“You'll be tired to death, Phronsie!” she said, looking up at the small figure on its toilsome journey. “Why you must have gone up a million times! Do sit down, pet; we're all going out riding, Phronsie, this afternoon; and you can't go if you're all tired out.”
“I won't be tired, Polly,” said Phronsie, turning around and looking at her, “do let me go just once more!”
“Well,” said Polly, who never could refuse her anything, “just once, Phronsie, and then you must stop.”
So Phronsie kept on her way rejoicing, while Polly still sat on the lowest stair, and drummed impatiently on the stair above her, waiting for her to get through.
Jappy came through the hall and found them thus. “Halloa, Polly!” he said, stopping suddenly; “what's the matter?”
“Oh, Phronsie's been going so,” said Polly, looking up at the little figure above them, which had nearly reached the top in delight, “that I can't stop her. She has really, Jappy, almost all the morning; you can't think how crazy she is over it.”
“Is that so?” said Jasper, with a little laugh. “Hulloa, Phronsie, is it nice?” and he tossed a kiss to the little girl, and then sat down by Polly.
“Oh,” said Phronsie, turning to come down, “it's the beyew-tiflest place I ever saw, Jasper! the very be-yew-tiflest!”
“I wish she could have her picture painted,” whispered Jasper, enthusiastically. “Look at her now, Polly, quick!”
“Yes,” said Polly, “isn't she sweet!”
“Sweet!” said Jasper. “I should think she was!”
The sunlight through an oriel window fell on the childish face and figure, glinting the yellow hair, and lighting7 up the radiant face, that yet had a tender, loving glance for the two who waited for her below. One little foot was poised8, just in the act of stepping down to the next lower stair, and the fat hand grasped the polished railing, expressive9 of just enough caution to make it truly childish. In after years Jasper never thought of Phronsie without bringing up this picture on that April morning, when Polly and he sat at the foot of the stairs, and looked up and saw it.
“I want you,” said Van, “we can't do anything without you, Jappy; you know that.”
“Very well,” said Jasper, getting up. “Come on, Polly, we must go.”
“And Phronsie,” said Van, anxiously, looking up to Phronsie, who had nearly reached them by this time, “we want her, too.”
“Of course,” said Polly, running up and meeting her to give her a hug; “I don't go unless she does.”
“Where are we going, Polly?” asked Phronsie, looking back longingly13 to her beloved stairs as she was borne off.
“To the greenhouse, chick!” said Jasper, “to help Turner; and it'll be good fun, won't it, Polly?”
“What is a greenhouse?” asked the child, wonderingly. “All green, Jasper?”
“Oh, dear me,” said Van, doubling up, “do you suppose she thinks it's painted green?”
When Phronsie was really let loose in the greenhouse she thought it decidedly best of all; and she went into nearly as much of a rapture as Polly did on her first visit to it.
In a few moments she was cooing and jumping among the plants, while old Turner, staid and particular as he was, laughed to see her go.
“She's your sister, Miss Mary, ain't she?” at last he asked, as Phronsie bent15 lovingly over a little pot of heath, and just touched one little leaf carefully with her finger.
“Yes,” said Polly, “but she don't look like me.”
“She is like you,” said Turner, respectfully, “if she don't look like you; and the flowers know it, too,” he added, “and they'll love to see her coming, just as they do you.”
For Polly had won the old gardener's heart completely by her passionate16 love for flowers, and nearly every morning a little nosegay, fresh and beautiful, came up to the house for “Miss Mary.”
And now nobody liked to think of the time, or to look back to it, when Phronsie hadn't been in the house. When the little feet went pattering through halls and over stairs, it seemed to bring sunshine and happiness into every one's heart just to hear the sounds. Polly and the boys in the schoolroom would look up from their books and nod away brightly to each other, and then fall to faster than ever on their lessons, to get through the quicker to be with her again.
One thing Phronsie always insisted on, and kept to it pertinaciously—and that was to go into the drawing-room with Polly when she went to practice, and there, with one of her numerous family of dolls, to sit down quietly in some corner and wait till she got through.
Day after day she did it, until Polly, who was worried to think how tedious it must be for her, would look around and say, “Oh, childie, do run out and play.”
“I want to stay,” Phronsie would beg in an injured tone; “please let me, Polly.”
So Polly would jump and give her a kiss, and then, delighted to know that she was there, would go at her practicing with twice the vigor17 and enthusiasm.
But Phronsie's chief occupation, at least when she wasn't with Polly, was the entertainment and amusement of Mr. King. And never was she very long absent from his side, which so pleased the old gentleman that he could scarcely contain himself, as with a gravity befitting the importance of her office, she would follow him around in a happy contented18 way, that took with him immensely. And now-a-days, no one ever saw the old gentleman going out of a morning, when Jasper was busy with his lessons, without Phronsie by his side, and many people turned to see the portly figure with the handsome head bent to catch the prattle19 of a little sunny-haired child, who trotted20 along, clasping his hand confidingly21. And nearly all of them stopped to gaze the second time before they could convince themselves that it was really that queer, stiff old Mr. King of whom they had heard so much.
And now the accumulation of dolls in the house became something alarming, for Mr. King, observing Phronsie's devotion to her family, thought there couldn't possibly be too many of them; so he scarcely ever went out without bringing home one at least to add to them, until Phronsie had such a remarkable22 collection as would have driven almost any other child nearly crazy with delight. She, however, regarded them something in the light of a grave responsibility, to be taken care of tenderly, to be watched over carefully as to just the right kind of bringing up; and to have small morals and manners taught in just the right way.
Phronsie was playing in the corner of Mrs. Whitney's little boudoir, engaged in sending out invitations for an elaborate tea-party to be given by one of the dolls, when Polly rushed in with consternation23 in her tones, and dismay written all over her face.
“What is it, dear?” asked Mrs. Whitney, looking up from her embroidery24.
“Why,” said Polly, “how could I! I don't see—but I've forgotten to write to mamsie to-day; it's Wednesday, you know, and there's Monsieur coming.” And poor Polly looked out in despair to see the lively little music teacher advancing towards the house at an alarming rate of speed.
“That is because you were helping25 Van so long last evening over his lessons,” said Mrs. Whitney; “I am so sorry.”
“Oh, no,” cried Polly honestly, “I had plenty of time—but I forgot 'twas mamsie's day. What will she do!”
“You will have to let it go now till the afternoon, dear; there's no other way; it can go in the early morning mail.”
“Oh, dear,” sighed Polly, “I suppose I must.” And she went down to meet Monsieur with a very distressed26 little heart.
Phronsie laid down the note of invitation she was scribbling27, and stopped to think; and a moment or two after, at a summons from a caller, Mrs. Whitney left the room.
“I know I ought to,” said Phronsie to herself and the dolls, “yes, I know I had; mamsie will feel, oh! so bad, when she don't get Polly's letter; and I know the way, I do, truly.”
She got up and went to the window, where she thought a minute; and then, coming back, she took up her little stubby pencil, and bending over a small bit of paper, she commenced to trace with laborious2 efforts and much hard breathing, some very queer hieroglyphics28 that to her seemed to be admirable, as at last she held them up with great satisfaction.
“Good-bye,” she said then, getting up and bowing to the dolls who sat among the interrupted invitations, “I won't be gone but a little bit of one minute,” and she went out determinedly29 and shut the door.
Nobody saw the little figure going down the carriage drive, so of course nobody could stop her. When Phronsie got to the gateway30 she looked up and down the street carefully, either way.
“Yes,” she said, at last, “it was down here, I'm very sure, I went with grandpa,” and immediately turned down the wrong way, and went on and on, grasping carefully her small, and by this time rather soiled bit of paper.
At last she reached the business streets; and although she didn't come to the Post Office, she comforted herself by the thought—“it must be coming soon. I guess it's round this corner.”
She kept turning corner after corner, until, at last, a little anxious feeling began to tug31 at her heart; and she began to think—“I wish I could see Polly—” And now, she had all she could do to get out of the way of the crowds of people who were pouring up and down the thoroughfare. Everybody jostled against her, and gave her a push. “Oh dear!” thought Phronsie, “there's such a many big people!” and then there was no time for anything else but to stumble in and out, to keep from being crushed completely beneath their feet. At last, an old huckster woman, in passing along, knocked off her bonnet32 with the end of her big basket, which flew around and struck Phronsie's head. Not stopping to look into the piteous brown eyes, she strode on without a word. Phronsie turned in perfect despair to go down a street that looked as if there might be room enough for her in it. Thoroughly33 frightened, she plunged34 over the crossing, to reach it!
“Look out!” cried a ringing voice. “Stop!”
“The little girl'll be killed!” said others with bated breath, as a powerful pair of horses whose driver could not pull them up in time, dashed along just in front of her! With one cry, Phronsie sprang between their feet, and reached the opposite curbstone in safety!
“What's this!” asked one, whose back being next to the street, hadn't seen the commotion37, as the small object dashed into their midst, and fell up against him.
“Didn't you see that narrow escape?” asked a second, whose face had paled in witnessing it. “This little girl was nearly killed a moment ago—careless driving enough!” And he put out his hand to catch the child.
“Bless me!” cried a third, whirling around suddenly, “Bless me! you don't say so! why—” With a small cry, but gladsome and distinct in its utterance38, Phronsie gave one look—“Oh, grandpa!” was all she could say.
“Oh! where—” Mr. King couldn't possibly have uttered another word, for then his breath gave out entirely39, as he caught the small figure.
“I went to the Post Office,” said the child, clinging to him in delight, her tangled40 hair waving over the little white face, into which a faint pink color was quickly coming back. “Only it wouldn't come; and I walked and walked—where is it, grandpa?” And Phronsie gazed up anxiously into the old gentleman's face.
“She went to the Post Office!” turning around on the others fiercely, as if they had contradicted him—“Why, my child, what were you going to do?”
“Mamsie's letter,” said Phronsie, holding up for inspection41 the precious bit, which by this time, was decidedly forlorn, “Polly couldn't write; and Mamsie'd feel so bad not to get one—she would really” said the child, shaking her head very soberly, “for Polly said so.”
“And you've been—oh! I can't think of it,” said Mr. King, tenderly taking her up on his shoulder, “well, we must get home now, or I don't know what Polly will do!” And without stopping to say a word to his friends, he hailed a passing carriage, and putting Phronsie in, he commanded the driver to get them as quickly as possible to their destination.
In a few moments they were home. Mr. King pushed into the house with his burden. “Don't anybody know,” he burst out, puffing42 up the stairs, and scolding furiously at every step, “enough to take better care of this child, than to have such goings on!”
“What is the matter, father?” asked Mrs. Whitney, coming up the stairs, after him. “What has happened out of the way?”
“Out of the way!” roared the old gentleman, irascibly, “well, if you want Phronsie racing43 off to the Post Office by herself, and nearly getting killed, poor child! yes, Marian, I say nearly killed!” he continued.
“Why, where have you been?” asked the old gentleman, who wouldn't let Phronsie get down out of his arms, under any circumstances; so there she lay, poking46 up her head like a little bird, and trying to say she wasn't in the least hurt, “where's everybody been not to know she'd gone?” he exclaimed, “where's Polly—and Jasper—and all of 'em?”
“Polly's taking her music lesson,” said Mrs. Whitney. “Oh, Phronsie darling!” and she bent over the child in her father's arms, and nearly smothered47 her with kisses.
“Twas a naughty horse,” said Phronsie, sitting up straight and looking at her, “or I should have found the Post Office; and I lost off my bonnet, too,” she added, for the first time realizing her loss, putting her hand to her head; “a bad old woman knocked it off with a basket—and now mamsie won't get her letter!” and she waved the bit, which she still grasped firmly between her thumb and finger, sadly towards Mrs. Whitney.
“Oh, dear,” groaned48 that lady, “how could we talk before her! But who would have thought it! Darling,” and she took the little girl from her father's arms, who at last let her go, “don't think of your mamma's letter; we'll tell her how it was,” and she sat down in the first chair that she could reach; while Phronsie put her tumbled little head down on the kind shoulder and gave a weary little sigh.
“It was so long,” she said, “and my shoes hurt,” and she thrust out the dusty little boots, that spoke49 pathetically of the long and unaccustomed tramp.
“Poor little lamb!” said Mr. King, getting down to unbutton them. “What a shame!” he mumbled50 pulling off half of the buttons in his frantic51 endeavors to get them off quickly.
But Phronsie never heard the last of his observations, for in a minute she was fast asleep. The tangled hair fell off from the tired little face; the breathing came peaceful and regular, and with her little hand fast clasped in Mrs. Whitney's she slept on and on.
Polly came flying up-stairs, two or three at a time, and humming a scrap52 of her last piece that she had just conquered.
“Phronsie,” she called, with a merry little laugh, “where—”
“Hush!” said Mr. King, warningly, and then just because he couldn't explain there without waking Phronsie up, he took hold of Polly's two shoulders and marched her into the next room, where he carefully closed the door, and told her the whole thing, using his own discretion53 about the very narrow escape she had passed through. He told enough, however, for Polly to see what had been so near them; and she stood there so quietly, alternately paling and flushing as he proceeded, till at last, when he finished, Mr. King was frightened almost to death at the sight of her face.
“Oh, goodness me, Polly!” he said, striding up to her, and then fumbling54 around on the table to find a glass of water, “you are not going to faint, are you? Phronsie's all well now, she isn't hurt in the least, I assure you; I assure you—where is a glass of water! Marian ought to see that there's some here—that stupid Jane!” and in utter bewilderment he was fussing here and there, knocking down so many things in general, that the noise soon brought Polly to, with a little gasp45.
“Oh, don't mind me, dear Mr. King—I'm—all well.”
“So you are,” said the old gentleman, setting up a toilet bottle that he had knocked over, “so you are; I didn't think you'd go and tumble over, Polly, I really didn't,” and he beamed admiringly down on her.
And then Polly crept away to Mrs. Whitney's side where she threw herself down on the floor, to watch the little sleeping figure. Her hand was gathered up, into the kind one that held Phronsie's; and there they watched and watched and waited.
“Oh, dear,” said Phronsie, suddenly, turning over with a little sigh, and bobbing up her head to look at Polly; “I'm so hungry! I haven't had anything to eat in ever an' ever so long, Polly!” and she gazed at her with a very injured countenance55.
“So you must be,” said Mrs. Whitney, kissing the flushed little face. “Polly must ring the bell for Jane to bring this little bird some crumbs56.
“Can I have a great many?” asked Phronsie, lifting her eyes, with the dewy look of sleep still lingering in them, “as many as two birdies?”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Whitney, laughing; “I think as many as three little birdies could eat, Phronsie.”
“Oh,” said Phronsie, and leaned back satisfied, while Polly gave the order, which was presently followed by Jane with a well-filled tray.
“Now,” said Jappy, when he heard the account of the adventure, “I say that letter ought to go to your mother, Polly.”
“Oh,” said Polly, “it would scare mamsie most to death, Jappy!”
“Don't tell her the whole,” said Jasper, quickly, “I didn't mean that—about the horses and all that—but only enough to let her see how Phronsie tried to get it to her.”
“And I'm going to write to your brother Joel,” said Van, drawing up to the library table; “I'll scare him, Polly, I guess; he won't tell your mother.”
“Your crow-tracks'll scare him enough without anything else,” said Percy, pleasantly, who really could write very nicely, while Polly broke out in an agony:
“Oh, no, Van, you mustn't! you mustn't!”
“If Van does,” said Jasper, decidedly, “it'll be the last time he'll write to the 'brown house,' I can tell him; and besides, he'll go to Coventry.” This had the desired effect.
“Let's all write,” said Polly.
So a space on the table was cleared, and the children gathered around it, when there was great scratching of pens, and clearing of ideas; which presently resulted in a respectable budget of letters, into which Phronsie's was lovingly tucked in the centre; and then they all filed out to put it into the letterbox in the hall, for Thomas to mail with the rest in the morning.
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1
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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concisely
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| adv.简明地 | |
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longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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20
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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31
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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34
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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42
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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43
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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44
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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45
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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46
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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47
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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48
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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49
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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50
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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52
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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53
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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54
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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55
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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56
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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