Pollyanna & Pollyanna Grows Up (Musaicum Children's Classics). Eleanor H. Porter
Polly.
“Oh, Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, did you mean it, really? Why, that room’s got EVERYTHING—the carpet and curtains and three pictures, besides the one outdoors, too, ‘cause the windows look the same way. Oh, Aunt Polly!”
“Very well, Pollyanna. I am gratified that you like the change, of course; but if you think so much of all those things, I trust you will take proper care of them; that’s all. Pollyanna, please pick up that chair; and you have banged two doors in the last half-minute.” Miss Polly spoke sternly, all the more sternly because, for some inexplicable reason, she felt inclined to cry—and Miss Polly was not used to feeling inclined to cry.
Pollyanna picked up the chair.
“Yes’m; I know I banged ‘em—those doors,” she admitted cheerfully. “You see I’d just found out about the room, and I reckon you’d have banged doors if—” Pollyanna stopped short and eyed her aunt with new interest. “Aunt Polly, DID you ever bang doors?”
“I hope—not, Pollyanna!” Miss Polly’s voice was properly shocked.
“Why, Aunt Polly, what a shame!” Pollyanna’s face expressed only concerned sympathy.
“A shame!” repeated Aunt Polly, too dazed to say more.
“Why, yes. You see, if you’d felt like banging doors you’d have banged ‘em, of course; and if you didn’t, that must have meant that you weren’t ever glad over anything—or you would have banged ‘em. You couldn’t have helped it. And I’m so sorry you weren’t ever glad over anything!”
“PollyANna!” gasped the lady; but Pollyanna was gone, and only the distant bang of the attic-stairway door answered for her. Pollyanna had gone to help Nancy bring down “her things.”
Miss Polly, in the sitting room, felt vaguely disturbed;—but then, of course she HAD been glad—over some things!
Chapter XI.
Introducing Jimmy
August came. August brought several surprises and some changes—none of which, however, were really a surprise to Nancy. Nancy, since Pollyanna’s arrival, had come to look for surprises and changes.
First there was the kitten.
Pollyanna found the kitten mewing pitifully some distance down the road. When systematic questioning of the neighbors failed to find any one who claimed it, Pollyanna brought it home at once, as a matter of course.
“And I was glad I didn’t find any one who owned it, too,” she told her aunt in happy confidence; “‘cause I wanted to bring it home all the time. I love kitties. I knew you’d be glad to let it live here.”
Miss Polly looked at the forlorn little gray bunch of neglected misery in Pollyanna’s arms, and shivered: Miss Polly did not care for cats—not even pretty, healthy, clean ones.
“Ugh! Pollyanna! What a dirty little beast! And it’s sick, I’m sure, and all mangy and fleay.”
“I know it, poor little thing,” crooned Pollyanna, tenderly, looking into the little creature’s frightened eyes. “And it’s all trembly, too, it’s so scared. You see it doesn’t know, yet, that we’re going to keep it, of course.”
“No—nor anybody else,” retorted Miss Polly, with meaning emphasis.
“Oh, yes, they do,” nodded Pollyanna, entirely misunderstanding her aunt’s words. “I told everybody we should keep it, if I didn’t find where it belonged. I knew you’d be glad to have it—poor little lonesome thing!”
Miss Polly opened her lips and tried to speak; but in vain. The curious helpless feeling that had been hers so often since Pollyanna’s arrival, had her now fast in its grip.
“Of course I knew,” hurried on Pollyanna, gratefully, “that you wouldn’t let a dear little lonesome kitty go hunting for a home when you’d just taken ME in; and I said so to Mrs. Ford when she asked if you’d let me keep it. Why, I had the Ladies’ Aid, you know, and kitty didn’t have anybody. I knew you’d feel that way,” she nodded happily, as she ran from the room.
“But, Pollyanna, Pollyanna,” remonstrated Miss Polly. “I don’t—” But Pollyanna was already halfway to the kitchen, calling:
“Nancy, Nancy, just see this dear little kitty that Aunt Polly is going to bring up along with me!” And Aunt Polly, in the sitting room—who abhorred cats—fell back in her chair with a gasp of dismay, powerless to remonstrate.
The next day it was a dog, even dirtier and more forlorn, perhaps, than was the kitten; and again Miss Polly, to her dumfounded amazement, found herself figuring as a kind protector and an angel of mercy—a role that Pollyanna so unhesitatingly thrust upon her as a matter of course, that the woman—who abhorred dogs even more than she did cats, if possible—found herself as before, powerless to remonstrate.
When, in less than a week, however, Pollyanna brought home a small, ragged boy, and confidently claimed the same protection for him, Miss Polly did have something to say. It happened after this wise.
On a pleasant Thursday morning Pollyanna had been taking calf’s-foot jelly again to Mrs. Snow. Mrs. Snow and Pollyanna were the best of friends now. Their friendship had started from the third visit Pollyanna had made, the one after she had told Mrs. Snow of the game. Mrs. Snow herself was playing the game now, with Pollyanna. To be sure, she was not playing it very well—she had been sorry for everything for so long, that it was not easy to be glad for anything now. But under Pollyanna’s cheery instructions and merry laughter at her mistakes, she was learning fast. To-day, even, to Pollyanna’s huge delight, she had said that she was glad Pollyanna brought calf’s-foot jelly, because that was just what she had been wanting—she did not know that Milly, at the front door, had told Pollyanna that the minister’s wife had already that day sent over a great bowlful of that same kind of jelly.
Pollyanna was thinking of this now when suddenly she saw the boy.
The boy was sitting in a disconsolate little heap by the roadside, whittling half-heartedly at a small stick.
“Hullo,” smiled Pollyanna, engagingly.
The boy glanced up, but he looked away again, at once.
“Hullo yourself,” he mumbled.
Pollyanna laughed.
“Now you don’t look as if you’d be glad even for calf’s-foot jelly,” she chuckled, stopping before him.
The boy stirred restlessly, gave her a surprised look, and began to whittle again at his stick, with the dull, broken-bladed knife in his hand.
Pollyanna hesitated, then dropped herself comfortably down on the grass near him. In spite of Pollyanna’s brave assertion that she was “used to Ladies’ Aiders,” and “didn’t mind,” she had sighed at times for some companion of her own age. Hence her determination to make the most of this one.
“My name’s Pollyanna Whittier,” she began pleasantly. “What’s yours?”
Again the boy stirred restlessly. He even almost got to his feet. But he settled back.
“Jimmy Bean,” he grunted with ungracious indifference.
“Good! Now we’re introduced. I’m glad you did your part—some folks don’t, you know. I live at Miss Polly Harrington’s house. Where do you live?”
“Nowhere.”
“Nowhere! Why, you can’t do that—everybody lives somewhere,” asserted Pollyanna.
“Well, I don’t—just now. I’m huntin’ up a new place.”
“Oh! Where is it?”
The