussy had all the glory of them, for she had made them all by herself. I don’t think Miss Emily Proudie ever felt so delighted to walk out in a new hat and feather as did little Pussy to be able to get this breakfast for her mother, and to hear the praises of her father and brothers on everything she had made.

  It would be amusing if the good fairies would let us ride on a bit of their fairy carpet through the air on this same bright morning, when Pussy was so gay and happy in her household cares, and set us down in the elegant chamber where little Emily was sleeping. Everything about the room shows such a study to please the sleeping child! The walls are hung with lovely pictures; the floor is carpeted with the most charming carpet; the sofas and chairs and lounges are all of the most elegant shapes, and spread out upon the sofa is a beautiful new walking-dress, which came home after little Emily went to bed last night, and which is spread out so as to catch her eye the first th
ing when she wakes in the morning. It is now past eight o’clock, and Fussy Willow has long since washed all the dishes, and arranged the kitchen, and done the morning work in the farmhouse, and has gone out with her little basket on her arm to dig roots, and pull young winter-green for beer; but all this while little Emily has been drowsily turning from side to side, and uneasily brushing off the busy flies that seem determined she shall not sleep any longer.

  “Come now, Miss Emily! your mamma says you must wake up and see your pretty new dress,” says Bridget, who has been in four times before, to try and wake the little sleeper. Emily sits up in bed at last, and calls for the new dress.

  “So, she’s got it done at last, — that hateful Madame Tulleruche! She always keeps me waiting so long that I am tired to death. But there! — she has gone and put that trimming on in folds, and I told her I wanted puffs. The dress is just ruined. Take it away, Bridget. I can’t bear the sight of it. I do wonder what is the reason that I never can have anything done as other girls can. There’s always something the matter with my things.”

  “Troth, Miss Emily, it’s jist that ye’s got too much of ivrything, and your stomach is kept turned all the time,” said Bridget. “If ye had to work as I do for your new dresses, ye’d like ’em better, that’s what ye would. I tell ye what would do ye more good than all the fine things ye’s got, and that same’s a continted mind.”

  “But how can I be contented,” said Emily, “when nothing ever suits me? I’m so particular, — mamma says so. I’m so, and I can’t help it, and nobody ever does do anything quite as I like it; and so I am unhappy all the time.”