CHAPTER IV

POLLY’S FIRST JOURNEY

“Now, I have some errands to do,” said Miss Pomeroy; “perhaps you’d like to get out of the wagon at Burcham’s and see the new toys.”

“No, ma’am, thank you; I will stay here and hold the horse,” said Polly, and, after a keen look at her, Miss Pomeroy drove to the butcher shop and alighted, leaving Daisy in her charge.

“I guess that is what Eleanor would have said,” remarked Polly, in a low, confidential tone to the horse, as she carefully flicked an early fly from Daisy’s back; “and, truly, I don’t care a bit about seeing the dolls or anything to-day. Of course, I mustn’t tell stories, trying to be like Eleanor; I’ve just got to stop wanting to do things, so I can tell the truth.”

As she faced this tremendous task, Polly sat so still and erect that she looked like a stern little sentinel, and her motionless figure attracted the attention of a number of people whom she did not see. In a few moments Miss Pomeroy came out of the butcher’s and went across the road to the post office. The butcher brought out a package in brown paper and stowed it carefully in at the back of the wagon. Then he stepped around to pat Daisy and speak to Polly. He was a red-faced, hearty man who had lost two front teeth and talked with a slight lisp. He and Polly had always been on excellent terms.

“How d’ye do, Polly?” he said, reaching up his unoccupied hand to grasp the little girl’s; “thso this is the day you thstart in to live with Miths Pomeroy? Well, you’re going to have a fine home, and she’ths an exthtra good woman, when you get uthsed to her being a mite quick and up-and-coming.”

“Mr. Boggs,” said Polly, anxiously, “you know I’m Mary Prentiss now. You mustn’t please call me by my old name any more--not unless Miss Pomeroy decides not to adopt me. I don’t suppose you ever saw Eleanor, Miss Pomeroy’s niece that died? No, of course you couldn’t have.”

“I thsaw her when thshe came here, a year-older,” said Mr. Boggs, as he turned to greet a customer; “just like mothst children of that age, thshe looked, for all I could thsee. I reckon her qualitieths weren’t what you could call developed then. Well, good-day to you, Miths Mary Prentiths, and the bethst of luck,” he said, with a laugh and a low bow as he gave Polly’s hand a final shake.

Just then Miss Pomeroy came across the road with her hands full of papers and letters, and with a little white bag, which she put in Polly’s lap as she took her seat. The bag had a deliciously lumpy feeling, and Polly’s mind leaped to gum-drops in an instant.

“Open it and let us see what they are like,” said Miss Pomeroy, as she gathered up the reins, which had slackened in Polly’s hands during the interview with Mr. Boggs. “Chocolate creams and gum-drops. I suspect you’ll like the chocolates best, but I am very fond of gum-drops; so I’ll take one of those. One piece of candy is all I allow myself in a day, so you may carry off the bag to your own room when we get there, to keep me from being tempted.”

Polly took one bite of a big chocolate drop after Miss Pomeroy had been served to her taste, and then she gave a little sigh of delight.

“I never tasted a chocolate cream before,” she said, slowly. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else so nice to eat in all the world, is there? I wish Aunty Peebles had some of these. I shall save her half; that is, if you’re willing,” she added, hastily.

“I’m afraid they’ll be pretty hard and dry before you see Aunty Peebles again,” said Miss Pomeroy, and Polly’s heart sank in spite of the delicious taste in her mouth.

“I don’t expect she’s going to let me see Manser Farm again, till next Christmas, probably, if she adopts me,” thought Polly. “Of course, candy is good for ’most a year if you keep it carefully, but it does begin to get a little hard. I know, because those two peppermints Father Manser gave me yesterday were the last of the ones he bought for Thanksgiving, and they were just a little hard, though, of course, they were nice.”

“Maybe I could give some of them to the butcher to take to Aunty Peebles, if--if he comes to Pomeroy Oaks,” ventured Polly, after a short silence, during which Daisy was trotting along the road, out of the village, past the square white church with its tall steeple, past the tinsmith’s shop, on toward the meadows beyond which lay Polly’s undiscovered country.

“He comes twice a week,” said Miss Pomeroy; “but wouldn’t you like to send Aunty Peebles a little box of fresh candy by mail, some day, to surprise her? You could put it in the post office, and Mr. Manser would get it when he goes for the mail, and take it to her.”

“Oh!” said Polly, her eyes brimming over with gratitude; “oh, aren’t you good! Why, Aunty Peebles hasn’t ever had anything from the post office excepting once a year her second cousin from way out West sends her a paper with the list of deaths in the town where she lives, and sometimes there’s an ink mark to show it’s been a friend of her second cousin’s family; but,” said Polly, shaking her head, “it ’most always made Aunty Peebles cry when it came, and I believe she would rather not have had it.”

“I should say not, indeed,” assented Miss Pomeroy; “just hear that bird, Mary! He’s telling cheerful news, isn’t he?”

Polly hugged herself with sudden joy. Miss Pomeroy evidently liked birds, or she would never have spoken in that way. “Probably she’ll leave the windows open, so I can hear them when I’m reading and sewing and doing quiet things, like Eleanor,” she thought, happily; but all she said was, “Oh, yes’m; isn’t he glad spring has come, don’t you believe?”

“I believe he is, my dear,” said Miss Pomeroy; “and now, if you look ahead, you can see through the trees the roof of the house where you are going to live for a little while, at any rate.”

“For always,” said Polly, firmly, to herself. “Miss Pomeroy’s good as she can be, and there’s Grandma Manser’s ear trumpet, and Mrs. Manser’s poor health, and all I’ve got to do is to learn to like to sew and read better than to play, and to stay in the house and be quiet instead of running wild outdoors. That isn’t much,” said Polly, scornfully, to herself, “for a big girl like me.”

Past the rich meadows through which ran the little brook that joined Ashdon River, over the wooden bridge that rumbled under her feet, along the brook road beneath the arching willows, up the easy hill, and into the avenue of stately oaks that gave Miss Pomeroy’s home its name, trotted Daisy, carrying her mistress with the grave, kind eyes and little, eager-faced Polly. The child gazed with awe and excitement at the flying panorama, and gave quick, short breaths as the pretty mare made a skillful turn and stopped before a porch over which was trained an old grape vine. In the porch stood Arctura Green, Miss Pomeroy’s faithful helper, and at the foot of the steps Hiram, Arctura’s brother, waited to take Daisy, who rubbed her nose against his rough hand and gave a little whinny of pleasure before she crunched the lump of sugar which Hiram slipped into her mouth.

“Here we are, my dear,” said Miss Pomeroy, briskly, and Polly, feeling as if she were sound asleep and wide awake all together, jumped out of the wagon.