“It was about the middle of the afternoon,” said Polly, as the little group settled down in one corner of Mother Pepper’s room, “when I told the others the story of Lucy Ann’s Garden. I remember the time, because we were all feeling pretty badly to be shut up in the little snow-house; for we always ran out-doors every now and then, you know, even when we were working, and it seemed just like a prison, and then we didn’t know when we would be dug out, and”—

“But you were dug out some time, weren’t you, Polly Pepper?” interrupted Van anxiously.

A shout greeted this question.

When they came out of the laugh, Polly said, “Yes, but it was two whole days; and every single hour seemed—oh, as long—you can’t think! You see, everybody else was snowed in too; and great high drifts were piled along the roads, so they couldn’t get to us, and so all we could do was to wait. But, oh, dear me!” Polly had no further words at her command, and her hands fell idly to her lap.

“Well, go on.” This time it was Percy who pulled her sleeve.

“So, I know all about the time when I began to tell about Lucy Ann’s Garden,” said Polly, beginning again. “I thought I’d make up a story about summer and flowers, and all the things we have when it is warm and sunny, so we could look forward to it all; and that’s the reason I told them that.”

“Tell us now,” said Jasper; “do, Polly.”

So Polly began the story in earnest. “Lucy Ann’s Garden wasn’t a bit like any other garden in all the world; it was up on the tops of ever so many trees”—

“Oh, oh!” exclaimed the bunch of Whitneys in delight, Jasper adding his approval to the rest.

“This is a splendid story,” declared Joel to Van, who was next, “you better believe.”

“Hush!” said Van, edging away; “I can’t hear Polly when you talk.”

“You see, Lucy Ann’s father had ever so many apple-trees he was going to cut down, because they didn’t have anything on them but shrivelled up miserable little apples; and he got his big axe, and went out one day, and Lucy Ann saw him, and she ran after him. ‘Father, father,’ she cried, ‘what are you going to do?’ And then he told her.

“‘Oh, dear me!’ said Lucy Ann; and then she just sat down on the grass and cried; for she couldn’t bear to have a tree cut down around her home, nor a chicken killed, nor anything changed.”

“How could they ever have chicken-pies, then?” asked Percy abruptly.

“Why, they had to send Lucy Ann over to spend the day with her grandmother,” said Polly; “and then they killed all the chickens they wanted to eat for a week. But Lucy Ann always cried quarts of tears when she came home, and found out about it.”

“O Polly!” exclaimed Van, “Lucy Ann couldn’t cry quarts of tears—no one could.”

“Lucy Ann isn’t like anybody else in the world,” said Polly stoutly; “and I’m making up a girl who could cry quarts of tears, so she cried them every time she came home and found one of those chickens killed.”

“Now, it’s hard enough to have to tell stories by the dozen as Polly Pepper does, and be called to account for every word,” said Jasper. “Polly has a right to say anything in her stories she has a mind to.”

“And do make it quarts,” begged Joel, glowering at Van. “Make it gallons, Polly.”

“No,” said Polly decidedly. “Lucy Ann cried quarts of tears. Well, so when she sat down on the grass and cried, her father fell into a tremble, and he shook so the big axe in his hand went every way, for he couldn’t hold it straight; and he looked at Lucy Ann, and he said, ‘Daughter, I wish you would stop crying.’

“‘I can’t,’ said Lucy Ann, crying worse than ever, till her tears ran into the grass and off, a little stream trickling away like a tiny, wee river.

“‘Oh, dear me!’ exclaimed her father in despair, ‘this is something very dreadful.’ Then he set his axe carefully up against the first tree he was going to cut off, and he went to Lucy Ann. ‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘if you’ll stop crying this very minute by my watch, I’ll give you this first tree I was going to cut down.’ So Lucy Ann took her face up,—for she was bending over to sob,—and she wiped the tears that were coming out of her eyes away with her hand; and her father ran cheerfully back, and picked up his axe again. ‘Now, that is good, my daughter,’ he said in a gleeful voice; and he hurried to the next tree, and raised the axe just like this.” Here Polly swung an imaginary axe over her shoulder, “‘Now, then’—but he didn’t bring it down, for Lucy Ann squealed right out, ‘O father, don’t! Now I’ve got to cry some more;’ and away she went to sobbing, just as much worse than at first as you could think; and the tears got bigger and rounder, and they raced through the grass so fast that they wet her feet till she began to sneeze like everything.”

“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed little Dick in dismay.

“Well, Lucy Ann’s father, when he saw that, set down the axe again, and he pulled his hair in distress. I forgot to tell you that he always pulled his hair when he felt troubled about anything”—

“That was much better than to pull any one else’s hair,” observed Ben under his breath to Jasper.

“And he said, ‘O my daughter Lucy Ann, if you only won’t cry any more, I’ll give you all those trees this very minute; and you may do what you want to with them.’ So Lucy Ann stopped sobbing, and wiped her eyes again, and got up from the grass, and went around and around those trees; she went around twenty-seven times before she could decide what she would do with them. And at last she said, ‘Father, I’ll have a garden up on top of them.’”

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Van.

“The minute Lucy Ann said she would have a garden up on top of the trees, her father put his fingers in his mouth, and made a perfectly awful whistle, and”—

“Oh, I know how he did it!” exclaimed Joel, springing to his feet. “Dave and I used to do it—this way;” and he clapped his fingers to his mouth, but Ben pounced on him.

“No, you don’t, Joel Pepper,” he cried.

“Oh, no, no, Joey!” exclaimed Polly too, in alarm; “now be quiet, that’s a good boy, for I’m going on with the story. Well, as soon as the whistle echoed all over the place, there came running from every direction ever so many men, and every one had an axe on his shoulder; and as soon as they reached Lucy Ann’s father and Lucy Ann, they stopped and leaned on the handles of their axes, and said, ‘Did you call us, Master?’

“‘Stop talking,’ roared Lucy Ann’s father at them; for he wanted to be cross with somebody, and he didn’t want to scold his daughter. ‘Do just as she tells you to;’ and then he picked up his own axe, and ran off as fast as his feet would carry him into the house, and shut the door and locked it.

“‘Cut off all the tops of those trees,’ commanded Lucy Ann, pointing to them, ‘every single snip of a leaf.’”

“I thought she didn’t want the trees cut down,” cried Percy abruptly.

“Hush!” cried Van, delighted to catch Percy interrupting, while Polly made haste to say, “Oh! this is different. It’s only the tops she wanted cut off;” and Ben said, “Wait, and hear the rest of the story.”

“And so the men with the axes did exactly as Lucy Ann told them; and pretty soon all the trees were snipped off even, and just alike.

“‘Now go and bring a board big enough to set on the tops of all those trees,’ she commanded, ‘and lay it on them, for I’m going to have a garden up there.’”

“Oh, oh, oh!” screamed the Whitneys delightedly.

“And in just ten minutes by Lucy Ann’s little diamond watch in her belt, it”—

“O Polly! did Lucy Ann have a watch all made of diamonds?” asked Percy. “Ladies have them, but girls don’t.”

“Lucy Ann had one, anyway,” said Polly in her most decisive fashion; “and hers was just one big diamond, with the minute hand and the hour hand set in the middle”—

“Oh!” gasped Ben, tumbling back in his seat.

“And in just ten minutes,” repeated Polly, “by that little diamond watch stuck in her belt, the board was up on top of all those trees; and then she commanded the men to cover it all over with dirt, ever so deep; and after that she made them build some cunning little steps leading up to it,—two pairs of steps, ‘because I never mean to go down the same pair I come up,’ she said to herself; and in just half an hour from the time she began to think about it, there was her garden all done. And her father peeped out of the window all the time, and he called her mother, and all the people in the house; and every one took a window, and watched to see how the work went on.”

“I should think they’d want to,” said Ben with another gasp.

“And then Lucy Ann said, ‘Now run away, just as fast as you can, every single one of you;’ and she stamped her foot to make them run faster; so they picked up their axes and scampered off, and she was left alone. And then she walked around her garden twenty-seven times more, trying to think what she would plant in it.”

“And what did she, Polly Pepper?” demanded Van eagerly. “What did she plant in it?”

“Wait and see,” said Polly gayly. “Well, when she had got around the twenty-seventh time, she sat down quite tired out; and then she clapped her hands, and over the grass came running a little girl not much bigger than she was. ‘Go and bring the flower-basket,’ commanded Lucy Ann, ‘and be quick, Betserilda.’”

“What did she tell her to bring the flower-basket for?” asked little Dick, crowding into the centre of the group.

“Why, because she wanted to use it,” said Polly.

“And who was Betserilda?” asked Percy.

“Why, the girl she told to bring it,” said Jasper; “don’t you understand?”

“Oh!” said Percy.

“You see, Betsy’s name was really Betsy Amarilda,” said Polly; “but that was too long, for sometimes Lucy Ann was in quite a hurry, and so she always called her Betserilda.”

“Oh!” said Percy again.

“So Betserilda ran with all her might, and came back dragging the flower-basket after her; and then the two girls took hold of the handle, and went off into the woods after flowers.”

“Polly,” cried Phronsie suddenly, “I very much wish we might go into the woods after flowers;” she gave a long sigh, and every one turned to look at her.

“We can’t,” said Polly; “there aren’t any woods in this big city;” and she sighed too.

“But think what splendid grounds these are, and what monstrous trees,” cried Ben hastily, and pointing to them, as Joel began to kick his heels and loudly wish he could run into the woods too. “Polly, what are you going to say next?” asked Ben, catching her eye.

“What? oh, let me see!” cried Polly, bringing herself back from the delightful vision of a day in the woods; “well, off they trudged, Lucy Ann and Betserilda, and they began to dig and”—

“What did they dig, Polly?” asked Phronsie, very much interested, and laying her little face on Polly’s arm, “the little violets under the moss?”

“Yes,” said Polly, “lots and lots of them, Phronsie.”

“And the red berries?” Phronsie kept on, “and the long green stems, and the cunning little cups in the moss.”

“Yes,” said Polly, “they did; all those, Phronsie.”

“Every single one, Polly?” asked Phronsie, a little flush stealing over her cheek.

“Every single one,” declared Polly positively. “Lucy Ann dug them all up, and Betserilda put them in the flower-basket, and then they covered them with moss, and then they both took hold of the handle again; but they didn’t start to go back until Lucy Ann had most politely invited all the birds and squirrels to come and visit her garden.”

“And would they come, Polly?” cried Phronsie greatly excited.

“To be sure; yes, indeed,” said Polly. “Every one of them said ‘Thank you;’ and every one of them said they would, and they’d bring all their friends.”

“Oh, how nice!” cried Phronsie; and she sank back in great satisfaction in the corner of her seat.

“Well, when everything was at last ready in Lucy Ann’s Garden, and Betserilda had brought the big water-pot, and watered it all over, and every little leaf was pulled and patted out, and nothing more was left to be done, Lucy Ann sat down a minute to think, and she put her head in her hands, like this;” down went Polly’s brown head, and everything was still a minute.

“Go on, Polly Pepper,” begged Van, pulling her sleeve; “don’t think any more, but tell the rest of the story.”

“Lucy Ann screamed out,” said Polly, lifting her head so suddenly they all started, “‘I’ve got an idea!’

“Betserilda set down the watering-pot, and dropped a courtesy; for she wasn’t allowed to speak, you know, unless told to.”

“Why not, Polly?” asked Van, who wanted the last bit of information possible.

“Because she was kept to wait on Lucy Ann,” said Polly; “and unless Lucy Ann told her to, she couldn’t speak.”

“Oh!” said Van.

“‘I’m going to give a party,’ screamed Lucy Ann, jumping up and down, ‘in my garden. Now speak, Betserilda, and say that is a most beautiful idea.’

“‘That is a most beautiful idea,’ said Betserilda.

“‘I thought so,’ said Lucy Ann. ‘Now, do you run all through the wood, and give my invitation to every bird and squirrel you see, and every snake and hop-toad, and every chipmunk and woodchuck, and tell them to come to-night as soon as the moon gets up. Hang up the watering-pot on the first crotch of the tree you find going down, and run as fast as you can.’”

“Oh! oh!” screamed the Whitney boys in glee.

“Didn’t I tell you ’twas a prime story?” cried Joel, punching Van, who never could get so far away as to be beyond his fingers.

“Ow! Be still!” said Van, edging off again.

“So Betserilda did as she was bid, and hung up the watering-pot on the first crotch of the tree she could find underneath Lucy Ann’s Garden, and then away she ran on the tips of her toes into the wood again. And pretty soon every squirrel and bird and hop-toad and snake and chipmunk had his invitation, and”—

“You left out the woodchuck,” said Ben; “poor thing, do let him come to that wonderful party, Polly.”

“Of course he came,” cried Polly gayly; “we wouldn’t let him be forgotten, and so”—

“Couldn’t the poor dear sweet little brown worms come, Polly?” asked Phronsie, leaning anxiously forward.

“Dear me, yes,” cried Polly, catching sight of Phronsie’s face; “of course those nice angle-worms came. We wouldn’t leave them out for all the world. Well, and in a minute or two every one of the people, I mean the wood-creatures, were dressing up and combing their hair, and”—

“O Polly Pepper!” exclaimed Percy in distress, “now I know this story can’t be true; because squirrels don’t comb their hair, and birds, and”—

“How do you know?” cried Polly at him.

“Well, hop-toads don’t, anyway,” declared Percy obstinately.

“Well, my hop-toads do,” said Polly. “I shall make every one of them comb their hair, and clean their clothes, and prink up to go to that party, so there, Percy Whitney!”

“And this is Polly Pepper’s story,” said Jasper. “Do keep still, Percy, or out you go from Mother Pepper’s room.”

“Oh! she can have them do it if she wants to,” said Percy, shrinking back in alarm, with one eye on Jasper and another on Ben, and trying to keep himself as small as possible.

“And they couldn’t hardly wait for the moon to come up, they were all so anxious to go,” Polly ran on. “You see, none of them had ever been to a party before in all their lives.”

“I just hate parties!” exploded Joel, having experienced several trials in that line since coming to live at Mr. King’s; “and they were very silly to want to go.”

“Now, what do you think Lucy Ann had thought out while Betserilda was away?” asked Polly suddenly.

No one of the children could possibly guess, so Polly dashed on. “Well, she had it come in a flash into her head; and off she ran and did it, and got back all out of breath, running up one pair of steps to her garden, just as Betserilda came up the other pair.

“‘Betserilda,’ she said, ‘what do you suppose I’ve done? Speak.’

“‘I don’t know,’ said Betserilda.

“‘That’s a good girl, because if you’d said you did know, you’d be a naughty girl, because it all came out of my head. I’ve engaged the band, and we’re going to dance.’”

The Whitney boys clapped their hands and shouted approval.

“Betserilda said nothing, because, you know, she couldn’t speak unless Lucy Ann told her she might. ‘You may talk now,’ said Lucy Ann, ‘and say, “What a good idea.”’ So Betserilda said at once, ‘What a good idea.’

“‘Isn’t it?’ cried Lucy Ann, quite delighted.”

“Was Lucy Ann really to have a band play? And where did she get it?” cried Percy and Van together.

“Yes, indeed,” said Polly; “she was—a real true cricket-band. She’d engaged every one of the black crickets; and she commanded them to stop chirping, so as to save their music till evening. And every one said he would; and one of them said he’d bring some cousins that were visiting him, called fiddlers, and”—

“Oh! there isn’t any cricket called a fiddler,” cried Van.

“There is a black bug down by the seaside with a fiddle up over his shoulder,” said Polly. “I saw a picture of him in Parson Henderson’s book before I told this story in the little snow-house, so there, Van!”

“And don’t you interrupt again,” said Ben at him, “or out you must go. Now then, Polly, let’s have the rest of that story.”

“Where was I? oh, yes; ‘We’re surely going to dance,’ cried Lucy Ann, hopping on all her toes. ‘Now run into the house, and get my pink gauze gown all ready, and my little silver shoes, and lay them on the bed; and then tell the cook to make five hundred little ice-creams and cakes and put each on a big green leaf when it’s ready to bring up to the garden. Run for your life, Betserilda.’

“So Betserilda ran for her life down one pair of stairs, and Lucy Ann hopped down the other pair, and the birds and the squirrels and the hop-toads and the snakes and all the rest of them kept combing their hair and prinking up, and peeking out of the wood, and saying to each other, ‘Hasn’t the sun gone down yet?’ and ‘Isn’t the moon ever coming up?’ until at last it was time to go to the party.

“And everybody in Lucy Ann’s house kept peeking out of all the windows. They didn’t even stop for dinner, but had the servants bring it to them, and they ate it sitting in the windows, so they needn’t miss anything; so when the moonlight really did come, they were all ready to see every bit of the party too. Well, Lucy Ann in her pink gauze gown tripped away across the grass in her little silver slippers, and went up the stairs to her garden with Betserilda coming after. And when all the wood-creatures saw her going up, and knew that the party was actually to begin, they all started in fine shape; but they had to wait a bit, which was quite a pity, for the biggest squirrel and the long brown snake fell into a quarrel which should go first in the procession.

“‘Lucy Ann invited me first,’ said the big squirrel, chattering so fast they could hardly hear the words.

“‘She likes me best,’ said the long brown snake, lashing the pine-needles on the ground with his tail.

“This made the big squirrel very angry; and he cried in a sharp voice, ‘I’ll bite you;’ and he was just going to do it, when somebody, way back in the procession, cried out, ‘You’re mussing your hair, flying in such a rage.’

“‘To be sure,’ said the big squirrel, putting up one paw to smooth his head carefully; ‘let us not quarrel and bite till after the party. We will both go in together, that’s the best way.’

“‘As you like,’ said the long brown snake, who didn’t want to fight; ‘there is room enough for us both, as I am quite thin.’ So they both led off; and soon they were all up in the garden, and making splendid bows and courtesies to Lucy Ann. And as fast as each one made his bow or courtesy, she would say, if it pleased her, ‘That’s a good one,—check it off, Betserilda;’ and Betserilda would make a little mark in a big black book she had in her hand. And if it was very bad, Lucy Ann would say it must be done over again. But at last they were ready to dance.”

“Who danced with Lucy Ann?” asked Van, breaking in; but Jasper pulled him back, and Polly went on.

“And the cricket band struck up; and then Lucy Ann stood upon a mushroom she had had brought up in the garden for a stool, so she looked very tall and big, and she said, ‘Look at me,’ and everybody looked at her with all his eyes; ‘I am going to say something.’

“‘I’m not going to dance with any of you,’ she said; ‘for, you see, I cannot dance with all; I should be quite tired out, there are so many of you. But I must dance; so I am going to wait for my prince, for of course some one will come;’ and she smoothed down her pink gauze gown in great contentment, and fluttered her pink feather fan. ‘Now begin; I shall wait for my prince;’ and she hopped off from her mushroom stool, and the cricket band struck up their liveliest tune; and while Lucy Ann sat down by a little clump of violets at the very end of her garden, every single one of the party folks began to dance.

“Now, there was in the wood one person who didn’t happen to be invited to that party. Lucy Ann didn’t know he was there, so she couldn’t send him an invitation you see. And he had only arrived that day, being on his way to another place when he succeeded in running away from a cruel master; and when he saw the nice cool wood, he thought he would stop awhile and get rested. And then he overheard the chatter about the party, though nobody saw him; and after that he made up his mind he would stay and see it all from an overhanging tree.”

“I know what it was,” piped Phronsie in a gleeful voice; “he was a”—

“Hush—hush!” cried Ben, springing forward, and “Don’t tell, Pet,” from Polly as she rushed on.

“And when he heard Lucy Ann say that about her prince, and waiting for him to come and dance with her, he said to himself,—

“‘Why shouldn’t I be the prince?’ and the next minute he was combing his hair, and prinking up, and then he was ready.”

“Oh! oh!” screamed all those who hadn’t heard the story in the little snow-house; and Joel kept nudging Van and saying, “Didn’t I tell you it was a prime one?”

“Well, it was getting pretty late now, you know, for the prince was so anxious to look nice, he took a good deal of time to prink up; and Lucy Ann began to look sad, and she called Betserilda, who had to stand perfectly still behind the clump of violets. ‘I am really afraid I shall have to cry,’ said Lucy Ann; ‘for my prince doesn’t come, and I don’t know what to do, for my tears will make it so wet in the garden that they will all get cold;’ and just then up came the prince, his cap in his hand, along the stairway, and there was the sweetest, dearest little monkey you ever saw in a red coat, standing before her!” cried Polly, with a sudden flourish, and jumping to her feet.