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Pollyanna laughed. He was such a funny man, she thought.
The next day she saw him again.
" 'Tisn't quite so nice as yesterday, but it's pretty nice," she
called out cheerfully.
"Eh? Oh! Humph!" grunted the man as before; and once again
Pollyanna laughed happily.
When for the third time Pollyanna accosted him in much the same
manner, the man stopped abruptly.
"See here, child, who are you, and why are you speaking to me
every day?"
"I'm Pollyanna Whittier, and I thought you looked lonesome. I'm
so glad you stopped. Now we're introduced--only I don't know your
name yet."
"Well, of all the--" The man did not finish his sentence, but
strode on faster than ever.
Pollyanna looked after him with a disappointed droop to her
usually smiling lips.
"Maybe he didn't understand--but that was only half an
introduction. I don't know HIS name, yet," she murmured, as she
proceeded on her way.
Pollyanna was carrying calf's-foot jelly to Mrs. Snow to-day.
Miss Polly Harrington always sent something to Mrs. Snow once a
week. She said she thought that it was her duty, inasmuch as Mrs.
Snow was poor, sick, and a member of her church--it was the duty
of all the church members to look out for her, of course. Miss
Polly did her duty by Mrs. Snow usually on Thursday
afternoons--not personally, but through Nancy. To-day Pollyanna
had begged the privilege, and Nancy had promptly given it to her
in accordance with Miss Polly's orders.
"And it's glad that I am ter get rid of it," Nancy had declared
in private afterwards to Pollyanna; "though it's a shame ter be
tuckin' the job off on ter you, poor lamb, so it is, it is!"
"But I'd love to do it, Nancy."
"Well, you won't--after you've done it once," predicted Nancy,
sourly.
"Why not?"
"Because nobody does. If folks wa'n't sorry for her there
wouldn't a soul go near her from mornin' till night, she's that
cantankerous. All is, I pity her daughter what HAS ter take care
of her."
"But, why, Nancy?"
Nancy shrugged her shoulders.
"Well, in plain words, it's just that nothin' what ever has
happened, has happened right in Mis' Snow's eyes. Even the days
of the week ain't run ter her mind. If it's Monday she's bound
ter say she wished 'twas Sunday; and if you take her jelly you're
pretty sure ter hear she wanted chicken--but if you DID bring her
chicken, she'd be jest hankerin' for lamb broth!"
"Why, what a funny woman," laughed Pollyanna. "I think I shall
like to go to see her. She must be so surprising and--and
different. I love DIFFERENT folks."
"Humph! Well, Mis' Snow's 'different,' all right--I hope, for the
sake of the rest of us!" Nancy had finished grimly.
Pollyanna was thinking of these remarks to-day as she turned in
at the gate of the shabby little cottage. Her eyes were quite
sparkling, indeed, at the prospect of meeting this "different"
Mrs. Snow.
A pale-faced, tired-looking young girl answered her knock at the
door.
"How do you do?" began Pollyanna politely. "I'm from Miss Polly
Harrington, and I'd like to see Mrs. Snow, please."
"Well, if you would, you're the first one that ever 'liked' to
see her," muttered the girl under her breath; but Pollyanna did
not hear this. The girl had turned and was leading the way
through the hall to a door at the end of it.
In the sick-room, after the girl had ushered her in and closed
the door, Pollyanna blinked a little before she could accustom
her eyes to the gloom. Then she saw, dimly outlined, a woman
half-sitting up in the bed across the room. Pollyanna advanced at
once.
"How do you do, Mrs. Snow? Aunt Polly says she hopes you are
comfortable to-day, and she's sent you some calf's-foot jelly."
"Dear me! jelly?" murmured a fretful voice,
"Of course I'm very much obliged, but I was hoping 'twould be
lamb broth to-day."
Pollyanna frowned a little.
"Why, I thought it was CHICKEN you wanted when folks brought you
jelly," she said.
"What?" The sick woman turned sharply.
"Why, nothing, much," apologized Pollyanna, hurriedly; "and of
course it doesn't really make any difference. It's only that
Nancy said it was chicken you wanted when we brought jelly, and
lamb broth when we brought chicken--but maybe 'twas the other
way, and Nancy forgot."
The sick woman pulled herself up till she sat erect in the bed--a
most unusual thing for her to do, though Pollyanna did not know
this.
"Well, Miss Impertinence, who are you?" she demanded.
Pollyanna laughed gleefully.
"Oh, THAT isn't my name, Mrs. Snow--and I'm so glad 'tisn't, too!
That would be worse than 'Hephzibah,' wouldn't it? I'm Pollyanna
Whittier, Miss Polly Harrington's niece, and I've come to live
with her. That's why I'm here with the jelly this morning."
All through the first part of this sentence, the sick woman had
sat interestedly erect; but at the reference to the jelly she
fell back on her pillow listlessly.
"Very well; thank you. Your aunt is very kind, of course, but my
appetite isn't very good this morning, and I was wanting lamb--"
She stopped suddenly, then went on with an abrupt change of
subject. "I never slept a wink last night--not a wink!"
"O dear, I wish _I_ didn't," sighed Pollyanna, placing the jelly
on the little stand and seating herself comfortably in the
nearest chair. "You lose such a lot of time just sleeping! Don't
you think so?"
"Lose time--sleeping!" exclaimed the sick woman.
"Yes, when you might be just living, you know. It seems such a
pity we can't live nights, too."
Once again the woman pulled herself erect in her bed.
"Well, if you ain't the amazing young one!" she cried. "Here! do
you go to that window and pull up the curtain," she directed. "I
should like to know what you look like!"
Pollyanna rose to her feet, but she laughed a little ruefully.
"O dear! then you'll see my freckles, won't you?" she sighed, as
she went to the window; "--and just when I was being so glad it
was dark and you couldn't see 'em. There! Now you can--oh!" she
broke off excitedly, as she turned back to the bed; "I'm so glad
you wanted to see me, because now I can see you! They didn't tell
me you were so pretty!"
"Me!--pretty!" scoffed the woman, bitterly.
"Why, yes. Didn't you know it?" cried Pollyanna.
"Well, no, I didn't," retorted Mrs. Snow, dryly. Mrs. Snow had
lived forty years, and for fifteen of those years she had been
too busy wishing things were different to find much time to enjoy
things as they were.
"Oh, but your eyes are so big and dark, and your hair's all dark,
too, and curly," cooed Pollyanna. "I love black curls. (That's
one of the things I'm going to have when I get to Heaven.) And
you've got two little red spots in your cheeks. Why, Mrs. Snow,
you ARE pretty! I should think you'd know it when you looked at
yourself in the glass."
"The glass!" snapped the sick woman, falling back on her pillow.
"Yes, well, I hain't done much prinkin' before the mirror these
days--and you wouldn't, if you was flat on your back as I am!"
"Why, no, of course not," agreed Pollyanna, sympathetically. "But
wait--just let me show you," she exclaimed, skipping over to the
bureau and picking up a small hand-glass.
On the way back to the bed she stopped, eyeing the sick woman
with a critical gaze.
"I reckon maybe, if you don't mind, I'd like to fix your hair
just a little before I let you see it," she proposed. "May I fix
your hair, please?"
"Why, I--suppose so, if you want to," permitted Mrs. Snow,
grudgingly; "but 'twon't stay, you know."
"Oh, thank you. I love to fix people's hair," exulted Pollyanna,
carefully laying down the hand-glass and reaching for a comb. "I
sha'n't do much to-day, of course--I'm in such a hurry for you to
see how pretty you are; but some day I'm going to take it all
down and have a perfectly lovely time with it," she cried,
touching with soft fingers the waving hair above the sick woman's
forehead.
For five minutes Pollyanna worked swiftly, deftly, combing a
refractory curl into fluffiness, perking up a drooping ruffle at
the neck, or shaking a pillow into plumpness so that the head
might have a better pose. Meanwhile the sick woman, frowning
prodigiously, and openly scoffing at the whole procedure, was, in
spite of herself, beginning to tingle with a feeling perilously
near to excitement.
"There!" panted Pollyanna, hastily plucking a pink from a vase
near by and tucking it into the dark hair where it would give the
best effect. "Now I reckon we're ready to be looked at!" And she
held out the mirror in triumph.
"Humph!" grunted the sick woman, eyeing her reflection severely.
"I like red pinks better than pink ones; but then, it'll fade,
anyhow, before night, so what's the difference!"
"But I should think you'd be glad they did fade," laughed
Pollyanna, "'cause then you can have the fun of getting some
more. I just love your hair fluffed out like that," she finished
with a satisfied gaze. "Don't you?"
"Hm-m; maybe. Still--'twon't last, with me tossing back and forth
on the pillow as I do."
"Of course not--and I'm glad, too," nodded Pollyanna, cheerfully,
"because then I can fix it again. Anyhow, I should think you'd be
glad it's black--black shows up so much nicer on a pillow than
yellow hair like mine does."
"Maybe; but I never did set much store by black hair--shows gray
too soon," retorted Mrs. Snow. She spoke fretfully, but she still
held the mirror before her face.
"Oh, I love black hair! I should be so glad if I only had it,"
sighed Pollyanna.
Mrs. Snow dropped the mirror and turned irritably.
"Well, you wouldn't!--not if you were me. You wouldn't be glad
for black hair nor anything else--if you had to lie here all day
as I do!"
Pollyanna bent her brows in a thoughtful frown.
"Why, 'twould be kind of hard--to do it then, wouldn't it?" she
mused aloud.
"Do what?"
"Be glad about things."
"Be glad about things--when you're sick in bed all your days?
Well, I should say it would," retorted Mrs. Snow. "If you don't
think so, just tell me something to be glad about; that's all!"
To Mrs. Snow's unbounded amazement, Pollyanna sprang to her feet
and clapped her hands.
"Oh, goody! That'll be a hard one--won't it? I've got to go, now,
but I'll think and think all the way home; and maybe the next
time I come I can tell it to you. Good-by. I've had a lovely
time! Good-by," she called again, as she tripped through the
doorway.
"Well, I never! Now, what does she mean by that?" ejaculated Mrs.
Snow, staring after her visitor. By and by she turned her head
and picked up the mirror, eyeing her reflection critically.
"That little thing HAS got a knack with hair and no mistake," she
muttered under her breath. "I declare, I didn't know it could
look so pretty. But then, what's the use?" she sighed, dropping
the little glass into the bedclothes, and rolling her head on the
pillow fretfully.
A little later, when Milly, Mrs. Snow's daughter, came in, the
mirror still lay among the bedclothes it had been carefully
hidden from sight.
"Why, mother--the curtain is up!" cried Milly, dividing her
amazed stare between the window and the pink in her mother's
hair.
"Well, what if it is?" snapped the sick woman. "I needn't stay in
the dark all my life, if I am sick, need I?"
"Why, n-no, of course not," rejoined Milly, in hasty
conciliation, as she reached for the medicine bottle. "It's
only--well, you know very well that I've tried to get you to have
a lighter room for ages and you wouldn't."
There was no reply to this. Mrs. Snow was picking at the lace on
her nightgown. At last she spoke fretfully.
"I should think SOMEBODY might give me a new nightdress--instead
of lamb broth, for a change!"
"Why--mother!"
No wonder Milly quite gasped aloud with bewilderment. In the
drawer behind her at that moment lay two new nightdresses that
Milly for months had been vainly urging her mother to wear.
CHAPTER IX. WHICH TELLS OF THE MAN
It rained the next time Pollyanna saw the Man. She greeted him,
however, with a bright smile.
"It isn't so nice to-day, is it?" she called blithesomely. "I'm
glad it doesn't rain always, anyhow!"
The man did not even grunt this time, nor turn his head.
Pollyanna decided that of course he did not hear her. The next
time, therefore (which happened to be the following day), she
spoke up louder. She thought it particularly necessary to do
this, anyway, for the Man was striding along, his hands behind
his back, and his eyes on the ground--which seemed, to Pollyanna,
preposterous in the face of the glorious sunshine and the
freshly-washed morning air: Pollyanna, as a special treat, was
on a morning errand to-day.
"How do you do?" she chirped. "I'm so glad it isn't yesterday,
aren't you?"
The man stopped abruptly. There was an angry scowl on his face.
"See here, little girl, we might just as well settle this thing
right now, once for all," he began testily. "I've got something
besides the weather to think of. I don't know whether the sun
shines or not." Pollyanna beamed joyously.
"No, sir; I thought you didn't. That's why I told you."
"Yes; well--Eh? What?" he broke off sharply, in sudden
understanding of her words.
"I say, that's why I told you--so you would notice it, you
know--that the sun shines, and all that. I knew you'd be glad it
did if you only stopped to think of it--and you didn't look a bit
as if you WERE thinking of it!"
"Well, of all the--" ejaculated the man, with an oddly impotent
gesture. He started forward again, but after the second step he
turned back, still frowning.
"See here, why don't you find some one your own age to talk to?"
"I'd like to, sir, but there aren't any 'round here, Nancy says.
Still, I don't mind so very much. I like old folks just as well,
maybe better, sometimes--being used to the Ladies' Aid, so."
"Humph! The Ladies' Aid, indeed! Is that what you took me for?"
The man's lips were threatening to smile, but the scowl above
them was still trying to hold them grimly stern.
Pollyanna laughed gleefully.
"Oh, no, sir. You don't look a mite like a Ladies' Aider--not but
that you're just as good, of course--maybe better," she added in
hurried politeness. "You see, I'm sure you're much nicer than you
look!"
The man made a queer noise in his throat.
"Well, of all the--" he ejaculated again, as he turned and strode
on as before.
The next time Pollyanna met the Man, his eyes were gazing
straight into hers, with a quizzical directness that made his
face look really pleasant, Pollyanna thought.
"Good afternoon," he greeted her a little stiffly. "Perhaps I'd
better say right away that I KNOW the sun is shining to-day."
"But you don't have to tell me," nodded Pollyanna, brightly. "I
KNEW you knew it just as soon as I saw you."
"Oh, you did, did you?"
"Yes, sir; I saw it in your eyes, you know, and in your smile."
"Humph!" grunted the man, as he passed on.
The Man always spoke to Pollyanna after this, and frequently he
spoke first, though usually he said little but "good afternoon."
Even that, however, was a great surprise to Nancy, who chanced to
be with Pollyanna one day when the greeting was given.
"Sakes alive, Miss Pollyanna," she gasped, "did that man SPEAK TO
YOU?"
"Why, yes, he always does--now," smiled Pollyanna.
" 'He always does'! Goodness! Do you know who--he--is?" demanded
Nancy.
Pollyanna frowned and shook her head.
"I reckon he forgot to tell me one day. You see, I did my part of
the introducing, but he didn't."
Nancy's eyes widened.
"But he never speaks ter anybody, child--he hain't for years, I
guess, except when he just has to, for business, and all that.
He's John Pendleton. He lives all by himself in the big house on
Pendleton Hill. He won't even have any one 'round ter cook for
him--comes down ter the hotel for his meals three times a day. I
know Sally Miner, who waits on him, and she says he hardly opens
his head enough ter tell what he wants ter eat. She has ter guess
it more'n half the time--only it'll be somethin' CHEAP! She knows
that without no tellin'."
Pollyanna nodded sympathetically.
"I know. You have to look for cheap things when you're poor.
Father and I took meals out a lot. We had beans and fish balls
most generally. We used to say how glad we were we liked
beans--that is, we said it specially when we were looking at the
roast turkey place, you know, that was sixty cents. Does Mr.
Pendleton like beans?"
"Like 'em! What if he does--or don't? Why, Miss Pollyanna, he
ain't poor. He's got loads of money, John Pendleton has--from his
father. There ain't nobody in town as rich as he is. He could eat
dollar bills, if he wanted to--and not know it."
Pollyanna giggled.
"As if anybody COULD eat dollar bills and not know it, Nancy,
when they come to try to chew 'em!"
"Ho! I mean he's rich enough ter do it," shrugged Nancy. "He
ain't spendin' his money, that's all. He's a-savin' of it."
"Oh, for the heathen," surmised Pollyanna. "How perfectly
splendid! That's denying yourself and taking up your cross. I
know; father told me."
Nancy's lips parted abruptly, as if there were angry words all
ready to come; but her eyes, resting on Pollyanna's jubilantly
trustful face, saw something that prevented the words being
spoken.
"Humph!" she vouchsafed. Then, showing her old-time interest, she
went on: "But, say, it is queer, his speakin' to you, honestly,
Miss Pollyanna. He don't speak ter no one; and he lives all alone
in a great big lovely house all full of jest grand things, they
say. Some says he's crazy, and some jest cross; and some says
he's got a skeleton in his closet."
"Oh, Nancy!" shuddered Pollyanna. "How can he keep such a
dreadful thing? I should think he'd throw it away!"
Nancy chuckled. That Pollyanna had taken the skeleton literally
instead of figuratively, she knew very well; but, perversely, she
refrained from correcting the mistake.
"And EVERYBODY says he's mysterious," she went on. "Some years he
jest travels, week in and week out, and it's always in heathen
countries--Egypt and Asia and the Desert of Sarah, you know."
"Oh, a missionary," nodded Pollyanna.
Nancy laughed oddly.
"Well, I didn't say that, Miss Pollyanna. When he comes back he
writes books--queer, odd books, they say, about some gimcrack
he's found in them heathen countries. But he don't never seem ter
want ter spend no money here--leastways, not for jest livin'."
"Of course not--if he's saving it for the heathen," declared
Pollyanna. "But he is a funny man, and he's different, too, just
like Mrs. Snow, only he's a different different."
"Well, I guess he is--rather," chuckled Nancy.
"I'm gladder'n ever now, anyhow, that he speaks to me," sighed
Pollyanna contentedly.
CHAPTER X. A SURPRISE FOR MRS. SNOW
The next time Pollyanna went to see Mrs. Snow, she found that
lady, as at first, in a darkened room.
"It's the little girl from Miss Polly's, mother," announced
Milly, in a tired manner; then Pollyanna found herself alone with
the invalid.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" asked a fretful voice from the bed. "I
remember you. ANYbody'd remember you, I guess, if they saw you
once. I wish you had come yesterday. I WANTED you yesterday."
"Did you? Well, I'm glad 'tisn't any farther away from yesterday
than to-day is, then," laughed Pollyanna, advancing cheerily into
the room, and setting her basket carefully down on a chair. "My!
but aren't you dark here, though? I can't see you a bit," she
cried, unhesitatingly crossing to the window and pulling up the
shade. "I want to see if you've fixed your hair like I did--oh,
you haven't! But, never mind; I'm glad you haven't, after all,
'cause maybe you'll let me do it--later. But now I want you to
see what I've brought you."
The woman stirred restlessly.
"Just as if how it looks would make any difference in how it
tastes," she scoffed--but she turned her eyes toward the basket.
"Well, what is it?"
"Guess! What do you want?" Pollyanna had skipped back to the
basket. Her face was alight. The sick woman frowned.
"Why, I don't WANT anything, as I know of," she sighed. "After
all, they all taste alike!"
Pollyanna chuckled.
"This won't. Guess! If you DID want something, what would it be?"
The woman hesitated. She did not realize it herself, but she had
so long been accustomed to wanting what she did not have, that to
state off-hand what she DID want seemed impossible--until she
knew what she had. Obviously, however, she must say something.
This extraordinary child was waiting.
"Well, of course, there's lamb broth--"
"I've got it!" crowed Pollyanna.
"But that's what I DIDN'T want," sighed the sick woman, sure now
of what her stomach craved. "It was chicken I wanted."
"Oh, I've got that, too," chuckled Pollyanna.
The woman turned in amazement.
"Both of them?" she demanded.
"Yes--and calf's-foot jelly," triumphed Pollyanna. "I was just
bound you should have what you wanted for once; so Nancy and I
fixed it. Oh, of course, there's only a little of each--but
there's some of all of 'em! I'm so glad you did want chicken,"
she went on contentedly, as she lifted the three little bowls
from her basket. "You see, I got to thinking on the way
here--what if you should say tripe, or onions, or something like
that, that I didn't have! Wouldn't it have been a shame--when I'd
tried so hard?" she laughed merrily.
There was no reply. The sick woman seemed to be trying--mentally
to find something she had lost.
"There! I'm to leave them all," announced Pollyanna, as she
arranged the three bowls in a row on the table. "Like enough
it'll be lamb broth you want to-morrow. How do you do to-day?"
she finished in polite inquiry.
"Very poorly, thank you," murmured Mrs. Snow, falling back into
her usual listless attitude. "I lost my nap this morning. Nellie
Higgins next door has begun music lessons, and her practising
drives me nearly wild. She was at it all the morning--every
minute! I'm sure, I don't know what I shall do!"
Polly nodded sympathetically.
"I know. It IS awful! Mrs. White had it once--one of my Ladies'
Aiders, you know. She had rheumatic fever, too, at the same time,
so she couldn't thrash 'round. She said 'twould have been easier
if she could have. Can you?"
"Can I--what?"
"Thrash 'round--move, you know, so as to change your position
when the music gets too hard to stand."
Mrs. Snow stared a little.
"Why, of course I can move--anywhere--in bed," she rejoined a
little irritably.
"Well, you can be glad of that, then, anyhow, can't you?" nodded
Pollyanna. "Mrs. White couldn't. You can't thrash when you have
rheumatic fever--though you want to something awful, Mrs. White
says. She told me afterwards she reckoned she'd have gone raving
crazy if it hadn't been for Mr. White's sister's ears--being
deaf, so."
"Sister's--EARS! What do you mean?"
Pollyanna laughed.
"Well, I reckon I didn't tell it all, and I forgot you didn't
know Mrs. White. You see, Miss White was deaf--awfully deaf; and
she came to visit 'em and to help take care of Mrs. White and the
house. Well, they had such an awful time making her understand
ANYTHING, that after that, every time the piano commenced to play
across the street, Mrs. White felt so glad she COULD hear it,
that she didn't mind so much that she DID hear it, 'cause she
couldn't help thinking how awful 'twould be if she was deaf and
couldn't hear anything, like her husband's sister. You see, she
was playing the game, too. I'd told her about it."
"The--game?"
Pollyanna clapped her hands.
"There! I 'most forgot; but I've thought it up, Mrs. Snow--what
you can be glad about."
"GLAD about! What do you mean?"
"Why, I told you I would. Don't you remember? You asked me to
tell you something to be glad about--glad, you know, even though
you did have to lie here abed all day."
"Oh!" scoffed the woman. "THAT? Yes, I remember that; but I
didn't suppose you were in earnest any more than I was."
"Oh, yes, I was," nodded Pollyanna, triumphantly; "and I found
it, too. But 'TWAS hard. It's all the more fun, though, always,
when 'tis hard. And I will own up, honest to true, that I
couldn't think of anything for a while. Then I got it."
"Did you, really? Well, what is it?" Mrs. Snow's voice was
sarcastically polite.
Pollyanna drew a long breath.
"I thought--how glad you could be--that other folks weren't like
you--all sick in bed like this, you know," she announced
impressively. Mrs. Snow stared. Her eyes were angry.
"Well, really!" she ejaculated then, in not quite an agreeable
tone of voice.
"And now I'll tell you the game," proposed Pollyanna, blithely
confident. "It'll be just lovely for you to play--it'll be so
hard. And there's so much more fun when it is hard! You see, it's
like this." And she began to tell of the missionary barrel, the
crutches, and the doll that did not come.
The story was just finished when Milly appeared at the door.
"Your aunt is wanting you, Miss Pollyanna," she said with dreary
listlessness. "She telephoned down to the Harlows' across the
way. She says you're to hurry--that you've got some practising to
make up before dark."
Pollyanna rose reluctantly.
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