phronsie crept up to the wood-pile and peered around it. “are you sick, davie?” she asked in a
soft little voice.
david jumped up, tossing the soft waves of light hair from his forehead. “i’m not sick a bit,” he said.
“what makes you cry then?” persisted phronsie, picking up her pink calico dress to clamber over the
wood.
davie turned his back and wiped his hot cheeks.
“i see some tears,” said phronsie in a distressed little voice; and stumbling on over the wood, a big
stick slipped down against her toes.
david whirled around. “don’t come!” he screamed, making frantic dives over the wood-pile. away
went two or three sticks, carrying phronsie with them.
it was all done in a minute, and he had her out from under them. when he saw the blood on her little
arm, his cheeks went very white, and his legs wobbled.
“i’ve got to get mamsie,” he said, and rushed for the kitchen door.
“i’m going to get mamsie,” wailed phronsie after him.
david lent speed to his feet, and burst into the old kitchen where polly was brushing up the floor.
“phronsie’s hurt!” he screamed. “do come, polly. i’ve spilled wood all over her.” with that he
rushed into the bedroom. “mamsie—why where—”
polly dropped the broom and flew out of doors, davie at her heels.
“i can’t find mamsie,” he panted.
“no, she’s gone to mrs. blodgett’s,” polly threw over her shoulder as she ran on. “where is
phronsie? oh, davie, where is she?”
“by the wood-pile,” gasped david, flying back of the shed.
but when they both got there, phronsie was nowhere to be seen. to find mamsie was her one
thought, and since she knew that mother pepper was helping mrs. blodgett, why of course the hurt
arm must get there as soon as possible. so she wiped up her tears on her small pink apron, and
trudged on past the lane that led to grandma bascom’s, and into the high road.
polly and david pulled the wood about with frantic hands, davie saying all the while, “she was here.
oh, polly, she was.”
“now, david,” polly seized his arm, “you must stop saying that for she can’t be under here. see,” she
pointed to the sticks of wood sprawling about.
“but she was here,” declared david, pawing wildly in and out among the sticks.
polly darted off into the shed and hunted in each corner, calling phronsie at every step. then she ran
out to comfort david, and to keep up the search.
“i declare to goodness, john, ef here ain’t a little girl on th’ road!”
a woman in an old high farm wagon twitched her husband’s arm. “do stop an’ take her in. my
sakes! ain’t she a mite, though!” pushing back her big sunbonnet in order to see the better.
but before the old white horse lumbered up to the mite, down went phronsie in a small heap in the
middle of the dusty road.
“john—john!” screamed his wife. “stop! you’re a-runnin’ over her!”
“land o’ goshen! ain’t i stoppin’?” roared her husband at her. the old horse almost sat down on his
tired haunches at the sudden twitch on the reins. then the farmer leaned forward and stared ahead
down the road.
“ef you ain’t goin’ to git out an’ pick up that child, i am, john brown. sech a mortal slow man i
never see,” snorted his wife scornfully.
“an’ sech a flutter-budget as you be, no man ever saw,” mr. brown found time to say as he got
slowly down over the wheel.
“somebody’s got to flutter-budget in this world,” said his wife after him, as he walked slowly over to
the small pink heap, “or everybody’d go to sleep. bring her to me, john.— oh, do hurry! bring her to
me!”
“i want mamsie,” said phronsie, as mr. brown leaned over her.
“hey?” said the farmer, bringing his rough face with its stubby beard close to her little one.
“i’m going to my mamsie,” said phronsie, her blue eyes searching his face, “and my foots are tired.”
with that she put up her arms.
“i’ll be blowed!” exclaimed mr. brown. then he saw the little blood-stained arm and he started back.
“take me,” said phronsie, as she clutched his shaggy coat, “please, to my mamsie.”
“where’d you git hurt?” asked mr. brown, with no eyes for anything but the small arm with its
bloody streak.
phronsie looked down and surveyed it gravely. “my mamsie will make it well,” she said confidently.
“john—john!” screamed his wife, from the high wagon, “are you goin’ to stay all day with that child
in th’ middle of the road, or do you want me to come an’ look after her?”
“you stay where you be, nancy,” said mr. brown. “i don’t know no more’n th’ last one,” this to
phronsie, “where ’tis you want to go to. but i’ll take you there, all th’ same. now, says i, hold tight,
little un.”
“i will,” said phronsie in a satisfied little voice, putting her arms around his neck. so he bundled her
up in his great arms and marched to the high wagon.
“give her to me,” cried his wife, hungrily extending her hands.
“i wouldn’t ef i didn’t have to drive,” said mr. brown, as he clumsily set phronsie on the broad lap.
“she’s hurt her arm. be careful, mother,” as he got into the wagon and began to drive off.
“my soul an’ body!” exclaimed mrs. brown, pausing in the hugging process now set up, to regard
the little bloody arm. “oh, how’d you get that?”
“i’m going to my mamsie,” announced phronsie joyfully, and ignoring the injured arm. then she
laughed, showing all her little teeth, and snuggled against mrs. brown’s big shawl.
“ain’t she too cunnin’ for anythin’!” exclaimed mrs. brown. “did you ever see th’ like? but how’d
you git hurt?” she demanded, turning to phronsie again.
“it was the wood,” said phronsie, gravely regarding her arm again. “and i’m going to mamsie.”
“she keeps a-sayin’ that,” said mr. brown. “now, how in thunder will we know where to take her?”
“don’t swear,” said his wife.
“‘thunder’ ain’t swearin’,” retorted mr. brown with a virtuous air. “i c’d say lots worse things.”
“well, git out and say ’em in th’ road, then,” advised his wife, “an’ not before this child. where’d
you say you was a-goin’?” she bent her large face over the small one snuggled against her ample
bosom.
“to my mamsie,” said phronsie, so glad that at last she was understood.
the wrinkles in farmer brown’s face ran clear down to his stubby beard, as he slapped one hard
hand on his knee.
“oh, yes—yes,” said his wife, nodding her big sunbonnet.
“don’t pretend you understand her, mother,” mr. brown turned to his wife, “for you don’t—neither
of us do, no more’n th’ dead.”
“you let me be, john,” said mrs. brown, “an’ i’ll attend to this child.”
farmer brown whistled and looked off up to the clouds; perhaps something might come down to
illuminate the situation.
“now, where is mum—mam—whatever you said?” began mrs. brown, patting phronsie’s yellow
hair with a large red hand.
“off there.” phronsie pointed a small finger off into space.
“i see,” said mrs. brown, nodding her sunbonnet again. the puckers were beginning to come in her
face. mr. brown, taking his gaze off from the clouds, looked at her and grinned.
“well, now let’s see,” said mrs. brown reflectively, and with a cold shoulder for the farmer;
“mamsie—”
“yes.” phronsie gave another little laugh and wriggled her feet. it was so lovely that they understood
her; and she was really on the way to her mamsie.
“let’s see—now what road did you say you want to go to git to this—mamsie?” began the farmer’s
wife, smiling encouragingly at her.
“why, don’t you know?” phronsie lifted her head suddenly to gaze into mrs. brown’s face. “off
there.” again she pointed to space.
“you keep still.” mrs. brown thrust her elbow into the farmer’s side, as she saw his mouth open.
“you’re more care than th’ child. i’ll find out—you keep still!”
“hem!” said mr. brown loudly.
“and please have us get to mamsie soon,” begged phronsie, beginning to look worried.
“yes—yes,” mrs. brown promised quickly. “well, now let’s see—how does mamsie look?” she
began.
“why, she’s my mamsie, and—”
“she?” screamed the farmer’s wife. “oh, my soul an’ body! i thought ’twas a house.”
“thunder!” ejaculated mr. brown; “now we’re in a fix, ef it’s a woman. th’ lord knows how we’ll
ever find her.”
“where’d you come from?” mrs. brown now found it impossible to keep the anxiety from running
all up and down her big face. phronsie put up her trembling little lips and pointed off, still into space.
“john,” his wife burst out, “we are in a fix, an’ that’s th’ solemn truth.”
the farmer took off his old cap and scratched his head. “well, anyway, we’ve got th’ little gal, an’
you’ve always wanted one, nancy.”
“ef we can only keep her.” mrs. brown hugged phronsie hungrily to her breast. “oh, my little lamb!”
she kept saying.
“i want my mamsie!” said phronsie, nearly smothered. “please take me to my mamsie!” and she
struggled to get free.
“don’t you want to go to a nice house?” began the farmer’s wife in a wheedling way, as she set her
upon her knees.
“there—there.” mr. brown whipped out a big red handkerchief and wiped off the tears from the little
face. “ma, she’s a-cryin’,” he announced in an awful voice.
“there are chickens,” said mrs. brown desperately, “and—”
“are there little chickies?” asked phronsie, as mr. brown gave her face another dab with the big
handkerchief.
“yes—yes, awful little ones,” cried mrs. brown; “just as little as anythin’, an’ yellow an’ white an’
fluffy.”
phronsie clapped her hands and smiled between her tears.
“an’ there’s pigs, little ones,” broke in the farmer, to hold all advantage gained, “an’ you can scratch
their backs.”
phronsie tore off her thoughts from the little chickens, yellow and white and fluffy, to regard the
farmer. “ooh! i want to see the little pigs,” she cried, leaning over to look into mr. brown’s face,
“and i’m going to scratch their backs right off.”
“so you shall—so you shall,” he cried, “when you get to my house.”
phronsie’s lip fell suddenly, and she flew back to mrs. brown’s arms. “i want to go to the little brown
house,” she wailed, casting herself up against the kind breast.
“john, can’t you let well enough alone?” scolded his wife. “she was took with the chickens. there,
there, child, don’t cry.”
“she liked my pigs best,” said the farmer sullenly. “g’long there!” slapping the leather reins down
smartly on the back of the old white horse.
“i want to go to the little brown house,” phronsie wailed steadily on.
“well, that’s where you’re goin’,” said the farmer. he turned suddenly. “that’s jest where we’re a-
takin’ you to, the brown house.”
“are you?” cried phronsie, her wails stopping suddenly.
“sure,” said mr. brown decidedly. “now, ma, we’ll take her home with us. we’ll inquire all along
th’ road ef anybody knows who she is,” he said in a low voice over phronsie’s head. “she’ll be all
right when she sees them pigs an’ chickens.”
“an’ ef we can’t find where she b’longs, why, we’ll adopt her, an’ she’ll be ours,” finished his wife,
all in a tremble. “oh, you sweet lamb, you!” she kissed phronsie’s yellow head.
phronsie, quite contented now that she was on the way to the little brown house where polly was and
mamsie would soon come, presently began to hum in a happy little voice, and the old white horse
and big high wagon went jogging on over a short cross-road leading to maybury, where the farmer
and his good wife lived.
meantime polly and davie were having a perfectly dreadful time searching everywhere, even turning
an old barrel, afraid that phronsie had pulled it over on herself, and scouring every inch of the ground
around the little brown house. then davie dashed off at top speed, down over the lane leading to
grandma bascom’s, sure of finding phronsie there.
but grandma, feeding her hens from a tin pan of potato and apple parings, shook her cap hard when
davie stood on his tiptoes and screamed into her ear all about phronsie.
“oh, the pretty creeter!” she mourned, and the pan in her hands shook so that it fell to the ground,
and the hens clattered around and scratched and fought till every bit of the potato and apple skins was
gobbled up.
davie rushed off from the tangle of hens about grandma’s feet, with only one thought—to get to
deacon blodgett’s as fast as he could. and flying down the lane, he ran into the main road, just after
the old white horse and big high wagon had turned the corner leading to maybury, carrying phronsie
off to the brown house.
“whoa—there—great saint peter!” shouted somebody at him. davie was so blind with the drops of
perspiration running down his face that he couldn’t see, and besides, by that time his small legs were
so used to running that they kept on, even after the young man in the top buggy had pulled up in
astonishment.
“ain’t you ever goin’ to stop?” roared the young man, leaning out of the buggy and staring at him.
“i can’t,” panted davie, pausing a moment.
“what’s th’ matter? goin’ for th’ doctor?”
“i’m goin’ for mamsie,” said davie, rushing on.
“hold on! who you’re goin’ for?” roared the young man.
“mamsie,” panted davie, whirling around.
“i d’no what in th’ blazes that is,” the young man took off his cap and scratched his head. “well,
what are you goin’ for, lickety-split like that! come here, you boy!”
davie came slowly up to the side of the buggy. somehow a note of hope began to sing in his small
heart that maybe the young man might help.
“i let my sister get wood spilled all over her,” he said, his face working dreadfully, “and she’s lost,
an’ i’m going to mamsie.”
“i can’t make head nor tail of it at all,” said the young man. then he put on his cap, since scratching
his head did no good. “well, your sister’s lost, you say?”
“yes,” said davie, hanging to the wheel. “oh, have you seen her, mr. man? she had on a pink dress
—”
“hey? oh, thunder an’ lightnin’!” he slapped his knee, with a red hand, “was she a little gal?”
“yes—yes,” cried davie, with wide blue eyes. “oh, have you seen her, mr. man?”
“i think likely,” said the young man, bending over till his face nearly touched davie’s hot cheek, “an’
then again, mebbe i hain’t. i’ve seen a little gal in a pink dress, but she may not be your sister. how
big was she?”
davie released his clutch on the wheel, to bend down and measure where phronsie’s head would
come if she stood there in the road before him, the young man leaning out to critically watch the
proceeding.
“i b’lieve as sure as shootin’, that’s th’ little gal.” then he whistled and slapped his knee again.
“oh, mr. man, help me to find her!” davie grasped the wheel once more and held on for dear life.
“well, i can’t as long as you hang on to that ’ere wheel,” said the young man. “now you hop in, and
i’ll catch up with that young one in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
over the wheel went davie, to sink down in a small heap on the old leather seat.
“yes, sir—ee!” declared the young man again. “i seen her in mis brown’s lap as sure as shootin’. it’s
lucky she’s fell in such good hands. well, i’ll catch up with that old white plug of a horse. g’lang!”
he whipped up, passing the turn in the road where phronsie was being carried off in the high wagon
on the “short cut” to the brown house in maybury.
