Five Little Peppers And How They Grew | Page 8

could scrape
together, and gently coaxing them into a little heap; "that's the way; and
then they don't go all over the room.
"I'm sorry," began poor Polly.
"'Tain't any matter," said Mrs. Bascom kindly, catching sight of Polly's
discomfited face; "tain't a mite of matter; you'll sweep better next time;
now let's go to the cake;" and putting the broom into the corner, she
waddled back again to the table, followed by Polly, and proceeded to
turn out the contents of the teapot, in search of just the right "receet."
But the right one didn't seem to appear; not even after the teapot was
turned upside down and shaken by both grandma's and Polly's anxious
hands. Every other "receet" seemed to tumble out gladly, and stare
them in the face--little dingy rolls of yellow paper, with an ancient odor
of spice still clinging to them; but all efforts to find this particular one
failed utterly.
"Won't some other one do?" asked Polly, in the interval of fruitless
searching, when grandma bewailed and lamented, and wondered,
"where I could a put it!"

"No, no, child," answered the old lady; "now, where do you s'pose 'tis!"
and she clapped both hands to her head, to see if she could possibly
remember; "no, no, child," she repeated. "Why, thcy had it down to my
niece Mirandy's weddin'--'twas just elegant! light as a feather; and
'twan't rich either," she added; "no eggs, nor"-- "Oh, I couldn't have
eggs;" cried Polly, in amazement at the thought of such luxury; "and
we've only brown flour, grandma, you know."
"Well, you can make it of brown," said Mrs. Bascom, kindly; "when
the raisins is in 'twill look quite nice."
"Oh, we haven't any raisins," answered Polly.
"Haven't any raisins!" echoed grandma, looking at her over her
spectacles; "what are you goin' to put in?"
"Oh--cinnamon," said Polly, briskly; "we've got plenty of that, and--it'll
be good, I guess, grandma!" she finished, anxiously; "anyway, we must
have a cake; there isn't any other way to celebrate mamsie's birthday."
"Well, now," said grandma, bustling around; "I shouldn't be surprised if
you had real good luck, Polly. And your ma'll set ever so much by it;
now, if we only could find that receet!" and returning to the charge she
commenced to fumble among her bits of paper again; "I never shall
forget how they eat on it; why, there wasn't a crumb left, Polly!"
"Oh, dear," said Polly, to whom "Mirandy's wedding cake" now
became the height of her desires; "if you only can find it! can't I climb
up and look on the pantry shelves?"
"Maybe 'tis there," said Mrs. Bascom, slowly; "you might try;
sometimes I do put things away, so's to have 'em safe."
So Polly got an old wooden chair, according to direction, and then
mounted up on it, with grandma below to direct, she handed down bowl
after bowl, interspersed at the right intervals with cracked teacups and
handleless pitchers. But at the end of these explorations, "Mirandy's
wedding cake" was further off than ever.

"Tain't a mite o' use," at last said the old lady, sinking down in despair,
while Polly perched on the top of the chair and looked at her; "I must
a-give it away."
"Can't I have the next best one, then?" asked Polly, despairingly,
feeling sure that "Mirandy's wedding cake" would have celebrated the
day just right; "and I must hurry right home, please," she added, getting
down from the chair, and tying on her hood; "or Phronsie won't know
what to do."
So another "receet" was looked over, and selected; and with many
charges, and bits of advice not to let the oven get too hot, etc., etc.,
Polly took the precious bit in her hand, and flew over home.
"Now, we've got to--" she began, bounding in merrily, with dancing
eyes; but her delight had a sudden stop, as she brought up so suddenly
at the sight within, that she couldn't utter another word. Phronsie was
crouching, a miserable little heap of woe, in one corner of the mother's
big calico-covered rocking-chair, and crying bitterly, while Joel hung
over her in the utmost concern.
"What's the matter?" gasped Polly. Flinging the "receet" on the table,
she rushed up to the old chair and was down on her knees before it, her
arms around the little figure. Phronsie turned, and threw herself into
Polly's protecting arms, who gathered her up, and sitting down in the
depths of the chair, comforted her as only she could.
"What is it?" she asked of Joel, who was nervously begging Phronsie
not to cry; "now, tell me all that's happened."
"I was a-nailing," began Joel; "oh dear! don't cry, Phronsie! do stop her,
Polly."
"Go on," said Polly, hoarsely.
"I was a-nailing," began