Bedtime Tale: Pollyanna Ch 8

Pollyanna by Eleanor H.

Porter Chapter 8 Pollyanna Pays a Visit It was not long before life at the Harrington homestead settled into something like order,

Though not exactly the order that Miss Polly had first prescribed.

Pollyanna sewed,

Practiced,

Read out loud,

And studied cooking in the kitchen,

It is true,

But she did not give to any of these things quite so much time as had first been planned.

She had more time,

Also,

To just live,

As she expressed it,

For almost all of every afternoon from two until six o'clock was hers to do with what she liked,

Providing she did not like to do certain things already prohibited by Aunt Polly.

It is a question,

Perhaps,

Whether all this leisure time was given to the child as a relief to Pollyanna from work,

Or as a relief to Aunt Polly from Pollyanna.

Certainly,

As those first July days passed,

Miss Polly found occasion many times to say,

What an extraordinary child,

And certainly the reading and sewing lessons found her at their conclusion each day somewhat dazed and wholly exhausted.

Nancy in the kitchen fared better.

She was not dazed nor exhausted.

Wednesdays and Saturdays came to be,

Indeed,

Red-letter days to her.

There were no children in the immediate neighborhood of the Harrington homestead for Pollyanna to play with.

The house itself was on the outskirts of the village,

And though there were other houses not far away,

They did not chance to contain any boys or girls near Pollyanna's age.

This,

However,

Did not seem to disturb Pollyanna in the least.

Oh,

No,

I don't mind it at all,

She explained to Nancy.

I'm happy just to walk around and see the streets and the houses and watch the people.

I just love people,

Don't you,

Nancy?

Well,

I can't say I do.

All of them,

Retorted Nancy tersely.

Almost every pleasant afternoon found Pollyanna begging for an errand to run,

So that she might be off for a walk in one direction or another.

And it was on these walks that,

Frequently,

She met the man.

To herself,

Pollyanna always called him the man,

No matter if she met a dozen other men the same day.

The man often wore a long black coat and a high silk hat,

Two things that the just men never wore.

His face was clean-shaven and rather pale,

And his hair,

Showing below his hat,

Was somewhat grey.

He walked erect and rather rapidly,

And he was always alone,

Which made Pollyanna vaguely sorry for him.

Perhaps it was because of this that she one day spoke to him.

How do you do,

Sir?

Isn't this a nice day?

She called cheerily as she approached him.

The man threw a hurried glance about him,

Then stopped uncertainly.

Did you speak?

To me?

He asked in a sharp voice.

Yes,

Sir,

Beamed Pollyanna.

I say it's a nice day,

Isn't it?

Eh?

Oh.

Humph,

He grunted,

And strode on again.

Pollyanna laughed.

He was such a funny man,

She thought.

The next day she saw him again.

It isn'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 Miss Snow today.

Miss Polly Harrington always sent something to Miss Snow once a week.

She said she thought that it was her duty,

And as much as Miss 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 Miss Snow usually on Thursday afternoons,

Not personally,

But through Nancy.

Today 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'm to get rid of it,

Nancy had declared in private afterwards to Pollyanna.

Though it's a shame to be tucking the job off to 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 want sorry for her,

There wouldn't a soul go near her from morning till night.

She's that cantankerous.

All is I pity her daughter that has to take care of her.

But why,

Nancy?

Nancy shrugged her shoulders.

Well in plain words,

It's just that nothing,

Whatever has happened,

Has happened right in Miss Snow's eyes.

Even the days of the week ain't run to her mind.

If it's Monday,

She's bound to say she whisked with Sunday.

And if you take her jelly,

You're pretty sure to hear she wanted chicken.

But if you did bring her chicken,

She'd just be hankering for lamb broth.

Why,

What a funny woman,

Laughed Pollyanna.

I think I shall like to go see her.

She must be so surprising and,

And different.

I love different folks.

Hmm,

Well Miss 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 today 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 Miss 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 Miss 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,

Miss Snow?

Aunt Polly says she hopes you are comfortable today,

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 it would be lamb broth today.

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 t'was the other way around,

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,

Miss No,

And I'm so glad t'isn't.

That would be worse than Hefzibah,

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.

Oh,

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 just be 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 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.

Oh,

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 him.

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 Miss Snow dryly.

Miss 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 are.

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 Miss Snow,

You are pretty.

I should think you know it when you looked at yourself in the glass.

The glass?

Snapped the sick woman falling back on her pillow.

Yes,

Well,

I hadn't done much pricking before the mirrors these days,

And you wouldn't if you were flat on your back as I am.

Well,

No,

Of course not,

Agreed Pollyanna sympathetically.

But wait,

Just let me show you,

She exclaimed,

Skipping over to the burrow 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 Miss Snow grudgingly,

But it won'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 shan't do too much today,

Of course,

I'm in such a hurry for you to see how pretty you are,

But someday 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,

Openly scoffing at the whole procedure,

Was in spite of herself,

Beginning to tingle with the feeling perilously near to excitement.

There panted Pollyanna,

Hastily plucking a pink from a vase,

Nearby 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 fade,

Laughed Pollyanna,

Because then you'll have fun of getting some more.

I just love your hair fluffed out like that,

She finished with a satisfied gaze.

Don't you?

Hmm,

Maybe.

Still,

It won'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,

My black hair.

Shows grey too soon,

Retorted Miss Snow.

She spoke fretfully,

But she still held the mirror before her face.

Oh,

I love black hair.

I should be so glad if only I had it,

Sighed Pollyanna.

Miss 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 turn.

Why,

It would be kinda 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 Miss Snow.

If you don't think so,

Just tell me something to be glad about,

That's all.

To Miss Snow's unabounded 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.

Goodbye,

I've had a lovely time.

Goodbye,

She called again as she tripped through the doorway.

Well I never.

Now what does she mean by that?

Said Miss 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 bedcloths and rolling her head on the pillow fretfully.

A little later,

When Millie,

Miss Snow's daughter,

Came in,

The mirror still lay among the bedcloths,

Though it had been carefully hidden from sight.

Why mother,

The curtain is up,

Cried Millie,

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'm sick,

Need I?

Why no,

Of course not,

Rejoined Millie in hasty consolation 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.

Miss 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 Millie quite gasped out loud with bewilderment.

In the drawer behind her at that moment lay two new nightdresses that Millie for months had been vainly urging her mother to wear.

And that is the end of our story this evening.

Until next time,

Sweet dreams.