“How many p’licemen s’pose you could lick?” For he thought Mr. Lane looked pretty strong. Posy blushed; and so did Mrs. Pitcher, who was just entering the room.
But Mr. Lane only smiled. He knew a good deal about children; for he had three little boys of his own, and they did not always talk properly.
He could not stay very long. He had called to invite all the family to a sail to-morrow on the Lake of Lilies. The whole sabbath school was to go in the cars to a steamboat, and spend the day on the water.
On hearing this, Pollio shouted. The Lake of Lilies!—he knew no more about it than he did about the hanging-gardens of Babylon; but that was all the better, “Hurrah! Going to the Lake of Lilies!”
He was so happy that his mother was obliged to send him out of the room. Of course she couldn’t let him turn somersets before an entire stranger. Posy was just as happy as he was, but she didn’t make so much noise about it.
“What dear little creatures!” thought Mr. Lane, as they both left the room. “The boy is slightly rough, but his love for his sister atones for every thing.”
Pollio hadn’t known so long a day since his lameness. Have you ever observed how long the day always seems when something pleasant is going to happen to-morrow?
“I think a picnic is perfectly splendid! I’ve forgot what you pick, though,” said Posy, looking puzzled.
“You pick people’s cupboards, I should say,” replied Eliza, measuring out sugar. “I hate the very sound of a picnic! I thought I had all I could do before, but now here’s queen-cake”—
“Oh, that’s right, ’Liza! And some strawb’ry-jelly tarts, and cherry-turnovers, and peach-pie!” cried Pollio, turning a somerset in the middle of the floor. Eliza winked her eyelashes, and said something about children’s being seen, and not heard. Pollio thought they had a right to be heard, and so do I at proper times; but I must say these little Pitchers did trouble Jane and Eliza too much. Jane was a saint, and could sweep a floor with children under her broom; but Eliza couldn’t make cake unless the kitchen was clear, and said so much about “going crazy,” and “wanting to fly,” that Pollio really thought she wasn’t quite right in her mind.
“No: not strawb’ry-jelly tarts, but plum-jelly tarts, and ice-cream, and—oh, dear, Posy! you say what else.—I want a basketful, ’Liza, and Posy wants a basketful, and Teddy wants a basketful, and Edy wants”—
Before Pollio could finish, he was on the other side of the kitchen-door, and the door was shut in his face.
Eliza was ashamed of her temper next minute, and sent Posy after him with a hot cream-cake.
“Won’t Eliza make a queer angel, though, when she dies?” said Pollio, as he broke the cake in two pieces, to divide with Posy. “If she acts like this, they won’t have her in the parlor with the rest of the angels, you’d better believe.”
But he always forgave Eliza very sweetly; and her putting him out of the kitchen never made any difference about his going right back again to be as troublesome as ever.
CHAPTER VIII.
POSY’S ROSEBUD.
Eliza was cross all day; but, as Dick said, the crosser she was, the better she cooked. At any rate, there was food enough next morning, and of the most delicious sort, to fill three large baskets; and only seven people were going.
There were tarts and turnovers, and crumpets and cake, and Washington-pie, not to mention cold corned beef and boiled ham.
“All that for seven mouths? Why, it will feed half the party!” exclaimed Nunky, as he helped Nanty pack it into the baskets.
“Wait till we come home, and see if we bring any thing back,” said she, finding room for two dozen boiled eggs in the corners, with a little paper bag of pepper and salt.
“What we don’t eat ourselves, we shall give to little Hop-clover and the other stray birds. Oh! there’s no danger of taking too much,” added Nanty, fastening down the covers.
She and Nunky were going, and were to take care of the children, while Judge Pitcher and his wife staid at home. “How dreary it would be in that great lonesome house all day, with no noise but the ticking of the clocks!” thought the little Pitchers, and wondered their parents could look so cheerful. For them this trip to the Lake of Lilies was the great event of the summer, and everybody who could not go was very much to be pitied.
When Posy was dressed all in white for the ride, she looked so beautiful, that the whole family had to kiss and keep kissing her, till Pollio was out of all patience; for he was in a hurry to get to the cars. He had been up ever since sunrise, and had filled every one of his pockets with peanuts to eat on the way in case of “hungriness.” Nanty had sternly declared the picnic-baskets should not be opened till dinner-time; and he did have a perfect horror of “hungriness.”
“Well, I believe, after all, I’ll go with you as far as the steamboat, if your mother doesn’t mind,” said Judge Pitcher, snatching up his hat at the last minute.
The cars were full. All the children in town seemed to be going; and, by the smiles on their faces, you would think they were all in love with the Lake of Lilies, and would rather see it than any other spot in the world.
Judge Pitcher took Posy on his knee; and a gentleman in the next seat touched him on the shoulder, and said,—
“Well, you must be a proud father to have such a lovely little girl as that!”
He was a perfect stranger; but he looked at Posy with a smile, of course, and offered her a rosebud. She blushed, and thanked him, and was going to give it to papa to keep for her; but papa pinned it into the bosom of her frock. He was proud: he did think his little girl and the pink rosebud looked very much alike,—both so sweet, so pure, so beautiful!
When they reached the steamboat, “The Lady of the Lake,” he went on board with the party, and said to the twins,—
“Now I leave you in charge of uncle Rufus and aunt Ann.”
“Just’s if I couldn’t take care o’ my little sister myself!” cried Pollio, quite offended.
“Well, see that you do it,” said papa, laughing.
“Won’t you please take care of me too?” asked Miss Croswell, their sabbath-school teacher.
Pollio saw at once that she was making sport of him: so he did not answer, but drew himself up like a little man, and threw one arm protectingly around his sister.
Then papa kissed all the children, and the twins twice over, saying to Posy,—
“Good-by, my own little rosebud.”
And, when he walked up the wharf, he carried a picture in his mind of a beautiful little girl with a pink rosebud on her bosom.
There was such a crowd on the boat, that uncle Rufus and aunt Ann watched the little ones every moment; while Edith took care of Teddy. None of the children knew they were watched, however: they thought they were all helping Dick look out for the baskets.
“Did you ever see a merrier party?” said Nanty to Nunky, as she held Posy’s hand, and looked round upon the bright little faces.
Hop-clover was there in a faded but clean calico frock, hugging a paper bag of crackers, which was all she could find for her dinner; but, if it had been roast turkey and plum-pudding, she could not have looked gayer.
“Nunky, please let go my hand,” said Pollio. “I want to show Posy how the paddles work.”
“Do you think I’ll let you both pitch overboard?” said Nunky, grasping the little general’s hand the closer.
But he led him along to the side of the boat, while Nanty and the rest followed.
“Now you may show Posy how the paddles work,” said he. “Dick, perch her up on the railing, while I attend to Pollio.”
Pollio looked rather sulky. It was strange that people thought he ought to be “attended to,” when he felt quite able to take care of the whole party.
“The Lady of the Lake” was a fast-sailing steamer, and moved with proud grace, as if alive, and pleased to hear the children praising her.
“See what waves of light we leave behind us!” said Nunky, pointing to the stern of the boat, where the pale-green water was churned into foam.
“Oh, how beautiful! It looks like roses and diamonds and gold rings, and—and every thing!” cried Posy, watching the many-colored bubbles that shone in the sun as if a million jewels were broken up, and dancing in the water.
The boat landed at last at the town of Gray; and the party of children formed a line, and marched to Aspen Grove, where dinner was to be served. It had been very bright all the morning: but, by the time they reached the grove, the sun wrapped himself in a cloud, like an invalid in a great-coat; and it seemed so much like rain, that the teachers thought best to dine in the Town Hall.
What a blow to the children! They had seen the grove, and it was beautiful. There were swings dangling from the trees; there were croquet-sets lying about in boxes ready to be put up; but the most welcome sight of all was the row of long wooden tables where the food was to have been placed. Must they leave all this, and be shut up in the house?
“Humph! T’won’t rain, you see’f it does! my papa didn’t say nuffin’ ’bout it,” sniffed Pollio, as they turned, and formed a line again to march to the hall.
They had no sooner entered than it began to pour. There were no tables in the hall; and the teachers said each family might eat in a seat by itself, and call it a “basket picnic.”
Nobody liked this; but perhaps there was not a child present so disappointed as little Hop-clover. She did not suppose any one knew what she carried in her paper bag; and she had meant to set the bag on the table beside the baskets, where it would not be noticed. But now she must eat with several other children, beside Miss Ware her teacher, who was a fine lady in a beautiful silk dress and lace shawl. She had eaten very little breakfast, but she would almost rather starve than open that paper bag.
“Why don’t you eat, Cindy?” asked the little girl at her left, with a bit of nice cake in her mouth.
“I guess my head aches some,” replied Hop-clover; and it did really ache, and her heart too.
Aunt Ann, who was three seats behind Hop-clover, happened to look up just as she was passing the boiled eggs, and saw that hungry, friendless look on the poor lame girl’s face.
“Why, how I’ve been neglecting that child!” said she. “Make room for her, Dick and Edy, and I’ll go bring her into our seat.”
So she went and brought her, and Hop-clover’s headache went off in a twinkling; though I fancy it wasn’t Nanty’s gold smelling-bottle that cured it, so much as the cream-biscuits, cold meat, and crumpets.
“Oh, I wish she was my auntie!” thought little Hop-clover, gazing at pretty Miss Ann wistfully.
Posy, thinking she looked sober about something, crept closer to her, and laid her cheek against her hand.
“Isn’t every thing so nice?” said she. It was all she could think of to say; but she wanted Hop-clover to know she liked her in their seat, eating with them.
Before dinner was over, the sun had thrown off his great-coat of clouds; and the children were soon rushing out of the house, gayer than ever. There were running and laughing, and playing and singing. It was a day of almost perfect delight; and, when “The Lady of the Lake” whistled to call them back, nobody was ready to go except the grown people.
“I shall be thankful if we once get these children home,” remarked Nanty aside to Nunky, after they were all on board. “I’m so afraid somebody will fall into the water!”
Alas! there was a far greater danger; though nobody thought of it, not even the man who was putting coal under the boiler. This man was proud of “The Lady of the Lake,” and wanted her to skim over the water as fast as possible: so perhaps he made too much fire; and perhaps, too, there was a crack in the red-hot iron. I don’t quite know what was the trouble; but something terrible happened,—the boiler blew up.
I shall not describe the scene on the boat; for, even if I knew how to do it, it is too dreadful to write or even think about.
That night there were terror and distress throughout the whole town of Rosewood. Everybody knew that “The Lady of the Lake” had met with an awful accident, and that some of the children who had gone on the excursion would not come home alive, while many others were fearfully hurt.
Judge Pitcher and his wife did not know of it for some hours. While out riding, they were stopped on the street by “the little woman,” who exclaimed with a white face,—
“A despatch from Muldoon! ‘The Lady of the Lake’ blown to pieces!”
The judge did not wait for another word, but drove furiously to the telegraph-office. There he learned that the cars were to arrive half an hour later than usual, bringing the dead and wounded.
“Let us hurry home. Let us be ready,” whispered Mrs. Pitcher.
There was not the least color in her face, but her husband knew she would not faint. A mother has no time to faint when she is waiting to hear whether her children are alive or dead.
I don’t know why; but the judge was thinking of Posy, and fancying, if any of his children were lost, it would be this darling of the family.
He was right. All the rest were safe; but dear little Posy was brought home on cushions, her sweet eyes closed, and their golden fringe quite still against the white cheeks. The faded rosebud on her bosom did not stir: her heart had ceased beating.
It was the loveliest, sweetest, saddest sight. Papa wept, and wrung his hands; but there were no tears in mamma’s eyes as she knelt beside her darling.
“O God! she isn’t dead yet; don’t let her die! She isn’t dead yet; don’t let her die!”
That was what mamma said again and again, with her hand upon Posy’s heart.
“Lemme kiss her! She’s my twin-sister,” cried frantic Pollio, springing away from Nanty, who tried to hold him. “I shall die if you don’t lemme kiss her.”
“Hush!” whispered his mother, with a wonderful light in her eyes, “her heart flutters! Go away, everybody: leave her to papa and me.”
That was the end of sorrow, the beginning of joy. Posy opened her beautiful eyes: God let her live, and not die.
It was a happy, happy house; but was any one happier than Pollio when they brought him in, and told him he might kiss her on her white lips?
“I tried to take care of her,” sobbed the brave boy; “but the boat went and busted right up, and I couldn’t help it.”
“To be sure you couldn’t, my little man: we all know you did your best,” replied papa, not laughing at all.
Then he picked up something from the floor, and gave it to his wife, saying,—
“Let us always keep this precious token.”
It was Posy’s rosebud.
They did not know till next day that Hop-clover had been in the kitchen all the while, waiting for news from Posy.
“The child has a feeling heart,” said Jane Roarty; “and so you’d ha’ thought, Miss Pitcher, if you’d seen her cry in my arms last night.”
CHAPTER IX.
GOING VISITING.
One day after Posy was quite well, she sat by the roadside near the house, moulding doll’s furniture out of clay. A little soft chair about as big as a grasshopper stood drying on a board, and she was now making a sofa, and embroidering the sides with a pin.
“Look,” said Pollio, “see who’s coming!”
It was dear Mr. Littlefield on horseback, stopping every now and then to pick a fly off his sleek horse. The children could not hear him; but he was saying to the horse,—
“There now, keep thy temper, good beast: I won’t let the flies bite thee.”
But he was too kind to kill the flies; and what do you suppose he did with them? Dropped them tenderly into his coat-pocket!
Before he reached Judge Pitcher’s the three children rushed out to meet him.
“Good-morning, Edward, and Napoleon and Josephine,” said he, as they alighted on him like a flock of birds. “Is thy mother well, and about the house? There now, I must hurry and let out my prisoners.”
The children followed him into the stable, where he opened his coat-pockets, and out jumped a handful of dizzy, crazy flies.
“I’ve kept them in jail, where they couldn’t do any mischief,” laughed the Quaker; “but now they can get an honest living in your stable, and not trouble anybody.”
Little Pollio and Posy laughed aloud at this, and, seizing their tender-hearted old friend by the arms, led him into the house through the kitchen. Eliza looked up very pleasantly, for she knew Friend Littlefield and liked him; but she was in the act of doing something which made him unhappy. Some flies had settled on the table to sip a few drops of molasses, and she was pouncing down on them with a wet towel.
“Eliza, Eliza,” said he sorrowfully, “those are God’s creatures. Consider! Thee can’t make a fly!”
“And I’m sure I shouldn’t want to,” said Eliza, with another dash of the towel. “I’m sorry you feel so, sir; but I’ve no notion of being turned out of the house by an army of flies.”
Mr. Littlefield sighed, and Pollio drew him along to the parlor. There were no flies there; and the room was so beautiful with pictures and flowers, that the good man smiled, and forgot Eliza’s cruelty. He took Posy on his knee, and talked to her mother about the dreadful accident to the steamboat, and thanked God again and again that the little girl was saved.
“How did thee feel when the boat blew up, Napoleon?”
“I thought I was a gone man,” replied Pollio; “and, I tell you, I tried hard to keep the children still.”
This was so droll, that everybody laughed. By and by the Quaker told Mrs. Pitcher he had come to Rosewood to take home a new “chaise,” and he had just happened to think that this would be a good time for the twins to pay him a visit. He could take them as well as not, and his wife Liddy was sure to be glad to see them.
Pollio began to turn a somerset, but caught himself by the hair, and changed it into a dance. Posy was quite as eager, but did not dance with any thing but her eyes.
“Wait a moment,” said their mamma. “Mr. Littlefield is very kind to give this invitation; but the truth is, my poor little Posy has nothing fit to wear. The cow has eaten up her two best dresses.”
The Quaker looked surprised, as well he might. He knew that toads eat their own clothes, but he had never heard that any animals eat little girls’ dresses.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pitcher, “our new cow strayed into the clothes-yard last Monday, and chewed up some of the fine clothes lying in a tub. We would not have bought such a strange cow if we had known her habits.”
“O mamma!” pleaded Posy in a whisper. “Don’t you s’pose the lady would ’scuse it? My other dresses are not very homely,—not so homely as Hop-clover’s.”
“Hop-clover!” exclaimed Pollio aloud. “Why, when the cow has chewed Posy’s things all up, they look better’n Hop-clover’s. Hop-clover’s things are all rags.”
“Is Hop-clover the cow?” asked the Quaker.
“Oh, no, sir! It’s a little girl. And that isn’t her name, either. Her name is—What is her name, mamma?”
“Lucinda Outhouse.”
“Oh, yes! I knew ’twas a shed, or some kind of a barn. Her name’s Lucy-vindy Outhouse.”
“Outhouse, Outhouse!” exclaimed the Quaker. “I never knew but one man of that name; and he married a good friend of mine,—Lucinda Fearing. But they went to Ohio. This can’t be Lucinda’s child.”
“Why, perhaps it is. We will send for Hop-clover, and you shall talk with her,” said Mrs. Pitcher, looking very much interested.
“How glad I should be if it is Lucinda’s child! Liddy and I thought so much of Lucinda!”
“She’s lame. Posy used to call her a hypocrite,” said Teddy. Whereupon Posy blushed, and hid behind her mother.
“Poor little girl! So she is lame? I’m sorry,” said the kind Quaker, looking sober, though he had never heard of Hop-clover before. He seemed to forget that he had invited company; and, without waiting to hear whether they could go or not, he kept on asking questions about the lame girl.
When he heard her mother was dead, he sighed, and said, “Poor thing, poor thing!” And, when he heard she lived alone with a bad step-father, he wiped his spectacles, as if this touched him far more than Eliza’s killing flies.
“Did thee say I could see the child?”
“Pollio!” said his mother.
Pollio was always ready to run for his hat, but just now he was lost in surprise. Were he and Posy to be cheated out of their visit? He started at once, however, to go after “Lucy-vindy.”
You never saw a worse looking house than the one she lived in. The windows were half glass, half rags: outside stood a tub, a rake with one or two stumpy teeth, an old mop, and a battered tin pail. Hop-clover was seated on the doorstep, mending the skirt of her dress with some blue cotton yarn drawn through a darning-needle. She had never been taught to sew, and was wearing her brass thimble on the wrong finger. Pollio did not know that; but he thought it was funny to use such a monstrous needle, and jerk so hard to get it through the calico.
“What you doing?” said he, leaning over to watch her.
“Oh! the holes are awful: I want to pucker ’em up a little,” replied Hop-clover, pulling with such a jerk that she scratched Pollio’s face.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said she. But it was a mercy she had not put out his eyes.
“Poh! it don’t hurt much: it isn’t as bad as a butcher-knife,” said he, spreading the blood over his cheek, as he rubbed the scratch with his finger. “But, Hop-clover, I want you to go to my house: there’s a man wants to see you.”
“Wants to see me!”
Hop-clover’s eyes were big with wonder.
“Yes. Come, hurry; for Posy and I are going to ride in his chaise,—I guess; and I never saw a chaise.”
“Well, wait, till I put on my good dress.”
“Oh, come along! Your dresses are all just alike.”
“Why, Pollio! I’ve got a pink one that’s most whole.”
And she hopped joyfully into the house to put it on. I suppose it had been pink when Edith Pitcher owned it; but Hop-clover had let it lie on the grass so many days and nights, that it was faded and spotted and streaked. Poor child! When people gave her any thing, she did not know how to take care of it.
Pollio thought she was a long while getting ready. He stood on the doorstone whistling, while she scrubbed her face and neck, and smoothed her hair with a comb which had about nine teeth in it. By the time she came out he was cross; but she did not know it. She was thinking how nice it was that somebody “wanted her,” somebody had “sent” for her.
The Quaker kissed her when he saw her. Perhaps she was cleaner and prettier than he had expected; for he kept saying, “Thee looks like a good little girl, a nice little girl. So thee has no mother? How long has she been dead?”
Hop-clover did not know; but Mrs. Pitcher said two years. She did not live very long after the family came to Rosewood.
“Where did thee move from when thee came here, my child?”
“We moved from Ohio.”
“This must be Lucinda Fearing’s child,” said Mr. Littlefield, rising and sitting down again. “Does thee remember how thy mother looked, my dear?”
“She had black curls. Oh, I remember her so well! She used to say thee and thou to me sometimes, just as you do.”
“Ah! that was our Lucinda! I’m so glad I have found her little girl!” said the Quaker, walking about the room, then stooping to kiss Hop-clover again.
“How would thee like to ride with me to my house this afternoon for a visit?”
Hop-clover looked at the carpet as if a star had fallen out of the sky at her feet. She never once thought of her gown; though it had stains and grease-spots, and a hole under each arm. She forgot her leaky shoes, and her coarse old shawl. What did she care about her clothes if for once in her life she could take a ride out of town!
She threw back her hat with such a look of delight, that Nunky drew a hasty picture of her, as he stood in the door with sketch-book and pencil in his hand. Everybody was glad for Hop-clover—I mean everybody but the twins.
“I tell you it’s mean,” said the injured Pollio to his injured sister, as they stole out of the room, and stood in the front-hall, with their arms around each other’s waists, “asking her to go instead of us!”
“So I think! If the cow did eat up my white dresses, how did he know I wasn’t a-going to go in my blue dress that the cow didn’t eat!”
“That’s so, Posy! And how’d he know I wouldn’t go? Mamma never said ‘no’ about that; for the cow didn’t eat up my clothes, ’cept my handkerjiff with ships in the corner.”
The good Quaker would have been quite surprised if he had overheard these remarks, for he had no idea of leaving his little pets behind. What he called his “chaise” was a large, handsome carriage with two seats; and, when the children were snuggled into it that afternoon, Pollio declared there was room enough for three more and the dog.
The serene old Quaker chirruped to his serene old horse, while the children shouted “Good-by, everybody!” and jumped up and down to try the new velvet cushions. And then the gay little party drove off.
Hop-clover wore Edith’s outgrown blue cambric dress, tucked up and taken in, and Posy’s second-best hat, and looked as respectable as any child in town.
“I’m so glad I’m lame!” thought she; “for that’s what makes everybody love me.”
Was it? Then why didn’t people love Jake Flint, a lying, stealing little boy in Rosewood, who was as lame twice over as Hop-clover?
CHAPTER X.
QUAKER MEETING.
After a lovely ride of twenty miles the carriage stopped at a large yellow farm-house in the midst of trees and flowers. Hop-clover hoped this was Mr. Littlefield’s home; for it looked like just the place where she would wish to go visiting.
They drove round to a side-door. A girl was seated in the entry with her lap full of silver, which she was polishing with all the strength of her big, strong arm.
“How does thee do, Dorothy? Where’s my wife? I’ve brought her some company,” said the Quaker, smiling as he handed out the three children.
The girl rose, slipped off her apron, and rolled the silver into it in a heap on the floor. There were six visitors in the house already, who had come since Mr. Littlefield went away; but Dorothy was not like Eliza Potter, she did not know how to be cross. She asked Hop-clover if her foot was “asleep;” but, when she found the little girl was lame, she seemed very sorry. Then she led the children into the parlor to her mistress; while Mr. Littlefield drove into the stable with his man John, to put up the carriage.
Mrs. Littlefield was a lovely little lady, in a drab silk dress and fine white cap, with a white kerchief crossed upon her bosom. She was seated with her guests, four Quaker ladies, who also wore white caps and kerchiefs. She rose when the children entered, and said with a kind smile that she was very glad they had come. But I am sure she wondered where her husband had picked them up; for she had never seen one of them before.
Hop-clover was quite alarmed by the row of Quakers, but she did nothing worse than to put her finger in her mouth; while Posy blushed crimson, and Pollio bowed five times,—once for each lady,—not forgetting to twitch his front-hair. He had never seen women dressed so strangely before; but he wished them to understand that he thought none the worse of them for it.
When Mr. Littlefield came in and said the twins were Judge Pitcher’s children, his wife kissed them again, and said she had always wanted to see them.
“And thee wants to see this one just as much, when I tell thee who she is,” said her husband, leading up Hop-clover. “This is Lucinda Fearing’s child.”
“What? Thee doesn’t mean our Lucinda,—the one that came to us when our little grandchild Samuel was born, and lived here five years?” said Mrs. Littlefield, taking Hop-clover in her arms, and hugging her right against the starched kerchief. “Bless thy little heart! Why, thee looks like thy mother!”
“I knew thee would be glad to see her, Liddy,” said Mr. Littlefield, smiling.
The Quaker ladies all looked on with the kindest interest, and said they remembered “that good Lucinda.”
“She made my caps for me,” said Mrs. Mott.
“She was very steady about going to meeting,” said Mrs. Swan.
“Didn’t she marry a man by the name of Outhouse?” asked Mrs. Crane.
Hop-clover pressed her cheek against the soft kerchief, and felt so happy that she couldn’t help crying. It was beautiful to see people who had known and loved her own dear mother.
“This child looks very pale,” said Mr. Littlefield; “but I thought it might do her good to play with the calves and chickens awhile. What does thee think, Liddy?”
The twins looked on, and listened to all this with surprise. Hop-clover was almost a little beggar-child; yet the people in this house seemed to care more about her than they did about Judge Pitcher’s children. Posy was glad of it; but Pollio didn’t quite like it, he was used to a great deal of attention. Supper was now ready, however,—the very nicest supper; and, Mr. Swan and Mr. Crane coming in, no more was said about “that good Lucinda.”
Next morning the children made a telegraph in the barn with the clothes-line, and sent printed messages back and forth, making a clicking noise with two sticks while they were going. Hop-clover did not print, like the others, but wrote remarkably well for a child of her age. This was her message: “Click, Click. Dorrythe is coming out here.”
And, before the message had gone “across the wires,” Dorothy really did appear, with a bowl of corn-meal dough; and the children clustered around to see her feed the late chickens. It was a pretty sight, especially to Hop-clover.
“You’re having a good time, I guess,” said Dorothy, smiling down upon the lame girl kindly.
“Oh, I never was so happy! I never saw such cunning chickens! But don’t you wish they’d been born sooner? I’m afraid they won’t grow up before the snow comes.”
“No, they won’t, unless we take good care of them. But this is a famous place for taking care of every thing,—chickens and folks too,” added Dorothy, smiling again.
“Why don’t you say thee and thou?” asked Pollio, who had been watching the girl’s speech.
“Because I’m not a Quaker.”
“Don’t you like the Quakers?”
“Oh, yes! I love them dearly. I’ve lived with Mrs. Littlefield ever since I was twelve years old. She took me when I didn’t know much, and hadn’t any home or any parents, and she has been a mother to me ever since. The Littlefields like folks all the better for being poor, or sick, or in trouble, I believe,” said Dorothy, with another smile at Hop-clover.
“Why, that’s just like”—began Posy.
“Like Jesus Christ,” said Pollio.
“To be sure it is: they try to be like Him.”
“Dorothy,” said Hop-clover, drawing near the girl, and speaking low, “did you know my mother?”
“No: she went away just before I came; but I’ve always heard about her.”
“They say she was awful good,” said Pollio, spattering dough rather spitefully: “what did she do that was so nice?”
“Well, she went to meeting pretty steady, I guess, for one thing.”
“Poh, so does my mother: she goes every Sunday.”
“Quakers go oftener than that: they go every Thursday. They call Sunday First Day, and Thursday Fifth Day.”
“I’d like to go to Quaker meeting, ’cause my mother used to,” said Hop-clover thoughtfully.
“Well, perhaps you can: there will be meeting to-day, and all our folks will go but the hired men,” said Dorothy, going into the house with her empty bowl.
When Mrs. Littlefield heard of Hop-clover’s wish, she seemed pleased; and Pollio said at once that he and Posy wished to go too. He knew he could sit as still in church as anybody, not even excepting “Lucy-vindy’s” mother.
So they all went off together,—the eight good Quakers in drab, and the three little children in pink and blue. Hop-clover had the place of honor; for she walked between Mr. and Mrs. Littlefield, holding a hand of each. She looked too gay for a Quaker maiden; and so did Posy, for Posy wore a pink frock and pink stockings, and swung a pink parasol. She knew she was looking well, and that Pollio’s hat and jacket were nice; and I fear she tossed her head a little, as she whispered,—
“Don’t take hold of my hand, Pollio: it isn’t stylish!”
Posy was a dear little girl; but Nanty and Nunky had asked each other lately if she wasn’t growing just the least bit vain.
The Quaker meeting-house was brown, and not very pretty. It had no pulpit, but the children did not know there was no minister either. They went in and took their seats, which had very high backs. Pollio sat with Mr. Littlefield, on the men’s side; and Hop-clover and Posy were wedged in between Mrs. Swan and Mrs. Crane, on the women’s side.
They waited and waited for the minister, but he didn’t come. They waited and waited for the music, but nobody sang. Then Pollio observed that the “other men” wore their hats: so he put his on again, and peeped roguishly across the aisle at the little girls, who peeped back again, and tried not to smile.
Then they waited longer, and watched the flies, and wondered why meeting didn’t begin.
Meeting had begun. These good people, with their hats and bonnets on, were talking to God; and that is what they call a Quaker meeting. Perhaps somebody would speak by and by, perhaps not; but, at any rate, it was a Quaker meeting all the same.
It was so warm, and so still, that Pollio fell asleep, but was wakened by hearing a sing-song voice say,—
“‘While I mused, the fire burned.’”
It was Mr. Littlefield. Pollio half rose on his toes, and stared at the stove. Where was the fire?
But Mr. Littlefield meant the “fire of love.” He loved God and all God’s children; and what he said was very beautiful, only Pollio could not quite understand it.
Then he sat down again, and sat so still, that one fly washed its face on his hand, and another walked over his nose and peeped at his eyes, as if to see if he was asleep.
This was too much for Pollio. Perhaps they were Quaker flies, and had come out of Mr. Littlefield’s pocket; and, when he thought of that, he giggled outright.
It was too bad, for he was generally a very well-behaved boy in church. He could not believe his own ears. Posy could not believe hers, either, though she blushed crimson, and hid behind Hop-clover. If he had only waited one minute! The Quakers were shaking hands all round for good-by: Quaker meeting was done!
Pollio rushed out in an agony of shame; but Mr. Littlefield stopped him in the entry, by laying his hand kindly on his shoulder.
“I suppose thee got pretty tired, Napoleon. Thee isn’t used to our kind of meetings.”
Oh, to think the man should speak to him again! Pollio had supposed he was too bad to be noticed.
Posy peeped up at him from under her parasol, and he saw her face was covered with blushes. Hop-clover gave him a pitying look as she walked off with Mr. and Mrs. Littlefield; and Pollio knew she never would say again she wished she had a brother like him.
I suppose he turned fifty somersets after dinner. He always turned them when he was happy, and still more when he was sad.
“There is something about that little boy that makes me want to laugh,” said Dorothy to John. “I don’t know whether it’s his straight hair, or his black eyes, or the way he has of standing on his head.”
“He is the limberest little chap I ever saw,” said John: “and I can’t keep my face straight when he quirks himself up in such shapes; but I wish I could, for he is a great rogue, and bothers me by meddling.”
The next John saw of Pollio he was dangling from the hub of one of the new carriage-wheels, like a young monkey.
“Come away from there, youngster! you mustn’t meddle with that carriage,” said John rather sharply, trying not to laugh.
Pollio had never heard the word “youngster” before, and thought it did not sound very respectful as addressed to the son of Judge Pitcher. Perhaps it had something to do with his laughing in meeting. Oh, of course! He dropped lightly on the barn-floor; but his lip curled, and there was a spark in his eye that meant mischief. The moment John’s back was turned, he was climbing the wheel, “hand over hand,” into the carriage.
“O Pollio, get right down!” cried Posy. “You know what John said.”
“Who’s John? He’s no business with me!” said Pollio, turning a somerset on the back-seat.
“O Hop-clover! mustn’t he get down?”
“Of course he must,” replied Hop-clover, chewing some wheat she had found in a barrel.
“Tell you what it is!” said Pollio, dancing up and down, “if Mr. Littlefield had a boy, my father’d let him play in our carriage as easy as nothing.”
“Well, Ike wouldn’t,” returned Posy.
“I can’t help it about Ike, and I can’t help it about John: I guess Mr. Littlefield wants to be polite to his company,” said Pollio, cracking the whip.
The little girls had to run away for fear of being hit. It troubled them to see Pollio climb the wheels, and walk on the thills; but, the more they begged, the more he was determined to have his own way.
“Oh, what little cowards! ’Fraid of a whip, and ’fraid of a carriage without any horse! See me now! I can turn a somerset right on the wheel!”
Whether he would have tried to do it and broken his neck, I can’t say; for, as he was prancing up and down on the thill, he was stopped suddenly by a crackling noise, as if wood was splitting in two. He knew what it was: he had broken the thill!
His brown face turned almost white as he slipped back into the carriage.
“‘O boys! carry me ’long,’” sang he in a husky voice, as if nothing had happened.
The girls had not heard the noise, for they had been screaming to him not to turn a somerset on the wheel.
“‘O boys! carry me ’long.’ ‘Swing low, sweet chariot!’” said pale, guilty Pollio, scrambling slowly down from the carriage. “Let’s go find some eggs.”
What would he have given now if it were this forenoon instead of this afternoon! What would he have given if he had obeyed John, and not broken the beautiful new carriage, and disgraced himself forever!
But need anybody know he had broken it? John was coming back with the colts; and, as Pollio saw him, he plunged headlong into a barrel of straw. John laughed, and thought that was a boy’s way of hunting for eggs. He did not suppose Pollio had climbed into the carriage at all.
“Glad I got out before he came,” thought Pollio, his heart beating fast.
CHAPTER XI.
POLLIO MAKES UP HIS MIND.
But Pollio’s conscience was not easy. He danced about as if the barn-floor were covered with thistles and every step hurt him. As he flew from barrel to hay-mow, and from hay-mow to hogshead, he kept talking to himself in this way:—
“Poh! what do I care? Smart carriage to break so easy as that! My papa wouldn’t keep one ’thout it was strong enough to jump on. What do I care?”
But he did care: he cared a great deal.
“Oh, dear! I can’t find any eggs,” said Posy.
That roused him for a moment; and he lifted his head from a barrel long enough to say,—
“Why, I meant to told you, Dorothy came out ever so long ago and got the eggs.”
“Did she? Well, what are you hunting for, then? How queer you do act!” said Hop-clover, as Pollio danced along to the cow’s stall, and peeped in at nothing.
But the boy did not hear her; he was thinking:—
“A new carriage too! We are going to ride home in it to-morrow. Yes, that’s the carriage we are going to ride home in. Got to be mended. What’ll Mr. Littlefield think?”
Here Pollio danced along on thistles to the colt’s crib.
“There’s that colt. Perhaps Mr. Littlefield will think the colt got in where the carriage is, and chewed the thill.—Could he chew the thill?
“No: Mr. Littlefield would know better than that. Well, p’rhaps the dog broke it.—Could the dog break it?”
Pollio reflected on that for a while. Towzer was not as heavy as Beppo. No, Towzer couldn’t break a thill: Mr. Littlefield would know better than that.
“Well, p’rhaps the hens roosted on the thill, and broke it.”
This was such a silly idea, that Pollio shook his head impatiently.
“He don’t hear one word we say,” remarked Posy to Hop-clover, after they had asked him half a dozen questions, and received no answer. “He has felt real bad ever since he laughed in meeting. I ’spect he’s afraid Teddy will hear of it; but I sha’n’t tell.—Look up here, Pollio: don’t you be afraid. I sha’n’t tell Teddy.”
Pollio made no reply even to this. The two little girls gave him up then, and went to keeping house very cosily in the wheelbarrow.
“Well, I don’t know what Mr. Littlefield will think,” pursued the unhappy boy. “But he won’t think ’twas me; for nobody saw me but the girls, and they didn’t hear it crack. I’m so glad they didn’t hear it crack!”
By this time it seemed as if he could not possibly stay in the barn another minute. The more he thought about the carriage, the worse he felt.
“Come, girls, let’s go somewhere else,” said he, rushing out with a sort of war-whoop.
The girls were having a very interesting time, nursing some ears of corn through the “yellow-fever;” but at Pollio’s call they deserted their poor sick children, and followed him. He led them a very roundabout chase, never stopping long enough to look at any thing, or to let them have any sort of a good time.
He was trying to run away from something. What was it?
From himself.
But, quick as his legs were, they were not quick enough for that. Pollio Pitcher was always close behind him: he couldn’t get away from Pollio Pitcher.
“Seems to me I never saw him act so,” said Hop-clover, puffing for breath as he darted off, and rolled over and over in the grass. “I’m getting real lame, running round so long; and I’m afraid we sha’n’t get back before supper.”
You must pardon Hop-clover for thinking a good deal about her supper. Perhaps you would think as much about it as she did, if you were in the habit of feeling hungry half the time.
“Well, we’ll go back now if Pollio will,” said Posy, though she wanted to pick flowers. “Come, Pollio.”
“Oh, go ’long! I’ll come when I get ready,” said he, climbing a tree, and dangling from a limb.
They went; and, the moment they were out of hearing, he began to make strange noises,—hooting, barking, crowing, groaning. He thought it would be some relief, but it wasn’t: there was only one way to obtain relief, and that was to tell Mr. Littlefield the truth.
“What, tell him I broke his chaise? I needn’t, and I sha’n’t! He won’t like me any more if I do. He doesn’t like me much now, ’cause I laughed in meeting.”
Pollio writhed and twisted. If the squirrels and tree-toads had stopped to watch him, they would have thought he was crazy. He talked aloud too; but he spoke his bad thoughts, and kept his good thoughts to himself.
“I won’t tell! Catch me telling! Do I want him to think my father’s got a ‘youngster’ for a boy?”
Then he pulled up a tuft of grass, and threw it at a toad.
But, all the while, the other half of his thoughts was good. The angels knew it; for they had charge of Pollio. If you had been there, you couldn’t have heard the still small voice, deep down in his soul, saying,—
“Think I’d be so mean as not to tell?”
But the angels heard it, and smiled. They knew it was hard work for the little fellow to make up his mind, and that was why he scolded and scowled. Mr. Littlefield was fond of him, and Pollio liked to be liked. It did require courage this time to tell the truth and be despised. Of course the good Quaker would say,—
“Well, Napoleon, if this is the way thee behaves, I don’t want thee to come to my house visiting again.”
Ah, well! but you needn’t think Pollio wasn’t going to walk up to his duty like a man. What is the use of a father and mother, and uncle and aunt, to tell you what is right, if you won’t do it? He wasn’t a coward and a liar: if he had been, I wouldn’t have written this story about him; but I must confess a snail could have walked faster than he did going back to the house.
“Well, well, Napoleon! Thee came pretty near losing thy supper,” said Mr. Littlefield, smiling, as Pollio came slowly toward him, and pulled him by the sleeve.
Supper! Why, his throat was so full of lumps that a crumb would have choked him! Not a word could he speak as he dragged his friend along to the stable.
The worst was over now; for, the moment Mr. Littlefield saw the broken carriage, he knew the whole story.
I cannot say he wasn’t vexed. Pollio had proved more troublesome than he had expected,—chasing the cows, putting the wheelbarrow, rake, and hoe out of place, and now meddling with this new carriage.
But Friend Littlefield knew how to rule his own spirit: he would not speak a word when he was angry. Instead of speaking, he waited, and looked at Pollio, who was trying to double himself into a hard knot. The sight of the child’s misery moved him to pity; of course it did, for Mr. Littlefield couldn’t bear to see even a fly unhappy.
“Well, Napoleon: so my new carriage is broken. Who broke it?”
“I did.”
“How?”
“Jumping.”
“Did John see thee?”
“No, sir.”
“Did anybody else see thee?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what made thee come and tell?”
“’Cause—’cause”—
“Did thee do it because it was right?”
The tone was so gentle, that Pollio ventured to look up; and the old gentleman was beaming down on him so kindly, that he couldn’t bear it another minute.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” sobbed he, throwing both arms round one of the Quaker’s knees.
“Sorry for what? Sorry thee told?”
“No, sir! I wouldn’t have not told for any thing in this world!” cried Pollio, hunting for his handkerchief.
But, before he had found it,—and of course it wasn’t in his pocket, for he had thrown it at a tree-toad,—Mr. Littlefield had caught him up in his arms, and was giving him a good hugging.
“Thee is one of the Lord’s own little ones,” said he, kissing him on both cheeks. “Thee didn’t do right to meddle with my chaise,—I won’t uphold thee in that,—but thee did nobly to tell the truth. The Lord bless thee and keep thee! Why, Napoleon, I never liked thee half so well as I do this minute!”
How did Pollio feel then? I suppose he never was so surprised in his life. The Quaker had to give him the use of his handkerchief for about two minutes; and after that the shower cleared off, and a rainbow shone in his eyes. The lumps had gone out of his throat, the ache had gone out of his heart, and the whole world looked so beautiful, that he wanted to shout and turn somersets all the way to the house.
Such a supper! Why, Mrs. Littlefield had warm biscuits and honey, just as if she knew they were the very things Pollio liked best. And after tea Mr. Littlefield took him on his knee, and told him a bear-story, which was so funny that I wish I could tell it myself, only I can’t make you laugh as the Quaker would have done.