mrs. parson henderson for once left her breakfast dishes unwashed.
“it’s no use—i must get over to the little brown house at once.” she took down her sunbonnet from
its nail in the entry and stopped to put her head in the study doorway.
“you’ll be surprised to see the kitchen if you go out there,” she said, “and the morning work not
done.”
“jerusha isn’t here, so no matter,” said the parson, looking up from next sunday’s sermon with a
smile.
“i can’t keep away from those poor pepper children, since you heard down at the store that their
mother was away last night at miss babbitt’s.”
“almira, i’m glad enough that you’re going over to see polly. i thought it would be as much as my
life was worth to suggest it till those breakfast dishes were washed.” he laughed now like a boy.
“there are some things more important than breakfast dishes,” observed his wife grimly. then she
hurried off, cross-lots, to the little brown house.
nobody was in the old kitchen; that she saw through the window. so she hurried around the house
and there under the scraggy apple-tree was polly before the big tub on its bench, scrubbing away on a
pile of clothes and trying to sing, but it was a quavering little voice that the parson’s wife heard.
“go and get your little tub, phronsie,” said polly, breaking off from the poor little song, “and wash
seraphina’s clothes.”
“i want my mamsie.” phronsie, a picture of woe, stood quite still under a sheltering branch of the old
apple-tree.
“oh, phronsie,” said polly, trying to speak gayly, “just think of seraphina, poor dear, wanting her
clothes washed. only think, phronsie!”
“i want my mamsie,” said phronsie, not offering to stir. her lips trembled and polly knew in another
moment that the tears would come in a torrent; so she flung her hands clear of the soap suds and
started to run over to her. instead she plunged into the parson’s wife just making up her mind to come
around the corner into full view.
“o dear!” gasped polly in dismay, her soapy hands flying up against the clean blue print dress.
“never mind,” said mrs. henderson, “soap never hurt any calico dress,” seizing the wet hands. “o
my!” and she hurried over to phronsie, too scared at polly’s plunge to cry.
“well—well.” then as polly ran to get a dry cloth to wipe off the front of the clean print dress, the
parson’s wife sat down on one of the big stones that ben and the other boys had brought into “the
orchard” to play tea-party with whenever the much-prized hours from work would allow.
phronsie came slowly to her. “i want my mamsie,” she said, patting mrs. henderson’s gown to
attract attention. “i want her very much indeed, i do.”
“yes, i know.” then the parson’s wife lifted her on her lap. “so does polly want mamsie—and
davie. where is davie?”
phronsie pointed a small finger up to the branches of the apple-tree.
“oh, davie, are you there?” mrs. henderson cocked up one eye. there sat davie huddled up in a
crotch of the tree, his head in his hands. “dear me. i thought it was a big bird!”
“davie is a big bird,” echoed phronsie, smiling through the tears that were just ready to roll down.
“isn’t he,” said the parson’s wife with a little laugh. “well, now, come down, big bird.”
“come down, big bird,” cried phronsie, clapping her hands and hopping up and down, as polly ran
out with the clean cloth.
“now that is as good as ever,” declared mrs. henderson, as polly wiped off all trace of the soap suds.
“well, here comes davie,” as he slid slowly down from branch to branch.
“that’s a good boy, davie,” said polly approvingly, the sparkle coming back to the brown eyes.
“isn’t he?” said mrs. henderson. “well, now, davie, i wonder if you won’t come over to the
parsonage and help me this morning?”
“can i help you?” asked davie, raising his swollen eyes to her.
“yes, indeed; ever so much,” declared mrs. henderson quickly. “i’ve some work to have done in
setting up my attic, and you can help me.”
“then i’ll come,” said davie, with a long breath of satisfaction.
“now that’s good,” said the parson’s wife.
“i want to go, too,” said phronsie, laying hold of mrs. henderson’s gown.
“oh, no,” said the parson’s wife, “you must stay and help polly. poor polly—see how busy she is!”
pointing over to the wash-tub where polly was splashing away for dear life.
phronsie’s hand dropped from mrs. henderson’s gown. she ran over unsteadily to the big tub on its
bench. “i’m going to help you, polly,” she said, standing on her tiptoes.
“so you shall,” said polly, flashing over a bright smile to the parson’s wife. “run and get your little
tub, and see if you can get seraphina’s clothes washed as quickly as these,” she doused one of the
boy’s little calico jackets up and down in the suds.
“but i want to help on these things,” said phronsie, patting the big tub with a disappointed little hand.
“please, polly, let me.”
“no,” said polly decidedly, “there isn’t room for more than one here. besides mamsie wouldn’t like
it.”
“wouldn’t mamsie like it for me to help in the big tub?” asked phronsie.
“no, she wouldn’t,” said polly decidedly.
phronsie slowly let her hand drop to her side. “would mamsie want me to wash dolly’s clothes?” she
asked, her blue eyes fastened on polly’s face.
“yes, indeed, she certainly would,” declared polly decidedly. “there now, that’s clean, until joey
gets it dirty again,” and she wrung out the little calico blouse.
“then i shall wash my dolly’s clothes,” declared phronsie, marching off to the woodshed where her
little tub was kept.
“and you come with me, david,” said mrs. henderson, “for i must get to work in my attic. polly,
don’t worry, child—we’ll find some way to get your mother back here,” she whispered on the way
out of the yard. and taking david’s hand, the parson’s wife went swiftly home, hoping at every step
that no parishioner had caught sight of those unwashed breakfast dishes.
“i’m going to wipe them dry,” said david, as she poured the boiling water into the dish-pan. “may i,
mrs. henderson?”
“you certainly may,” said the parson’s wife, setting the big iron tea-kettle back on the stove. “now
that’s a good boy, davie pepper. get a clean towel in the table-drawer.”
so davie ran over and fished out a clean towel, and the dishes were soon done and piled on the
dresser. and none too soon! here came around the corner of the parsonage, miss keturah sims to
borrow a colander to strain blackberries in.
“i’ve got to make jell this mornin’,” she announced, coming in without the formality of knocking,
“an’ my colander’s bust.” her sharp black eyes, the sharpest pair in all badgertown for finding out
things, as the parson’s wife knew quite well, roved all over the kitchen.
“you shall have it,” cried mrs. henderson, running into the pantry on happy feet. “oh, davie
pepper,” she cried, as the door closed on miss sims, “you don’t know how you’ve helped me!” she
stopped to drop a kiss on the soft light hair.
“have i?” cried david, very much pleased. “have i helped you, mrs. henderson?”
“indeed you have!” she declared. then she stopped in the middle of the kitchen. “i remember what
your mother once said.”
david drew near, holding his breath. to hear what mamsie said was always a treat not to be lightly
put one side.
“she said,” repeated mrs. henderson, “that if any one felt bad about anything, the best way was to
get up and do something for somebody. and so you stopped crying and worrying polly and came
over here. and you don’t know, david pepper, how you’ve helped me! well, we must get up into the
attic.” she hurried over to the broom closet. “get the dust-pan, david, behind the stove.”
“i will,” cried david, clattering after it.
“and the little brush.”
“yes—i will.”
“and the dust-cloth, hanging on the back entry nail,” mrs. henderson’s voice trailed down the attic
stairs. and davie, gathering up the various things, hurried up after her.
“dear me, how hot it is!” exclaimed the parson’s wife, hurrying over to open the window at the end.
“i’ll open it,” cried david, depositing his armful so hastily that down the stairs rattled the little brush
and the dust-pan, and only the dust-cloth remained.
“no, no, davie, i must open it,” said mrs. henderson, suiting the action to the word. “and remember,
dear,” as he brought back the truant articles, “you must wait patiently till i tell you what to do.”
“i’m so sorry,” said david penitently, still holding the runaway broom and dust-pan.
“i know, dear—and next time, remember to wait until i tell you what i want you to do. well, the first
thing, now that the window is open, and we have some fresh air to work by, is to get these trunks and
boxes out from this corner.” she was over there by this time and down on her knees under the eaves.
“i’ll pull ’em out,” began davie; then he stopped and looked at her, “if you want me to.”
“that’s a good boy,” mrs. henderson turned and looked at him. “you’ve no idea what a comfort it is,
david pepper, to have any one who wants to help, wait till he’s told what to do! well, you mustn’t
even attempt to pull these trunks and boxes about. we will each take hold of a handle, then it will be
easy to shove them out.” she got up suddenly. rap! went her head against a low-lying beam.
david stared at her in dismay. “o dear!” he exclaimed, quite aghast.
“yes, that did hurt,” said the parson’s wife, feeling of her head, “and it was all because i was in too
big a hurry. now i’m going down stairs to bathe it, and you may—” she hesitated and looked about.
“why there is that little box of books, david. you may take them out and dust them, for somebody
has left the cover off. there it is now, behind that table.” she pointed to an ancestral piece of
furniture with one leg missing. “take your dust-cloth, child, and begin, then pile the books neatly in
the box, and set the cover on,” and she went swiftly down the stairs.
david ran over and picked up the dust-cloth where he had thrown it on the floor. books!—to think
there were books in that box! his small fingers tingled to begin, and he threw himself down on the
floor beside the box, and peered in. there were green books, and red ones, and very dull gray and
black ones, all more or less dilapidated.
he drew a long breath, his blue eyes widening as his hands clutched the sides of the box. “i better
take ’em all out first,” he said to himself, and lifting the upper layer very carefully, he laid them
down, one by one, on the floor beside him. a red-covered book, the back of the binding almost in
tatters, slipped from his fingers and fell to the attic floor.
“o dear me!” he was going to exclaim, when his gaze fell upon the pages before him. there was a
big picture on one side and a whole lot of reading on the other page.
david leaned over to stare at the picture. then he rested his elbows on the attic floor and stared
harder than ever. the picture showed a boy seated before a desk, bent over a slate, on which he was
writing, and opposite to him the book said, “i must get my lesson for to-morrow,” in great big letters.
david knew very well what these big letters said, for mother pepper had often told polly to lay down
her work when she was trying to help mamsie on the coats for mr. atkins, telling her, “you have
sewed enough, polly child. now get the big bible from the bedroom, and read aloud. and then you
can teach the children, polly,” she would always add.
so davie had picked up everything he possibly could about any big letters that were likely to come
his way.
“the boy is going to school,” said david, unable to tear his eyes from the picture, “and he’s going to
learn a lesson. o dear, i wonder when i shall ever go to school! and he’s got a slate and pencil.”
at that david was so lost at the idea of any boy being rich enough to own a slate and pencil, that he
sat perfectly still, and a big spider hurried out of her web and ran along the eaves, to stare down at
him. finally seeing that he didn’t stir, she slipped down swiftly on her gossamer thread, and landed
right in the middle of the book with the dilapidated red binding. this woke david up. and of course
mrs. spider then ran for her life.
“i’m going to see if there are other boys with slates and pencils,” said david, turning the leaves.
there lay the dust-cloth beside him, but he never thought of that. and as he couldn’t read very much,
but had to study each letter carefully, he didn’t get on very fast, especially as there was a picture on
every other page. and of course he must see what the big letters opposite said it was all about.
the first thing he knew there were some steps coming up the attic stairs.
david’s head came up suddenly, and the old book slipped away from his grasp.
“my mother says you are to come down to dinner,” said peletiah, coming slowly up.
david stared at him. then his little face got hot all over.
“my mother says you are to come down to dinner,” said the parson’s son.
“i—i can’t,” said david miserably, and his head hung down.
“my mother says you are to come down to dinner,” peletiah said, exactly as if giving the message for
the first time.
“no, no,” said david, unable to see anything but the idle dust-cloth lying on the floor.
“my mother says—” began the parson’s son, not moving from his tracks.
“da—vid!” called a voice over the attic stairs, “come, child, to dinner. you must be hungry, working
so hard.”
david crouched down by the side of the box. “i haven’t worked,” he said, “and i can’t have any
dinner.”
“my mother says—”
“yes, come, child,” called the voice over the attic stairs, “and, peletiah, you must come down, too.”
peletiah, considering the last command to come to dinner much more to his taste and more binding
than the message he was sent up to the attic to deliver, shut his mouth as he was just going to begin
on his message once more, and went down the stairs.
david looked wildly around as he was left alone, with no one but the big spider now in her home web
once more. to get to the little brown house and to polly was now his only thought! he would be
carrying disgrace there—but he must go. then jumping to his feet, he ran as fast as he could down
the attic stairs to the back entry. the knives and forks were going pretty fast as he dashed past the
dining-room. oh, how jolly it all sounded, and a most enticing smell of all things good was in the air,
as he dashed past and out into the parsonage yard.
“what’s that?” asked parson henderson, and he laid down the big carving knife and fork just as mrs.
henderson was saying, “i wonder why davie pepper doesn’t come down to dinner. i’ve neglected the
poor child, for when mrs. jones came to see me about the sewing society, i couldn’t get back to the
attic.”
peletiah got out of his chair and went to the window, followed by ezekiel. “there’s david pepper,”
he said, pointing with a slow finger to a small boy running blindly on across the parsonage yard.
