Our Davie Pepper

SO it was a whole week after when Farmer Brown got Mrs. Pepper and Davie and Phronsie into the big wagon all ready to start for Maybury. Mother Pepper sat on the back seat with the farmer’s wife, who insisted on holding Phronsie on her lap,—and Davie, who would have been in a state of bliss if only Joel were going, sat very straight next to Farmer Brown waiting till all the good-bys were over and he could say “G’lang” to the old white horse.

“I’m going to have company,” announced Joel importantly, for about the fiftieth time, and climbing up on the wheel to tell it to Mr. Brown.

“So I’ve heerd,” said the farmer dryly.

“I am—all by myself,” declared Joel, his black eyes shining.

“Well, you better get off th’ wheel then,” said Mr. Brown, “for your comp’ny folks may be a-comin’ down th’ road.”

At that Joel leaped down and ran till he could see the turn in the road; then came flying back.

“They’re not coming—not a single bit,” he declared in an injured tone.

“Well, you keep off th’ wheel,” said the farmer, “for if Jingo starts, mebbe your leg would be sliced off.”

Joel, with no heed to such a direful warning, ran around to look with new interest at the old white horse.

“Is that his name?” he cried eagerly.

“Mebbe,” said the farmer. “Sometimes when I want him to hoof it real fast, I say ‘By Jingo.’”

“And does he—does he go real fast?” said Joel, trying to climb up on the old white back.

“You get off that horse!” roared the farmer at him, in such an awful voice that Joel lost no time in slipping down on his two small feet. Mr. Brown cast a despairing glance over his shoulder.

“I’m a-goin’ to start,” he said, gathering up the reins.

“Wait a minute, Pa,” Mrs. Brown leaned over Phronsie in her lap. “Be careful o’ th’ custard pie,” she said, in a loud whisper, “it’s kinder soft.”

“I will,” said Polly, her brown eyes dancing at the thought of this splendid addition to Joel’s party. “I put it up on the top shelf of the cupboard, so he can’t see it till the time comes.”

Mrs. Brown’s large face beamed approval.

“G’lang!” cried the farmer, snapping his whip, and they were finally off, Joel clattering down the dusty road a piece to see if he couldn’t beat them to the corner.

The old house at Maybury stood back a good bit from the road. Mrs. Pepper gave a sigh of delight as Jingo turned into the yard, and stopped before the big porch. Honeysuckle rambled all over it, and hollyhocks shot up their tall stocks,—and lilac-bushes and poplars guarded the doorway, the approach being bordered by rows of box, years and years old.

A big dog got slowly up from the flat door-stone, shook himself, and came up to the wagon. Phronsie gave a little cry and sprang over to get into Mother Pepper’s lap.

The farmer’s wife held to her. “He wouldn’t hurt you,” she said; “why, you’ll be playin’ with him as soon as you get out o’ th’ wagon.”

Phronsie looked doubtfully out of her blue eyes—but she settled back into the good lap.

“Won’t he bite me?” she asked.

“Land, no!—he hain’t got any teeth to bite with, neither,” said Mrs. Brown.

“There now,” Farmer Brown having got down to the ground, came around to his wife’s side of the wagon. “Come here, little gal,” putting up his long arms.

Phronsie, one eye on the big dog, confidently held out her hands, and he swung her down, her small pink calico skirt puffing out in her descent.

“He won’t hurt you, Phronsie,” cried David, clambering over the wheel. “See,” he patted the big dog’s head.

“He won’t hurt me,” repeated Phronsie, but her little hand trembled on the shaggy head as she said it.

“I told you so,” said Mrs. Brown, getting heavily out of the wagon. “Now you an’ Towser is a-goin’ to be reel comf’table together.” She glanced at Mother Pepper standing quite still, drinking in the sweet air in long deep breaths as she gazed about her, and the farmer’s wife smiled. “I’m reel pleased you like it,” she said, quite gratified. “Well, come in an’ take your bunnit off, Mis Pepper,” she cried hospitably, as she ducked under the honeysuckle branches that drooped over the doorway.

But Mother Pepper stood quite still.

“Can’t you let her be, Ma,” said the farmer, stopping at the door-stone on his way to the barn to untackle Jingo; “when a person’s comf’table, let ’em stay so, I say.”

“I know how to take care o’ my comp’ny,” said his wife, “you look out for the boy, an’ I’ll see to Mis Pepper and th’ little gal.” Then to her great delight, Mother Pepper turned and came up to the big porch.

“Now you lay off your things in here,” said Mrs. Brown, leading the way to the big bedroom in the ell. The chintz curtains swung in the breeze that carried a pleasant fragrance from the sweet-brier climbing over the windows. “Lay your bunnit an’ shawl right on th’ bed, Mis Pepper,” patting the pieced bedquilt of a gorgeous “rising sun” pattern. “An’, little girl, I’ll take off your things for you,” turning to Phronsie, who was holding her mother’s gown.

“Oh, no, no,” said Phronsie decidedly, “I want my Mamsie to take off my things.”

Mrs. Brown’s mouth dropped suddenly at the corners, and over her large face spread disappointment of the worst sort.

“I would let Mrs. Brown take off my things, Phronsie,” said Mrs. Pepper.

Phronsie turned her blue eyes wonderingly up to her mother, and seeing that she really meant it, she dropped her hold on the protecting gown and put up her little face for the pink sunbonnet to be untied by the farmer’s wife.

“Now that is the best child that ever lived,” exclaimed Mrs. Brown joyfully. She got down to her fat knees, and began to fumble with the pink calico strings. “It’s jest like havin’ a little girl of my own,” she said, catching her breath.

“Haven’t you any little girl?” asked Phronsie, patiently waiting till the strings that now got themselves into a knot under the nervous fingers, could be untied.

“No,” said Mrs. Brown, and despite all her efforts, the big tears would come, and down they rolled over the large face.

“Are you crying because you haven’t any little girl?” Phronsie gazed in dismay at the tears, while the large hands fumbled at their task.

Mrs. Brown tried to speak, but it was no use. Down fell the pink calico strings, and she put her hands over her face and sobbed.

“Don’t cry,” begged Phronsie, dreadfully distressed.

“If you’d be my little girl,” said the farmer’s wife, “p’raps—”

Phronsie scuttled over to Mother Pepper on frightened little feet, the pink sunbonnet flying off to the floor.

“I mean jest for to-day,” cried the farmer’s wife after her, scared out of her tears, and wiping them off.

Mrs. Pepper laid her hand soothingly on the yellow hair. “She wants you to let her do things for you, Phronsie—just as if you were her own little girl.”

“And can I go back to the little brown house?” asked Phronsie, clutching fast her mother’s gown, and casting fearful glances at the big woman who had forgotten to get up from her knees.

“Yes, dear, you can go back with me and with Davie,” Mamsie smiled reassuringly.

“Then you may do things for me,” said Phronsie, going back to the big woman.

“You sweet lamb, you!” cried the farmer’s wife, quite overcome. And she unbuttoned the little calico sack, and getting up, she laid it neatly on the bed by the side of Mrs. Pepper’s bonnet and shawl.

“I’ve baked a little pie for you,” she leaned over and whispered, when that was done, taking Phronsie’s hand as she did so. “Come, and I’ll show it to you.”

“For me?” cried Phronsie, showing her little white teeth in her delight.

“Sure, all for you. And I curlicued th’ edge, all round.”

Phronsie gave a little gurgle at that, although she didn’t know in the least what “curlicued” meant. It must be something to make her little pie very splendid. And she gave a sigh of great satisfaction, and smoothed down her pink calico gown.

“An’ then, says I, you shall see th’ chickies.” By this time Mrs. Brown, holding Phronsie’s hand, was well on the way to the big kitchen where certain smells proclaimed very unusual things going on in preparation for the company dinner, Mrs. Pepper following, a happy smile lighting her face.

Meanwhile Davie, lost to everything but the bliss of being allowed to help take off Jingo’s heavy harness, was on his tiptoes and working with all his might to do as much with the buckles and straps as the farmer on the other side of the old white horse.

“I declare ef you ain’t as smart as th’ next one,” declared Mr. Brown admiringly over Jingo’s back. “You’ve helped me a whole lot.”

“Have I?” cried Davie in delight. The streams of perspiration were running down his hot little face, and his fingers trembled over their struggles with a refractory strap.

“I should jest say you have!” cried the farmer. “Well now,” and he slouched around Jingo. “There, that’s an’ awful plaguy strap—it bothers me somethin’ dretful.”

“Does it?” cried Davie, quite pleased to find that the big man didn’t blame him for his failure to undo it.

“You better believe it does,” declared Mr. Brown, laying hold of the strap; “there, you set down on that box a spell.”

Davie, wanting dreadfully to ask, “Can’t I help some more?” did as he was bidden, and silently watched the farmer get Jingo out of the harness and into his halter.

“Don’t you want to lead him into th’ stall?” asked Mr. Brown, when that was all done, and turning suddenly.

“Oh, can I—can I?” cried Davie, springing from the box, his little hot face beaming with delight.

“There ain’t nothin’ to hinder you,” said the farmer, with a chuckle. “There now,” and he put the halter strap into David’s hand. “Come this way,” he was going to say, “Little boy,” but coughed and gave it up.

“You’re handy as you can be,” said Mr. Brown, when Jingo was munching his oats. “Now says I, let’s go down an’ see th’ pigs,” and he put out his big hand.

“Phronsie loves pigs,” began Davie. Then the color ran over his face—Mamsie had told them not to show that they wanted anything while on this visit. In his anxiety that Phronsie should see the pigs, he had forgotten that.

“You needn’t to worry about th’ little gal,” said the farmer composedly, “Miss Brown’ll look out for her.”

“Will she let her see the pigs?” asked Davie, turning an anxious face up to the keen eyes under their shaggy brows.

“Sure!” said Mr. Brown. “There won’t be nothin’ that little gal ought to see, but what she’ll see it to-day. Ma’ll look out for that,” and he gathered up David’s little hand in his big one.

David trotted along in great contentment, trying to keep step with the farmer’s big strides as they left the sweet-smelling old barn, fragrant with its generous hay-lofts.

“You see Mis Brown has got th’ little gal, an’ I’ve got you,” said the farmer, in great satisfaction. “You’re my boy.”

Everything swam around before David’s eyes. He stopped in silent terror, dragging on the big hand, and his cheeks grew quite white.

“Whew!” exclaimed Mr. Brown, aghast at the storm he had raised, “wouldn’t you like to be my boy, pray tell?”

“Oh no, no,” cried Davie, finding his tongue, “I’m Mamsie’s boy—I must go to Mamsie.” But all his pulling wouldn’t get his hand free.

“You see this place,” Mr. Brown went on as fast as he could talk, and he swept his other big hand around, “there’s everythin’ here,—and I’d get you a pony, all for yourself, just think, David, an’ a calf, you may have the pick of all the bossies, an’ a pig—two of ’em, if you want ’em.”

“No, no!” cried Davie, quite gone in his fright that he was never going to see the little brown house again. “Do let me go—oh, do let me go, please!”

The farmer gave a long sigh. He still clutched the small hand.

“Davie,” he said, and his voice broke, “I hain’t never had a little boy, not a single one,” he added mournfully.

“Haven’t you ever had one?” gasped Davie.

“Never!” declared Mr. Brown. His face twitched, and if ever a big man did cry, he looked as if he were going to that very minute.

At seeing that, Davie began to lose his fright in his distress over the farmer.

“Seem’s as ef you could now—” began Mr. Brown. “Hem!” he brought up suddenly at sight of the little face. “Well, we can pretend you’re my boy jest while you’re here to-day,” he begged.

“I’m Mamsie’s boy,” said Davie stoutly.

“I know—I know,” said the farmer reassuringly, “but jest while you’re a-visitin’ me to-day, you can make b’lieve you live here on the farm.”

“I’m going home when Mamsie goes, and Phronsie,” said Davie.

“Of course,” said Mr. Brown, slapping his big hands together. “Well now, you an’ me’ll keep together, Davie, to-day. Mis’ Brown’s got th’ little gal, an’ I’ve got you. Come on, they’re hayin’ down in the medder, an’ you can ride on th’ cart ef you want to.”

Davie slipped his hand into the big one extended, and snuggled up to the farmer.

“I’m sorry you haven’t ever had any little boy,” he said, a worried look spreading all over his round face.

“Don’t you let that make you feel bad,” said Mr. Brown, trying to smile. “Hem! We’ll have to hurry ef we git on to that cart before it leaves for th’ barn! Now says I, your little legs has got to run to keep up with me.”