“Mamsie, what shall we do?” implored Polly of her mother.
“I don't know,” said her mother; “however did that get into her head, do you suppose?”
“I am sure I can't tell,” said Polly, jumping up and beginning to stir briskly to make up for lost time. “P'r'aps she heard us talking about Jasper's having to take care of his sick father, and how hard it must be to be sick away from home.”
“Yes,” said Phronsie, “but he'll be glad to see my gingerbread boy, I guess; poor, sick man.”
“Oh, Phronsie,” cried Polly, in great distress, “you aren't ever going to make a 'gingerbread boy' to-day! see, we'll put in a cunning little cake for Mr. King—full of raisins, Phronsie; won't that be lovely!” and Polly began to fill a little scalloped tin with some of the cake mixture.
“N-no,” said the child, eying it suspiciously; “that isn't like a 'gingerbread boy,' Polly; he'll like that best.”
“Mamsie,” said Polly, “we can't let her make a dreadful, horrid 'gingerbread boy' to send Mr. King! he never'll let Jasper come here again.”
“Oh, let her,” cried Joel; “she can bake it, and Dave an' I'll eat it,” and he picked up a raisin that had fallen under the table and began crunching it with great gusto.
“That wouldn't be fair,” said Polly, gloomily. “Do get her off from it, mammy.”
“Phronsie,” said Mrs. Pepper, going up back of the child, who sat patiently in her high chair waiting for Polly to let her begin, “hadn't you rather wait and give your 'gingerbread boy' to Jasper for his father, when he comes?”
“Oh, no, no,” cried Phronsie, twisting in her chair in great apprehension, “I want to send it now, I do.”
“Well, Polly,” said her mother, laughing, “after all it's best, I think, to let her; it can't do any harm anyway—and instead of Mr. King's not letting Jasper come, if he's a sensible man that won't make any difference; and if he isn't, why, then there'd be sure to something come up sometime to make trouble.”
“Well,” said Polly, “I suppose she's got to; and perhaps,” as a consoling idea struck her, “perhaps she'll want to eat it up herself when it's done. Here, Phronsie,” giving her a handful of the cake mixture, which she stiffened with flour to the right thickness, “there, you can call that a 'gingerbread boy;' see, won't it make a beautiful one!”
“You needn't think,” said Mrs. Pepper, seeing Phronsie's delighted face, and laughing as she went back to her work, “but what that gingerbread boy'll go?”
When the little cakes were done, eight of them, and set upon the table for exhibition, they one and all protested that they never saw so fine a lot. Polly was delighted with the praise they received, and her mother's commendation that she was “growing a better cook every day.” “How glad Jasper'll be, won't he, mamsie?” said she.
The children walked around and around the table, admiring and pointing out the chief points of attraction, as they appeared before their discriminating eyes.
“I should choose that one,” said Joel, pointing at one which was particularly plummy, with a raisin standing up on one end with a festive air, as if to say, “there's lots of us inside, you better believe!”
“I wouldn't,” said Davie, “I'd have that—that's cracked so pretty.”
“So 'tis,” said Mrs. Pepper; “they're all as light as a feather, Polly.”
“But my 'gingerbread boy,” cried Phronsie, running eagerly along with a particularly ugly looking specimen of a cake figure in her hand, “is the be-yew-tifullest, isn't it, Polly?”
“Oh, dear,” groaned Polly, “it looks just awfully, don't it, Ben!”
“Hoh, hoh!” laughed Joel in derision; “his leg is crooked, see Phronsie—you better let Davie an' me have it.”
“No, no,” screamed the child in terror; “that's my sick man's 'gingerbread boy,' it is!”
“Joe, put it down,” said Ben. “Yes, Phronsie, you shall have it; there, it's all safe;” and he put it carefully into Phronsie's apron, when she breathed easier.
“And he hasn't but one eye,” still laughed Joel, while little Davie giggled too.
“He did have two,” said Polly, “but she punched the other in with her thumb; don't, boys,” she said, aside, “you'll make her feel bad; do stop laughing. Now, how'll we send the things?”
“Put 'em in a basket,” said Ben; “that's nicest.”
“But we haven't got any basket,” said Polly, “except the potato basket, and they'd be lost in that.”
“Can't we take your work-basket, mamsie?” asked Ben; “they'd look so nice in that.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Pepper, “that wouldn't do; I couldn't spare it, and besides, it's all broken at the side, Ben; that don't look nice.”
“Oh, dear,” said Polly, sitting down on one of the hard wooden chairs to think, “I do wish we had things nice to send to sick people.” And her forehead puckered up in a little hard knot.
“We'll have to do 'em up in a paper, Polly,” said Ben; “there isn't any other way; they'll look nice in anything, 'cause they are nice,” he added, comfortingly.
“If we only had some flowers,” said Polly, “that would set 'em off.”
“You're always a-thinkin' of flowers, Polly,” said Ben. “I guess the cakes'll have to go without 'em.”
“I suppose they will,” said Polly, stifling a little sigh. “Where's the paper?”
“I've got a nice piece up-stairs,” said Ben, “just right; I'll get it.”
“Put my 'gingerbread boy' on top,” cried Phronsie, handing him up.
So Polly packed the little cakes neatly in two rows, and laid the 'gingerbread boy' in a fascinating attitude across the top.
“He looks as if he'd been struck by lightning!” said Ben, viewing him critically as he came in the door with the paper.
“Be still,” said Polly, trying not to laugh; “that's because he baked so funny; it made his feet stick out.”
“Children,” said Mrs. Pepper, “how'll Jasper know where the cakes come from?”
“Why, he'll know it's us,” said Polly, “of course; 'cause it'll make him think of the baking we're going to have when he gets well.”
“Well, but you don't say so,” said Mrs. Pepper, smiling; “tisn't polite to send it this way.”
“Whatever'll we do, mammy!” said all four children in dismay, while Phronsie simply stared. “Can't we send 'em at all?”
“Why yes,” said their mother; “I hope so, I'm sure, after you've got 'em baked; but you might answer Jasper's letter I should think, and tell him about 'em, and the 'gingerbread boy'.”
“Oh dear,” said Polly, ready to fly, “I couldn't mamsie; I never wrote a letter.”
“Well, you never had one before, did you?” said her mother, composedly biting her thread. “Never say you can't, Polly, 'cause you don't know what you can do till you've tried.”
“You write, Ben,” said Polly, imploringly.
“No,” said Ben, “I think the nicest way is for all to say somethin', then 'twon't be hard for any of us.”
“Where's the paper,” queried Polly, “coming from, I wonder!”
“Joel,” said Mrs. Pepper, “run to the bureau in the bedroom, and open the top drawer, and get a green box there.”
So Joel, quite important at the errand, departed, and presently put the designated box into his mother's hand.
“There, now I'm going to give you this,” and she took out a small sheet of paper slightly yellowed by age; but being gilt-edged, it looked very magnificent to the five pairs of eyes directed to it.
“Now Ben, you get the ink bottle and the pen, and then go to work.”
So Ben reached down from the upper shelf in the cupboard the ink bottle, and a pen in a black wooden penholder.
“Oh, mamsie,” cried Polly, “that's where Phronsie bit it off when she was a baby, isn't it?” holding up the stubby end where the little ball had disappeared.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper, “and now you're going to write about her 'gingerbread boy' with it—well, time goes, to be sure.” And she bent over her work again, harder than ever. Poor woman! if she could only scrape together enough money to get her children into school—that was the earnest wish of her heart. She must do it soon, for Ben was twelve years old; but with all her strivings and scrimpings she could only manage to put bread into their mouths, and live from day to day. “I know I ought to be thankful for that,” she said to herself, not taking time even to cry over her troubles. “But oh, the learning! they must have that!”
“Now,” said Polly, “how'll we do it Ben?” as they ranged themselves around the table, on which reposed the cakes; “you begin.”
“How do folks begin a letter?” asked Ben in despair, of his mother.
“How did Jasper begin his?” asked Mrs. Pepper back again. “Oh,” cried Polly, running into the bedroom to get the precious missive. “Dear Miss Polly'—that's what it says.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Pepper, “then you'd better say, 'Dear Mister Jasper'—or you might say, 'Dear Mr. King.'”
“Oh, dear!” cried Polly, “that would be the father then—s'pose he should think we wrote to him!” and Polly looked horror-stricken to the last degree.
“There, there 'tis,” said Ben: “'Dear Mister Jasper'—now what'll we say?”
“Why, say about the cakes,” replied Polly.
“And the 'gingerbread boy,” cried Phronsie. “Oh, tell about him, Polly, do.”
“Yes, yes, Phronsie,” said Polly, “we will—why, tell him how we wish he could have come, and that we baked him some cakes, and that we do so want him to come just as soon as he can.”
“All right!” said Ben; so he went to work laboriously; only his hard breathing showing what a hard task it was, as the stiff old pen scratched up and down the paper.
“There, that's done,” he cried at length in great satisfaction, holding it up for inspection.
“Oh, I do wish,” cried Polly in intense admiration, “I could write so nice and so fast as you can, Ben.”
“Read it, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, in pride.
So Polly began: “Dear Mister Jasper we were all dreadfully sorry that you didn't come and so we baked you some cakes.'—You didn't say anything about his being sick, Ben.”
“I forgot it,” said Ben, “but I put it in farther down—you'll see if you read on.”
“Baked you some cakes—that is, Polly did, for this is Ben that's writing.”
“You needn't said that, Ben,” said Polly, dissatisfied; “we all baked 'em, I'm sure. 'And just as soon as you get well we do want you to come over and have the baking. We're real sorry you're sick—boneset's good for colds.”
“Oh, Ben!” said Mrs. Pepper, “I guess his father knows what to give him.”
“And oh! the bitter stuff!” cried Polly, with a wry face. “Well, it's hard work to write,” said Ben, yawning. “I'd rather chop wood.”
“I wish! knew how,” exclaimed Joel, longingly.
“Just you try every day; Ben'll teach you, Joe,” said his mother, eagerly, “and then I'll let you write.”
“I will!” cried Joe; “then, Dave, you'll see how I'll write—I tell you!”
“And I'm goin' to—ma, can't I?” said Davie, unwilling to be outdone.
“Yes, you may, be sure,” said Mrs. Pepper, delighted; “that'll make a man of you fast.”
“Oh, boys,” said Polly, lifting a very red face, “you joggle the table so I can't do anything.”
“I wasn't jogglin',” said Joel; “the old thing tipped. Look!” he whispered to Davie, “see Polly, she's writing crooked.”
So while the others hung around her and looked over her shoulder while they made their various comments, Polly finished her part, and also held it up for inspection.
“Let us see,” said Ben, taking it up.
“It's after, 'boneset's good for colds,'” said Polly, puckering up her face again at the thought.
“We most of us knew you were sick—I'm Polly now—because you didn't come; and we liked your letter telling us so. Oh, Polly! we weren't glad to hear he was sick!” cried Ben, in horror.
“I didn't say so!” cried Polly, starting up. “Why, Ben Pepper, I never said so!” and she looked ready to cry.
“It sounds something like it, don't it, mammy?” said Ben, unwilling to give her pain, but appealing to Mrs. Pepper.
“Polly didn't mean it,” said her mother consolingly; “but if I were you, I'd say something to explain it.”
“I can't put anything in now,” said poor Polly; “there isn't any room nor any more paper either—what shall I do! I told you, Ben, I couldn't write.” And Polly looked helplessly from one to the other for comfort.
“Yes, you can,” said Ben; “there, now I'll show you: write it fine, Polly—you write so big—little bits of letters, like these.”
So Polly took the pen again with a sigh. “Now he won't think so, I guess,” she said, much relieved, as Ben began to read again.
“I'll begin yours again,” Ben said: “We most of us knew you were sick because you didn't come, and we liked your letter telling us so because we'd all felt so badly, and Phronsie cried herself to sleep—” (that's good, I'm sure.) “The 'gingerbread boy' is for your father—please excuse it, but Phronsie would make it for him because he is sick. There isn't any more to write, and besides I can't write good, and Ben's tired. From all of us.”
“Why, how's he to know?” cried Ben. “That won't do to sign it.”
“Well, let's say from Ben and Polly then,” said Polly; “only all the others want to be in the letter.”
“Well, they can't write,” said Ben.
“We might sign their names for 'em,” suggested Polly.
“Here's mine,” said Ben, putting under the “From all of us” a big, bold “Ben.”
“And here's mine,” echoed Polly, setting a slightly crooked “Polly” by its side.
“Now Joe, you better let Ben hold your hand,” said Polly, warningly. But Joel declaring he could write had already begun, so there was no hope for it; and a big drop of ink falling from the pen, he spattered the “J” so that no one could tell what it was. The children looked at each other in despair.
“Can we ever get it out, mammy?” said Polly, running to Mrs. Pepper with it.
“I don't know,” said her mother. “How could you try it, Joe?”
“I didn't mean to,” said Joel, looking very downcast and ashamed. “The ugly old pen did it!”
“Well,” said Polly, “it's got to go; we can't help it.” But she looked so sorrowful over it that half the pleasure was gone for Ben; for Polly wanted everything just right, and was very particular about things.
“Now, Dave.” Ben held his hand, and “David” went down next to Joel.
But when it was Phronsie's turn, she protested that Polly, and no one else, must hold her hand.
“It's a dreadful hard name to write—Phronsie is,” said Polly, as she guided Phronsie's fat little hand that clung faithfully to the stubby old pen. “There, it's over now,” she cried; “and I'm thankful! I wouldn't write another for anything!”
“Read it all over now, Ben,” cried Mrs. Pepper, “and don't speak, children, till he gets through.”
“Don't it sound elegant!” said Polly, clasping her hands, when he had finished. “I didn't think we ever could do it so nice, did you, Ben?”
“No, indeed, I didn't,” replied Ben, in a highly ecstatic frame of mind. “Now—oh! what'll we do for an envelope?” he asked in dismay.
“You'll have to do without that,” said Mrs. Pepper, “for there isn't any in the house—but see here, children,” she added, as she saw the sorry faces before her—“you just fold up the letter, and put it inside the parcel; that'll be just as good.”
“Oh dear,” said Polly; “but it would have been splendid the other way, mammy—just like other folks!”
“You must make believe this is like other folks,” said Mrs. Pepper, cheerily, “when you can't do any other way.”
“Yes,” said Ben, “that's so, Polly; tie 'em up quick's you can, and I'll take 'em over to Deacon Blodgett's, for he's goin' to start early in the morning.”
So after another last look all around, Polly put the cakes in the paper, and tied it with four or five strong knots, to avoid all danger of its undoing.
“He never'll untie it, Polly,” said Ben; “that's just like a girl's knots!”
“Why didn't you tie it then?” said Polly; “I'm sure it's as good as a boy's knots, and they always muss up a parcel so.” And she gave a loving, approving little pat to the top of the package, which, despite its multitude of knots, was certainly very neat indeed.
Ben, grasping the pen again, “here goes for the direction.
“Deary, yes!” said Polly. “I forgot all about that; I thought 'twas done.”
“How'd you s'pose he'd get it?” asked Ben, coolly beginning the “M.”
“I don't know,” replied Polly, looking over his shoulder; “s'pose anybody else had eaten 'em up, Ben!” And she turned pale at the very thought.
“There,” said Ben, at last, after a good many flourishes, “now 'tis done! you can't think of another thing to do to it, Polly!”
“Mamsie, see!” cried Polly, running with it to Mrs. Pepper, “isn't that fine! 'Mr. Jasper E. King, at the Hotel Hingham.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper, admiringly, to the content of all the children, “I should think it was!”
“Let me take it in my hand,” screamed Joel, reaching eagerly up for the tempting brown parcel.
“Be careful then, Joe,” said Polly, with an important air. So Joel took a comfortable feel, and then Davie must have the same privilege. At last it was off, and with intense satisfaction the children watched Ben disappear with it down the long hill to Deacon Blodgett's.
The next day Ben came running in from his work at the deacon's.
“Oh, Polly, you had 'em!” he screamed, all out of breath. “You had 'em!”
“Had what?” asked Polly in astonishment. “Oh, Bensie, what do you mean?”
“Your flowers,” he panted. “You sent some flowers to Jasper.”
“Flowers to Jasper!” repeated Polly, afraid Ben had gone out of his wits.
“Yes,” said Ben; “I'll begin at the beginning. You see, Polly, when I went down this morning, Betsey was to set me to work. Deacon Blodgett and Mrs. Blodgett had started early, you know; and while I was a-cleanin' up the woodshed, as she told me, all of a sudden she said, as she stood in the door looking on, 'Oh, Ben, Mis' Blodgett took some posies along with your parcel.' 'What?' said I; I didn't know as I'd heard straight. 'Posies, I said,' says Betsey; 'beautiful ones they were, too, the best in the garding. I heard her tell Mr. Blodgett it would be a pity if that sick boy couldn't have some flowers, and she knew the Pepper children were crazy about 'em, so she twisted 'em in the string around the parcel, and there they stood up and looked fine, I tell you, as they drove away.' So, Polly!”
“Bensie Pepper!” cried Polly, taking hold of his jacket, and spinning him round, “I told you so! I told you so!”
“I know you did,” said Ben, as she gave him a parting whirl, “an' I wish you'd say so about other things, Polly, if you can get 'em so easy.”
“Oh Ben,” cried Jasper, overtaking him by a smart run as he was turning in at the little brown gate one morning three days after, “do wait.”
“Halloa!” cried Ben, turning around, and setting down his load—a bag of salt and a basket of potatoes—and viewing Jasper and Prince with great satisfaction.
“Yes, here I am,” said Jasper. “And how I've run; that fellow on the stage was awful slow in getting here—oh, you're so good,” he said and his eyes, brimful of gladness, beamed on Ben. “The cakes were just prime, and 'twas great fun to get your letter.”
“Did you like it?” asked Ben, the color up all over his brown face—“Like it!” cried Jasper. “Why 'twas just splendid; and the cakes were royal! Isn't Polly smart though, to bake like that!” he added admiringly.
“I guess she is,” said Ben, drawing himself up to his very tallest dimensions. “She knows how to do everything, Jasper King!”
“I should think she did,” responded the boy quickly. “I wish she was my sister,” he finished longingly.
“Well, I don't,” quickly replied Ben, “for then she wouldn't be mine; and I couldn't think of being without Polly! Was your father angry about—about—'the gingerbread boy'?” he asked timidly, trembling for an answer.
“Oh dear,” cried Jasper, tumbling over on the grass, “don't, don't! I shan't be good for anything if you make me laugh! oh! wasn't it funny;” and he rolled over and over, shaking with glee.
“Yes,” said Ben, immensely relieved to find that no offence had been taken. “But she would send it; Polly tried not to have her, and she most cried when Phronsie was so determined, cause she said your father never'd let you come again—”
“Twas just lovely in Phronsie,” said the boy, sitting up and wiping his eyes, “but oh it was so funny! you ought to have seen my father, Ben Pepper.”
“Oh, then he was angry,” cried Ben.
“No indeed he wasn't!” said Jasper; “don't you think it! do you know it did him lots of good, for he'd been feeling real badly that morning, he hadn't eaten any breakfast, and when he saw that gingerbread boy—” here Jasper rolled over again with a peal of laughter—“and heard the message, he just put back his head, and he laughed—why, I never heard him laugh as he did then! the room shook all over; and he ate a big dinner, and all that afternoon he felt as good as could be. But he says he's coming to see the little girl that baked it for him before we go home.”
Ben nearly tumbled over by the side of Jasper at these words—“Coming to see us!” he gasped.
“Yes,” said Jasper, who had scarcely got over his own astonishment about it, for if the roof had suddenly whisked off on to the church steeple, he couldn't have been more amazed than when he heard his father say cheerily: “Well, Jasper my boy, I guess I shall have to drive over and see your little girl, since she's been polite enough to bake me this,” pointing to the wild-looking “gingerbread boy.”
“Come in and tell 'em about it,” cried Ben, radiantly, picking up his potatoes and salt. “It's all right, Polly!” he said in a jubilant voice, “for here's Jasper, and he'll tell you so himself.”
“Hush!” said Jasper warningly, “don't let Phronsie hear; well, here's my pet now,” and after bobbing lovingly to the others, with eyes beaming over with fun, he caught up the little girl who was screaming—“Oh, here's Jasper! and my beyew-ti-ful doggie!”
“Now Phronsie,” he cried, “give me a kiss; you haven't any soft soap to-day, have you? no; that's a good, nice one, now; your 'gingerbread boy' was just splendid!”
“Did he eat it?” asked the child in grave delight.
“Well—no—he hasn't eaten it yet,” said Jasper, smiling on the others; “he's keeping it to look at, Phronsie.”
“I should think so!” groaned Polly.
“Never mind, Polly,” Ben whispered; “Jasper's been a-tellin' me about it; his father liked it—he did truly.”
“Oh!” said Polly, “I'm so glad!”
“He had eyes,” said Phronsie, going back to the charms of the “gingerbread boy.”
“I know it,” said Jasper admiringly; “so he did.”
“Rather deep sunk, one of 'em was,” muttered Ben.
“And I'll bake you one, Jasper,” said the child as he put her down; “I will very truly—some day.”
“Will you,” smiled Jasper; “well then,” and there was a whispered conference with Phronsie that somehow sent that damsel into a blissful state of delight. And then while Phronsie monopolized Prince, Jasper told them all about the reception of the parcel—how very dull and forlorn he was feeling that morning, Prince and he shut up in-doors—and how his father had had a miserable night, and had eaten scarcely no breakfast, and just at this juncture there came a knock at the door, “and” said Jasper, “your parcel walked in, all dressed up in flowers!”
“They weren't our flowers,” said Polly, honestly. “Mrs. Blodgett put 'em on.”
“Well she couldn't have, if you hadn't sent the parcel,” said Jasper in a tone of conviction.
Then he launched out into a description of how they opened the package—Prince looking on, and begging for one of the cakes.
“Oh, didn't you give him one?” cried Polly at this. “Good old Prince!”
“Yes I did,” said Jasper, “the biggest one of all.”
“The one I guess,” interrupted Joel, “with the big raisin on top.”
Polly spoke up quickly to save any more remarks on Joel's part. “Now tell us about your father—and the 'gingerbread boy.'”
So Jasper broke out with a merry laugh, into this part of the story, and soon had them all in such a gale of merriment, that Phronsie stopped playing out on the door-step with Prince, and came in to see what the matter was.
“Never mind,” said Polly, trying to get her breath, just as Jasper was relating how Mr. King set up the “gingerbread boy” on his writing table before him, while he leaned back in his chair for a hearty laugh.
“And to make it funnier still,” said Jasper “don't you think, a little pen-wiper he has, made like a cap, hanging on the pen-rack above him, tumbled off just at this very identical minute right on the head of the 'gingerbread boy,' and there it stuck!”
“Oh!” they all screamed, “if we could only have seen it.”
“What was it?” asked Phronsie, pulling Polly's sleeve to make her hear.
So Jasper took her in his lap, and told how funny the “gingerbread boy” looked with a cap on, and Phronsie clapped her hands, and laughed with the rest, till the little old kitchen rang and rang again.
And then they had the baking! and Polly tied one of her mother's ample aprons on Jasper, as Mrs. Pepper had left directions if he should come while she was away; and he developed such a taste for cookery, and had so many splendid improvements on the Peppers' simple ideas, that the children thought it the most fortunate thing in the world that he came; and one and all voted him a most charming companion.
“You could cook a Thanksgiving dinner in this stove, just as easy as not,” said Jasper, putting into the oven something on a little cracked plate that would have been a pie if there were any centre; but lacking that necessary accompaniment, probably was a short-cake. “Just as easy as not,” he repeated with emphasis, slamming the door, to give point to his remarks.
“No, you couldn't either,” said Ben at the table with equal decision; “not a bit of it, Jasper King!”
“Why, Ben Pepper?” asked Jasper, “that oven's big enough! I should like to know why not?”
“'Cause there isn't anything to cook,” said Ben coolly, cutting out a piece of dough for a jumble; “we don't keep Thanksgiving.”
“Not keep Thanksgiving!” said Jasper, standing quite still; “never had a Thanksgiving! well, I declare,” and then he stopped again.
“Yes,” answered Ben; “we had one once; 'twas last year—but that wasn't much.”
“Well then,” said Jasper, leaning over the table, “I'll tell you what I should think you'd do—try Christmas.”
“Oh, that's always worse,” said Polly, setting down her rolling-pin to think—which immediately rolled away by itself off from the table.
“We never had a Christmas,” said little Davie reflectively; “what are they like, Jasper?”
Jasper sat quite still, and didn't reply to this question for a moment or two.
To be among children who didn't like Thanksgiving, and who “never had seen a Christmas,” and “didn't know what it was like,” was a new revelation to him.
“They hang up stockings,” said Polly softly.
How many, many times she had begged her mother to try it for the younger ones; but there was never anything to put in them, and the winters were cold and hard, and the strictest economy only carried them through.
“Oh!” said little Phronsie in horror, “are their feet in 'em, Polly?”
“No dear,” said Polly; while Jasper instead of laughing, only stared. Something requiring a deal of thought was passing through the boy's mind just then. “They shall have a Christmas!” he muttered, “I know father'll let me.” But he kept his thoughts to himself; and becoming his own gay, kindly self, he explained and told to Phronsie and the others, so many stories of past Christmases he had enjoyed, that the interest over the baking soon dwindled away, until a horrible smell of something burning brought them all to their senses.
“Oh! the house is burning!” cried Polly. “Oh get a pail of water!”
“Tisn't either,” said Jasper, snuffing wisely; “oh! I know—I forgot all about it—I do beg your pardon.” And running to the stove, he knelt down and drew out of the oven, a black, odorous mass, which with a crest-fallen air he brought to Polly.
“I'm no end sorry I made such a mess of it,” he said, “I meant it for you.”
“Tisn't any matter,” said Polly kindly.
“And now do you go on,” cried Joel and David both in the same breath, “all about the Tree, you know.”
“Yes, yes,” said the others; “if you're not tired, Jasper.”
“Oh, no,” cried their accommodating friend, “I love to tell about it; only wait—let's help Polly clear up first.”
So after all traces of the frolic had been tidied up, and made nice for the mother's return, they took seats in a circle and Jasper regaled them with story and reminiscence, till they felt as if fairy land were nothing to it!
“How did you ever live through it, Jasper King,” said Polly, drawing the first long breath she had dared to indulge in. “Such an elegant time!”
Jasper laughed. “I hope I'll live through plenty more of them,” he said merrily. “We're going to sister Marian's again, father and I; we always spend our Christmas there, you know, and she's to have all the cousins, and I don't know how many more; and a tree—but the best of all, there's going to be a German carol sung by choir boys—I shall like that best of all.”
“What are choir boys?” asked Polly who was intensely fond of music.
“In some of the churches,” explained Jasper, “the choir is all boys; and they do chant, and sing anthems perfectly beautifully, Polly!”
“Do you play on the piano, and sing?” asked Polly, looking at him in awe.
“Yes,” said the boy simply; “I've played ever since I was a little fellow, no bigger'n Phronsie.”
“Oh, Jasper!” cried Polly, clasping her hands, her cheeks all aflame—“do you mean to say you do really and truly play on the piano?”
“Why yes,” said the boy, looking into her flashing eyes. “Polly's always crazy about music,” explained Ben; “she'll drum on the table, and anywhere, to make believe it's a piano.”
“There's Dr. Fisher going by,” said Joel, who, now that they had gotten on the subject of music, began to find prickles running up and down his legs from sitting so still. “I wish he'd stop.”
“Is he the one that cured your measles—and Polly's eyes?” asked Jasper running to the window. “I want to see him.”
“Well there he is,” cried Ben, as the doctor put his head out of the gig and bowed and smiled to the little group in the window.
“He's just lovely,” cried Polly, “oh! I wish you knew him.”
“If father's sick again,” said Jasper, “we'll have him—he looks nice, anyway—for father don't like the doctor over in Hingham—do you know perhaps we'll come again next summer; wouldn't that be nice!”
“Oh!” cried the children rapturously; “do come, Jasper, do!”
“Well, maybe,” said Jasper, “if father likes it and sister Marian and her family will come with us; they do some summers. You'd like little Dick, I know,” turning to Phronsie. “And I guess all of you'd like all of them,” he added, looking at the group of interested listeners. “They wanted to come this year awfully; they said—'Oh grandpapa, do let us go with you and Jappy, and—”
“What!” said the children.
“Oh,” said Jasper with a laugh, “they call me Jappy—its easier to say than Jasper; ever so many people do for short. You may if you want to,” he said looking around on them all.
“How funny!” laughed Polly, “But I don't know as it is any worse than Polly or Ben.”
“Or Phronsie,” said Jappy. “Don't you like Jappy?” he said, bringing his head down to her level, as she sat on the little stool at his feet, content in listening to the merry chat.
“Is that the same as Jasper?” she asked gravely.
“Yes, the very same,” he said.
When they parted—Jappy and the little Peppers were sworn friends; and the boy, happy in his good times in the cheery little home, felt the hours long between the visits that his father, when he saw the change that they wrought in his son, willingly allowed him to make.
“Oh dear!” said Mrs. Pepper one day in the last of September—as a carriage drawn by a pair of very handsome horses, stopped at their door, “here comes Mr. King I do believe; we never looked worse'n we do to-day!”
“I don't care,” said Polly, flying out of the bedroom. “Jappy's with him, mamma, and it'll be nice I guess. At any rate, Phronsie's clean as a pink,” she thought to herself looking at the little maiden, busy with “baby” to whom she was teaching deportment in the corner. But there was no time to “fix up;” for a tall, portly gentleman, leaning on his heavy gold cane, was walking up from the little brown gate to the big flat-stone that served as a step. Jasper and Prince followed decorously.
“Is this little Miss Pepper?” he asked pompously of Polly, who answered his rap on the door. Now whether she was little “Miss Pepper” she never had stopped to consider.
“I don't know sir; I'm Polly.” And then she blushed bright as a rose, and the laughing brown eyes looked beyond to Jasper, who stood on the walk, and smiled encouragingly.
“Is your mother in?” asked the old gentleman, who was so tall he could scarcely enter the low door. And then Mrs. Pepper came forward, and Jasper introduced her, and the old gentleman bowed, and sat down in the seat Polly placed for him. And Mrs. Pepper thanked him with a heart overflowing with gratitude, through lips that would tremble even then, for all that Jasper had done for them. And the old gentleman said—“Humph!” but he looked at his son, and something shone in his eye just for a moment.
Phronsie had retreated with “baby” in her arms behind the door on the new arrival. But seeing everything progressing finely, and overcome by her extreme desire to see Jappy and Prince, she began by peeping out with big eyes to observe how things were going on. Just then the old gentleman happened to say, “Well, where is my little girl that baked me a cake so kindly?”
Then Phronsie, forgetting all else but her “poor sick man,” who also was “Jasper's father,” rushed out from behind the door, and coming up to the stately old gentleman in the chair, she looked up pityingly, and said, shaking her yellow head, “Poor, sick man, was my boy good?”
After that there was no more gravity and ceremony. In a moment, Phronsie was perched upon old Mr. King's knee, and playing with his watch; while the others, freed from all restraint, were chatting and laughing happily, till some of the cheeriness overflowed and warmed the heart of the old gentleman.
“We go to-morrow,” he said, rising, and looking at his watch. “Why, is it possible that we have been here an hour! there, my little girl, will you give me a kiss?” and he bent his handsome old head down to the childish face upturned to his confidingly.
“Don't go,” said the child, as she put up her little lips in grave confidence. “I do like you—I do!”
“Oh, Phronsie,” began Mrs. Pepper.
“Don't reprove her, madam,” said the old gentleman, who liked it immensely. “Yes, we go to-morrow,” he said, looking around on the group to whom this was a blow they little expected. They had surely thought Jasper was to stay a week longer.
“I received a telegram this morning, that I must be in the city on Thursday. And besides, madam,” he said, addressing Mrs. Pepper, “I think the climate is bad for me now, as it induces rheumatism. The hotel is also getting unpleasant; there are many annoyances that I cannot put up with; so that altogether, I do not regret it.”
Mrs. Pepper, not knowing exactly what to say to this, wisely said nothing. Meantime, Jappy and the little Peppers were having a sorry time over in the corner by themselves.
“Well, I'll write,” cried Jasper, not liking to look at Polly just then, as he was sure he shouldn't want anyone to look at him, if he felt like crying. “And you must answer 'em all.”
“Oh, we will! we will!” they cried. “And Jappy, do come next summer,” said Joel.
“If father'll only say yes, we will, I tell you!” he responded eagerly.
“Come, my boy,” said his father the third time; and Jasper knew by the tone that there must be no delay.
Mr. King had been nervously putting his hand in his pocket during the last few moments that the children were together; but when he glanced at Mrs. Pepper's eyes, something made him draw it out again hastily, as empty as he put it in. “No, 'twouldn't do,” he said to himself; “she isn't the kind of woman to whom one could offer money.”
The children crowded back their tears, and hastily said their last good-bye, some of them hanging on to Prince till the last moment.
And then the carriage door shut with a bang, Jasper giving them a bright parting smile, and they were gone.
And the Peppers went into their little brown house, and shut the door.