“Come on!” whooped Joel, rushing into the kitchen, and tossing his cap in the corner; “my chores are all done; now tell the story, Polly, tell the story!” he clamored.

“Oh, dear me!” began Polly in a vexed tone, and looking up at the old clock in the corner. Then she remembered what Mamsie had said once, “If you promise anything, do it cheerfully.” “I will, Joey,” she finished, a smile running over her face; “just wait one minute;” and she flew into the buttery.

“I can’t wait a single bit of a minute,” grumbled Joel.

But Polly was back almost before he could say another word. “Now, says I,” she cried, “we’ll have the story, Joe.”

“It’s got to be a long one,” declared Joel, a remark he never failed to make on like occasions.

“All right,” said Polly gayly. “Now, I thought up something you’ll like, I guess, for this story; it’s about Mr. Nutcracker!”

“Jolly!” exclaimed Joel, hugely pleased; “I guess I shall, Polly;” and ripples of satisfaction ran over his round cheeks. “Well, do hurry!”

“I’ve got to do some work,” said Polly, pausing a moment to think; “I can’t ever sit down to tell stories in the daytime without I’m working,—ever in all this world, Joe Pepper. And Mamsie has just taken all the sacks home to Mr. Atkins; she finished ’em last night. Whatever’ll I do?” she wrinkled her brows, and stood lost in thought.

“You might mend our stockings,” said Joel, knocking one set of toes impatiently against the other. “Do hurry, Polly, and think of something,” he implored, his face falling.

“Mamsie’s done those,” said Polly. “I peeked into the mending-basket after breakfast; and they’re all finished and rolled up into little balls.”

“Well, come on, then,” said Joel, thoroughly out of patience; “if there isn’t any work, do tell the story, Polly.”

“It doesn’t seem right to be sitting down in the morning, without I am working,” said Polly slowly; “I don’t know when I’ve done it. But there really isn’t any sewing; and the biscuits I was going to make can be done just as well by and by; so I s’pose I can tell you the story now, Joey.”

“Come on, then!” shouted Joel, throwing himself flat on the floor, and drumming with his heels. “Do hurry up, Polly Pepper!”

So Polly sat down on the floor, feeling still very queer to be telling stories in the daytime without a needle in her fingers, and Joel squirmed along and laid his head in her lap. “I’m glad you ain’t sewing,” he declared in great satisfaction; “’cause now you can smooth my hair.”

So Polly smoothed and patted his stubby head in a way that Joel liked to have Mamsie do, and presently she began:

“Mr. Nutcracker had a house”—

Rap—rap—came somebody’s fingers on the old green door.

“Oh, bother!” cried Joel, jumping up. And Polly skipped, too, in surprise; for visitors didn’t come very often to the little brown house door, and they both ran as fast as they could to open it.

An old man stood on the flat door-stone, leaning both hands on a knobby old stick; and his head, underneath his torn hat, was bobbing as he trembled with age. The children stared at him in dismay. “I’m very hungry,” he said, looking at Polly; “I haven’t eaten anything to-day; can’t you give me a bite?”

Oh, dear! Polly looked at Joel in dismay. There wasn’t anything in the house, except some cold potatoes that Mrs. Pepper was going to fry for dinner, and Polly’s biscuits, as she called them by courtesy, that were still to be made, as the bread had given out.

“We haven’t anything”—she began, in a faltering voice.

“Why, Polly Pepper!” exclaimed Joel loudly, and crowding past her to get a better view of their visitor; “we have too—lots and lots;” for Joel never could bear to have people think they were poor.

“Where is it?” asked Polly, turning on him. Then she flew around again, for the old man was sinking down on the flat stone. “Oh, dear me! don’t please, poor old man,” she begged, trying to help him up to his feet again.

“I’m very hungry,” he quavered, shaking over his stick.

“Come into the house,” said Polly, with both hands under his arm—“Joe, take his other arm—and you can sit in our Mamsie’s big chair; it’s splendid, and it will rest you.”

The old man nodded, and set his poor trembling feet just where Polly told him to; and at last, Joel puffing and pushing on his side with a great deal of importance, he was helped into the kitchen, and set down in Mother Pepper’s big calico-covered chair over in the corner.

“That’s so nice,” he said with a deep sigh, and resting his head on his shaking hands.

“Joel,” said Polly, drawing off that individual into the entry with great difficulty, as he had no eyes or ears for anything but their visitor, “I’m afraid he’s going to die, he’s so very hungry. I must get him something to eat. Now I’m going to bake my biscuits; Mamsie’d let me give him some of those, I know.”

“No, no!” cried Joel; “you’ve got to tell me about Mr. Nutcracker, Polly,” seizing her gown.

“For shame, Joe!” cried Polly warmly, “when that poor old man is maybe going to die because he hasn’t had anything to eat. What would Mamsie say if she could hear you?”

Joel ducked his stubby head, and kicked the floor with his toes in a shamefaced way. “Well, you may, Polly,” he cried; “and I’ll help you,” he added, brightening up, and running into the kitchen after her.

“So you shall,” cried Polly briskly. “See if there’s plenty of wood in the box, Joe, the first thing,” as she hurried into the pantry to get the baking materials.

“Yes; there is,” declared Joel, poking his head back of the stove to investigate; “lots and lots, Polly Pepper. I’m going to put some more in;” and he set up immediately a great clatter that told the work was well under way.

“Don’t put too much in, Joe,” warned Polly, knowing his energies in that direction; “you will have the house a-fire. Goodness me, do take out that last stick,” as she came in with the bread-bowl.

“Can’t,” said Joe; “it’s got little sparks on the end.”

“Then I’ll blow ’em out,” said Polly, setting down the bread-bowl on the table; and running over to the stove, she pulled out, to Joel’s extreme dislike, the big stick he had last crammed in, and suited the action to the word. “There, you’ve got plenty in already, goodness knows, Joe Pepper!” she declared, getting up with a very red face. “You know Mamsie doesn’t like us to crowd the stove tight chock full. It burns splendidly, this new one does, and we’ll have the chimney a-fire if we don’t look out.”

“The chimney ain’t a-fire,” grunted Joel. “I’ll run out and see.” And he dashed toward the door.

“Come back: of course it isn’t now,” said Polly with a laugh, and flying over to the baking-table. “Oh, dear me! I ought not to laugh when that poor old man is hungry.” Then she suddenly dropped everything, and ran over to him trembling away in Mamsie’s big chair.

“We haven’t anything in the house to eat but some cold potatoes,” she said, the color all over her face; “and our mother is going to fry those for our dinner when she comes home. But I’m going to bake some biscuits, if you could wait, poor old man. They’ll soon be done; for we’ve got a new stove, and it bakes splendidly.” Then Polly hurried back to her table, while the old man mumbled something down in his throat, she couldn’t tell what, he shook so.

“It’s good Phronsie and David are over to Grandma Bascom’s,” said Polly, flying at her work; “for she’d worry dreadfully over that poor old man, and she’d tease me to hurry and bake ’em fast, so I couldn’t do a thing. There, now that pan’s ready for the oven.”

“Let me carry ’em and put ’em in,” cried Joel, who, having given up his plan to rush out and investigate the old chimney from the small door-yard, was now hanging over Polly’s baking-table, and dividing his attention upon her work and the old visitor over in the corner. “Let me, Polly,” springing up, and holding out both hands.

“Oh, I’m afraid!” began Polly. Then remembering how he had to wait for the story, she added hastily, “Well, be careful, Joe,” as she put the pan into his outstretched hands.

“I’ll be careful,” said Joe, marching off with his black eyes fastened on the pan which he was carrying carefully in both hands. “Now, says I, you’re going into the oven, Mr. Biscuits.”

Polly rushed back into the pantry to get another pan, when she heard Joel’s voice: “Oh, I couldn’t help it, Polly,” and when she flew out, there was Joel sitting on the floor in a heap; and the pan was upside down beside him, while several little lumps of dough seemed to be trying to get back of the stove.

“O Joe, are you hurt?” cried Polly, flinging down her empty pan, and running up to him.

“No—no—no!” roared Joel in the greatest distress, “but I’ve up—up—set—upset—upset”—and he screamed on worse than ever.

“Never mind,” said Polly soothingly, and swallowing something in her throat as she looked at the poor little lumps of dough on the floor. “See, you didn’t spill ’em all, Joe,” and she turned the pan right side up; “there are some stuck fast.”

Joel, at that, took out one black eye from under his arms, and regarded the pan through his tears.

“And you are scaring that poor old man most to death,” said Polly, hastily gathering up the little lumps of dough. “Look at him, Joe.”

Joel stopped instantly as he looked over at Mamsie’s corner. There sat the poor old man, staring at them both, and hanging to the arm of the big chair in consternation.

“Now you’ve got to go over and tell him that you won’t cry any more,” said Polly decidedly; “else I don’t know what will happen. Maybe he’ll go out on the doorstep again, and tumble straight down. Just think, Joel Pepper!” And with that she opened the oven door and popped in the pan that had a few lonely little dough-lumps scattered in it.

Joel, thus adjured, scampered over to the poor old man. “I—I—won’t—cry any more, sir,” he blurted out, twisting his face dreadfully.

“Hey?” said the old man, “what’s the matter?” So Joel told him the whole story.

And the old man, who hadn’t heard the tumble and the upset of the pan, only Joel’s roars, soon quieted down and leaned back in his chair.

“And now,” said Polly, over by the table, “I shouldn’t wonder if this pan was ready for you to carry over and put in the oven, Joey.”

“What?” exclaimed Joel, not believing his ears; “you going to let me put that one in?”

“Yes,” said Polly, “to be sure. You won’t stumble this time, Joe, if you look where you’re going.”

“I caught my toe in the rug,” said Joe, racing over to the table; “I was looking at the pan, and I didn’t see where I was going.”

“Well, you must use your eyes so you do see where you’re going,” said Polly with a merry laugh. “There now,” and she put the second pan in Joel’s happy hands. “This one will go all right, I guess.”

And this one did. And it was presently shut up tight in the hot oven, along with the lonely little dough-lumps, now puffing up finely; and Joel, proud as he could be, strutted up and down the kitchen floor. And Polly put away her baking-things, and soon the old kitchen was spick-span, it was so fresh and tidy.

“And now,” she said, “we can’t do anything for that poor old man till those biscuits are done. Oh, dear me, how perfectly splendid; here comes Mamsie!”

And out through the old doorway, and over the flat stone, raced Polly, with Joel at her heels. And they seized Mother Pepper on both sides, holding her arms, while Joel took her big bundle, all the time pouring the story of the poor old man, and the dreadful state he was in, and the biscuits baking, and, oh! Joel must confess how he had upset the pan with the first ones, though Polly tried to stop him, and oh! couldn’t Mamsie fry him some potatoes right away, and ever so much more, till they all three stood in the old kitchen.

“He must have some tea,” said Mrs. Pepper, with a sharp look at him, and throwing off her shawl. “Run, Polly, and get the tea-caddy.”

“O Mammy!” exclaimed Polly. Mother Pepper never had tea unless she had caught cold, or was so tired she must take it, or get sick; and there was now such a very little bit down in the bottom of the caddy. And Polly stood quite still.

“Run, I say, Polly,” commanded Mrs. Pepper; and she pulled the old tea-kettle into a hotter part of the stove. “A fine cup of tea will do his bones good, more’n anything else.”

“There’s such a little bit left,” gasped Polly, not moving.

“Polly!” Mrs. Pepper turned suddenly on her. “Why, Polly—hush, he’ll hear you. For shame, child; he’s such a very poor old man.”

“And then you won’t have any,” said Polly, at her end of self-control. “O Mamsie! I wish I hadn’t brought him in,” she added under her breath, and she burst into tears.

Mrs. Pepper only stopped to pat her head; and then she hurried into the pantry and brought out the tea-caddy; and Polly, with the tears racing over her face, watched her as the precious tea was poured into the little black pot and set on the stove.

“Now run, Polly, child,” cried Mother Pepper as cheerily as ever, “and get the big pink-and-white cup on the upper shelf.” This used to be Father Pepper’s, and was carefully laid away; so while Polly ran off with her tears, wiping them on her apron, Mrs. Pepper sliced up some cold potatoes, and set them in the spider to fry. Joel in the meantime had been opening his mother’s big bundle, as he always tried to do whenever she brought home the fresh supply of sacks and coats to make, so he heard nothing of what was going on.

“And I guess you better have a look at those biscuits in the oven,” observed Mrs. Pepper wisely, as she sliced away. So Polly ran, and kneeled down before the stove, and drew out first one pan and then the other—the one with the lonely little lumps in it—

“O Mamsie!” she exclaimed happily; “see, they’re as fine as they can be!”

And sure enough they were; every biscuit had turned a lovely brown, and it had puffed up in just the right place, as much as to say, “You see, we did our duty.”

“So they are,” cried Mrs. Pepper, pleased to see Polly all right once more; “it beats all, Polly, to see how nicely you can bake things. Mother’s proud of you.”

Polly set down the two hot pans on the kitchen table, and ran round back of her mother, and dropped a kiss on the black hair. “I’m awfully sorry,” she whispered.

“I know it,” said Mrs. Pepper; “and now we just won’t say any more about it, Polly, child.” Then she briskly began to turn her potato-slices that were sizzling away in the spider in the cheeriest fashion.

And Polly got a little old towel, very clean and nice, and spread it on the tray, and she put the big pink-and-white cup upon it, and Mamsie poured the tea into it, and dished out some crisp potato-bits on a plate, and Polly put some little biscuits around it all, and there was a dinner fit for a king!

“Oh, my!” howled Joel, smelling the potatoes; “what have you got?” jumping up, and nearly upsetting Polly, and tray, and all, as she carried it slowly across the kitchen to the old man’s chair.

“Take care, Joe,” warned Mrs. Pepper, following to help Polly.

“Oh—oh!” Joel seemed to lose sight of everything but Father Pepper’s pink-and-white cup, and he pointed an astonished finger at it.

“I know it,” said Mrs. Pepper, setting her lips together firmly; “Father’d like to have us let the old man take it. Now, Polly, you can feed him the potato, and”—

“No, let me,” said Joel, crowding in between, and trying to get possession of the two-tined fork.

“No, I think Polly better; but you can break the biscuits apart,” said Mrs. Pepper. So pretty soon the old man was sitting up quite straight for him; and after he had taken one or two good draughts of the steaming tea, he felt quite revived, and let Polly feed him the crisp potato-bits, and the biscuits which Joel industriously broke apart, until Mrs. Pepper put down the empty cup, and regarded Polly’s plate, on which there wasn’t a scrap of anything left but the fork.

“I can’t thank you,” said the old man, quite heartened up, and looking around at them all.

“No, don’t try,” said Mrs. Pepper; “you can go to sleep now. Come, children;” and she drew them off into the bedroom.

“Now, Polly,” she said, when the door was shut, “you must run down to Parson Henderson’s at once. He’ll know what to do with the poor old man, for we can’t let him go. He’ll tumble down in the road.”

“I will, mother,” cried Polly, tying on her sun-bonnet. “What’ll I say, Mammy?”

“Say? Why, tell just what it all is,—how he came, and ask Parson Henderson what we are to do. Run along, child, and don’t let the grass grow under your feet.”

“Will Parson Henderson know what to do with him?” cried Joel in a loud whisper.

“Yes, of course,” said Polly quickly; “Parson Henderson knows everything. But ’spose he shouldn’t be home, and I sh’d see Miss Jerusha!” and Polly’s round cheek turned pale with fright.

“Go along, child, and don’t worry about things till you get to ’em,” said Mrs. Pepper. “The Lord’ll provide, and I believe He’ll let Parson Henderson be home.”

So Polly ran off on the wings of the wind, and presently back she came in state, riding in the big old chaise that Parson Henderson had borrowed from one of his parishioners. And on the way the minister told so many pleasant things, that Polly wished, if it hadn’t been for Mamsie’s anxiety over the old man, that that ride might last forever. And then they were in front of the little brown house, to which they drove up with a flourish, bringing Joel out with an envious whoop, and Mrs. Pepper to the window.

And then Parson Henderson and Mrs. Pepper and the children helped the poor old man tenderly into the big chaise, to go to the nice place that the parson knew about, till he would be well enough to go on his journey. And then home came Phronsie and David from Grandma Bascom’s, down the lane, just in time to see the chaise go whirling off; and Ben, hungry as a beaver, came rushing in from his work for dinner. So Mother Pepper and Polly had to fly to get the midday meal ready, leaving it to Joel to tell the story in his own way, an opportunity that he improved to the utmost.

And after dinner Ben said that he wanted Joel to go back with him to work; for there was wood to pile, and that meant ten cents more pay at night. So it was evening before Joel thought of the interrupted story; and he screamed right out, “O Polly Pepper, you didn’t finish about Mr. Nutcracker!”

“No,” said Polly, “I didn’t; and how could I?”

“Well, you must tell it now,” declared Joel in a very injured fashion.

“Why, Joel Pepper, look at that clock!” cried Polly, pointing to it.

“It’s only half—a little after seven,” said Joel, looking every way but at the clock.

“O Joe, it’s twenty-five minutes to eight!” said Davie, running up to stand under the clock.

“Well, that isn’t much,” grumbled Joel.

“It’s five minutes after your bed-time, Joel,” said Mother Pepper, going into the bedroom for her big work-basket; “so take yourself off.”

“And I’ll finish Mr. Nutcracker to-morrow, Joe,” promised Polly, as Joel clattered up-stairs.