Chapter VIII: A Little Cook

Half an hour later, anyone who looked in at the windows of the Pomeroy kitchen would have seen a pretty sight. Polly, mounted on a stool, was beating a golden mixture in a white bowl, and Arctura, at the opposite end of the long table, was stirring whites of eggs carefully into a white batter in a yellow bowl.

“This is what I call solid comfort,” said Arctura, gayly. “I don’t know when I’ve had such a helper as you are! Miss Hetty’s without the gift when it comes to cooking. You wouldn’t believe it, but she’d be just as likely to put the eggs right in after the butter, without beating ’em separate, as any other way. Ain’t it singular?”

“I expect she writes beautiful letters, Miss Arctura,” said Polly, loyally evading the discussion of Miss Pomeroy’s weak point.

“My, I guess she does!” said Arctura, heartily. “That’s it; we’ve all got different talents. Hiram says he’d full as soon see me with a pistol pointed at him as with a pen in my hand. The only way I ever wrote a letter was by main strength, and I’d rather take a whipping any time.”

“I guess it would be pretty hard work for anybody to whip you,” said Polly, shrewdly, and Arctura laughed with much relish.

“’Twould now-a-days,” she said, as she gave the final stir to her batter, “but I’ve been whipped in my time. I didn’t get my growth all at once, you see. Is your cake ready for the pans? You wait till I show you the cunning little brush I’m going to butter the tins with. I’ll let you do yours next time, after I’ve once showed you how. You can’t slight the edges or any spot, if you want the cakes to slip out right.”

When the heat of the oven had been tested and the little round tins had been put in and the oven doors shut on them, Arctura selected a stout testing straw from a pile on a high shelf above the kitchen sink and seated herself, holding the straw erect in her hand like a tiny weapon.

“I always take this time for a breathing spell,” she announced, motioning Polly to another chair, “for if I start in on a fresh job, those cakes more’n likely’ll get burned; it only takes twenty-five minutes to bake ’em to the queen’s taste.”

“Yes’m,” said Polly; then she looked eagerly over at Arctura. “Did you ever see little Eleanor?” she asked, breathlessly.

“No, never,” said Arctura, and Polly felt a throb of disappointment. “You see, Square Pomeroy didn’t depart this life till a year ago last December, and he was kind of queer,” Arctura tapped her forehead significantly, “the last few years, and ’twasn’t a cheerful place to bring a child. And he’d hardly let his daughter out of his sight. About once in six months I’d send her off to Shelby to see the twins for two or three days, but I was always put to it to keep the Square satisfied till she got back.”

“Was he cross?” asked Polly.

“Not to say cross,” replied Arctura, slowly, “but terrible decided and unreasonable. Miss Hetty’s had her trials, and so’ve I; money isn’t all.”

“No’m,” said Polly, soberly, “but it does a great many things, Miss Arctura. Did you know how poor this town is? Manser farm leaks in places, and the paint is all gone, and the ceilings drop sometimes, pieces of them, I mean. But the town is too poor to help fix any of those things. Uncle Sam Blodgett and Father Manser would shingle the roof quick enough, though they aren’t as spry as once they were, if only they could set eyes on the shingles,” said Polly, quoting freely from her old friends.

“It’s a stingy town, I’m afraid,” said Arctura, shaking her head. “The Square was the most liberal man in it, and Miss Hetty follows right on, but most of the purse strings are drawn pretty close. Sometime I’ll tell you a little story about the Square and me when I was your age; you remind me to relate it to you. We haven’t got time now,” she said, glancing at the clock, “for those cakes have got to come out in a minute, and then I’ll have to fly around; dinner time always gains on me, someway.”

“Do you know anything special I could do to please Miss Pomeroy?” asked Polly, wistfully. “She’s being so good to me.”

“Let’s see,” said Arctura, meditatively. “Why, of course, she wants you to enjoy yourself. I expect she’d be pleased to see you take notice of things like the old shells and so on, and there’s the books; Bobby admired to read, and she always said Eleanor was quite a hand for stories, too. And you could go to walk with her, pleasant days, same as Bobby did last winter. And she’d be glad to see you relish your food.”

“Oh, I do, Miss Arctura,” cried Polly. “I do, every single bite I take!”

“Well now, that’s good news,” said Miss Green, comfortably. “I can’t think of anything else; you do all right so far as I know. I wouldn’t worry, but just do my best every day as things come along. Now we’ll take a look at those cakes.”

“She didn’t say a word about playing or running round,” thought Polly, as Arctura rose to open the oven doors; “of course, she thinks I’m too big now for those things, just as Mrs. Manser said. There’s a girl in the village that’s most twelve, and she plays with a dolly, for I’ve seen her. But she belonged to somebody, and that’s different, I guess, from when you’re going to be adopted.”

Polly’s lips seemed inclined to quiver for a moment, but then her cakes--the dozen golden brown cakes--were lifted from the oven and set on the table, and in the rush of delight, at seeing the delicate tops puffed up above the edges of the tins, the quiver changed to a smile.

“Arctura says you are a born cook,” said Miss Pomeroy at dinner time, “and she has requested the pleasure of your company tomorrow morning when she makes the pies.”

Polly dimpled with pleasure; she was eating steadily, just as much as she could. Miss Pomeroy noticed her increased appetite with agreeable surprise.

“Miss Arctura was very, very kind to me,” said the little girl, sedately, “and I had a beautiful time, and Miss Arctura said if the minister--the supply minister, that’s nothing more or less than a bashful boy, according to her ideas--came to dinner Sunday, she should set four of my cakes along with four of hers on the table for dessert with the pudding.”

Miss Pomeroy suppressed an inclination to laugh, and told Polly she had understood from Arctura that the cakes were a great success.

“But the minister is not a boy, my dear,” she added; “you must not always take what Arctura says word for word. She used to call me her little girl until I was more than thirty years old.”

Then Miss Pomeroy and Polly had a laugh together, though Polly could not help feeling that Arctura was very brave indeed ever to have called the tall mistress of Pomeroy Oaks her little girl.

After dinner came the two naps, or at least Miss Pomeroy’s nap and Polly’s hour on the bed. Yesterday’s experience had taught Polly that an hour’s nap would be considered enough for her, so at the end of that time she got off the bed softly, and after making herself tidy for the rest of the day, she stole softly downstairs. It was a mild afternoon, and the big front door had been half opened so that the spring air might blow through the screen.

“Of course, if she asks me if I’ve been asleep, I shall have to say no,” said Polly, looking a little bit troubled as she stood at the door, “but I don’t believe she will ask me. Of course, big girls that want to be adopted can learn to go to sleep in the day-time, just as grand grown-up folks do, and I shall learn as soon as ever I can.”

Polly stepped out on the piazza and walked softly up and down, sniffing the air, and thinking how little fear she would have had of the damp ground if she could have run out barefoot as she did so often at Manser farm: and she gave a little sigh as she looked down at the shiny shoes Miss Pomeroy had brought home for her that morning. But Snip and Snap came racing up on the piazza from somewhere, ready for a frolic, and Polly did not disappoint them.

Arctura appeared on the kitchen porch, collecting the milk pans that had been sunning all day, and snapped her fingers to attract Polly’s attention.

“Look here,” she called, “my brother, Hiram, is feeling real neglected because you haven’t been nigh the barn since you came. Can’t you step out and visit with him for a spell now? I’ll call you whenever Miss Hetty wants you.”

Polly needed no second invitation. She was ready to go wherever anyone wished, but, above all things, she had longed to see the barn, with Daisy in it; and Hiram reminded her in some way of Uncle Sam Blodgett, though she could not have told just how. Certainly the two men did not look alike, for Uncle Blodgett was lean and wiry, with a long, thin, nervous face, while Hiram was stout and ruddy, and never in a hurry about anything.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

WOOD-FOLK TALK

By J. ALLISON ATWOOD

BOBOLINK AND THE STRANGER

Has it ever seemed strange to you why Bobolink should have two suits of feathers so entirely different? Why, when he comes to us in the spring, should he wear a beautiful black and white costume, and in the fall put on his modest plumage of brown? It was not always so. The time was when Bobolink wore his best spring plumage all year round; but that, of course, was before his quarrel with Rough-leg. Rough-leg was one of the hawk family and was really the most agreeable of them. He had never been known to disturb the birds, but made his entire living by catching mice. No wonder, then, that he was greatly provoked when, after he had watched patiently for two hours in the hot sun with the vain hope of catching Meadow-mouse, he learned that the latter had been warned by Bobolink. Although generally good-natured, Rough-leg had a temper and he was very angry at Bobolink for poking his bill into other folks’ affairs. He was even heard to threaten to dine upon Bobolink instead of Meadow-mouse.

This, of course, was alarming news to Bobolink, yet he never regretted saving Meadow-mouse, who had been one of his old neighbors for years. Nevertheless, he was greatly worried at the threat and went South to his winter home earlier than usual that year, for fear that Rough-leg would catch him.

The next spring when he reached the Great Meadows again Bobolink supposed that the whole matter had been forgotten. But no. There, on exactly the same limb of the tall poplar, as if he had been waiting all winter, sat Rough-leg. Bobolink was so frightened that he did not stop at the Meadows, as had been his custom, but went straight North many miles even past his summer home. Rough-leg had kept his eyes shut and pretended not to see Bobolink when he arrived on the Meadows, but in reality he was only waiting for a good chance to get his claws upon him. So, of course, his disappointment was great when he opened his eyes, to find that Bobolink had gone. Somehow this only made him more determined, and he resolved to catch Bobolink if it took a year. To a bird a year is a very long time. Rough-leg knew that Bobolink would have to stop at the Great Meadow on his way south in the autumn, for there he must get his food supply. Rough-leg would wait for him. His feathers puffed out and his eyes blazed as he thought of revenge.

At length the hot summer drew to a close, and Bobolink bethought himself of going South, for, of course, he could not remain where he was all winter. But he shuddered as he thought of Rough-leg. He must stop at the Great Meadows else he could get no food until he reached the rice lands.

It would soon begin to get cold, and already the birds around him were leaving. They seemed to enjoy the fact that he could not follow. That mischievous little imp, Maryland Yellow-throat, especially took the greatest delight in peeping out from his brier thicket and then calling in his shrill voice, “Wintery, Wintery, Wintery,” just for the fun of seeing Bobolink look round anxiously at the falling leaves.

And now Blackbird, usually among the last, was ready to go and would soon be feeding lavishly on the reed seeds. They would not last long. Bobolink was at his wit’s end. Then, as from the top of a reed he looked wistfully at the dusky form of departing Song Sparrow, an idea occurred to him.

That afternoon he disappeared. He was not seen on the next day nor the next. At the end of the third day a very strange-looking bird might have been seen hopping about in the thicket which Bobolink had occupied. This newcomer was a modest fellow. He wore a plain, brown coat without a trace of the tall, white collar such as adorned Bobolink; and he talked very little. Indeed, his only note seemed to be a dull, little chirp which no one understood. While folks in the north country were beginning to wonder who this new comer could be, he, too, disappeared. A little later the birds of the Great Meadow were surprised to see what to them was a very odd-looking traveler. He was no other than the brown stranger who had just left the north country. No one remembered to have seen him before.

Rough-leg, who from his high lookout kept his eyes open for Bobolink, saw the newcomer, but the modest plumage awakened little interest in his mind. Blackbird, who always fed near the stranger, kept up a sociable chat all the time, but he was unable to learn anything of the other’s history. Indeed the latter, although polite, paid little attention to his neighbors but went on busily about his food. He soon became quite stout.

The fall had nearly passed. All the birds except Rough-leg, Blackbird, and the stranger had gone South. The leaves had fallen and the reeds turned to brown fagots. Rough-leg still kept up his weary look-out. Occasionally he would launch himself from the now leafless poplar and circle over the Meadows. The brown bird would bolt up nervously from his feeding ground and Blackbird, thinking that it was he who had disturbed him would flutter overhead, calling out heartily, “Don’t mind me-e-e! Don’t mind me-e-e!” But in spite of Blackbird’s cheer the stranger would start up every time Rough-leg’s shadow passed over the meadow. But one day when the autumn wind murmured through the dry reeds the brown bird had flown. A day later Blackbird followed.

Old Rough-leg still keeps up his watch. Every little while you can see him launch out from the great poplar and circle above the Meadows as if perchance Bobolink might be hiding among the reeds. But his search is vain. Often, however, he sees the brown stranger, whom folks have since named Reed Bird, but as he sails back to his favorite perch, he vainly wonders what has become of Bobolink in his beautiful coat of black and white.

Perhaps he would wonder still more if he knew that, although they pass to and fro with each year’s migration, Bobolink and Reed Bird have never met. Couldn’t the reader explain something of this to old Rough-leg?

* * * * *

“The good are better made by ill,
As odors crushed are sweeter still.”

--_Rogers._

A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST

By Evelyn Raymond