Five Little Peppers and their Friends | Page 5

"Now she's my child, remember," she said, turning her sharp, black
eyes on the small figure huddled up on the floor, "as long as she stays
here."
Then she hurried about, twitching a box out here and there from a
cupboard, whose broken door hung by one hinge.
"Here's my silver spoons--ain't they beautiful!" she cried, running up
with a few two-tined forks and a bent and battered knife. These she
placed, also the cracked cups, with great gusto, on the rickety table,
propped for support against the wall, as one of its legs was gone
entirely and another on the fair road to departure.
"'Tain't stylish to have yer table agin the wall," she broke out, "at a
five-o'clock tea; I know, 'cause I've peeked in the windows up on the
avenoo, an' I've seen your folks, too." She nodded over at Phronsie. "I
know what I'll do." She tossed her head with its black, elfish locks, and
darted off in triumph, dragging up from another corner a big box, first
unceremoniously dumping out the various articles, such as dirty clothes,
a tin pan or two, a skillet, an empty bottle--last of all, a nightcap, which
she held aloft. "Gran's," she shouted; "it's been lost a mighty long time.
Now I'm goin' to wear it to my five-o'clock tea. It's a picter hat, same's
that lady had on to your house once--I seen her." She threw the old
nightcap over her hair, tied the ragged strings with an air, and soon, by
dint of pulling and hauling, had the table in the very center of the
apartment, the box securely under its most delicate and unreliable
portion.
"There--my! ain't we fine, though!" She surveyed her work with great
delight, her hands on her hips. "Now, says I, for our ice cream an' cake,
with white on top, an' choc'late."
She gave a flirt of her ragged gown and darted here and there with her
elfish movements; and presently a cold potato, shivering in its skin, a
slice or two of hard, moldy bread, and some turnips and carrots,
uncooked, were set about the dirty table, with empty spools in between.

"Them's the flowers," she explained, as she put the last-mentioned
articles in their places. "Now it's all ready, except the choc'late." And
waving an old tin coffeepot, whose nose was a thing of the past, she
filled it at the faucet over the wooden sink, and put it down with a
flourish at one end of the table. "Now we're ready, an' I'm the beautiful
lady up to your house--I seen her, once when I was peekin' through the
fence"--she nodded shrewdly, her little eyes snapping--"her an' your
sister."
[Illustration: Five O'Clock Tea]
"Oh, I want Polly," broke out Phronsie, with such a wail, as she sat, a
frozen little heap, not daring to stir, that the girl screamed out:
"Well, I'm goin' to take you to her, when I've given you my five-o'clock
tea; that is, if you don't cry. An' I ain't goin' to be the beautiful lady up
at your house; I'll be Mrs. somebody else. No, I'll be a Dukess--the
Dukess of Marlbrer--I've seen her in the paper. Oh, you've got to have
the best chair," and she dragged up the sole article of furniture of that
name, minus its back, away from the door; then helping Phronsie up
from the floor, she wiped off the tears on her pinafore, no longer white,
and soon had her installed on it. "Now you're comp'ny." Thereupon she
ran and fetched the doll from the bed, and put her on a small, old barrel,
from which the articles were dumped out, and, with a box for her back,
Clorinda was soon in great state on one side of the feast. The Dukess
then slipped into her own seat, an inverted tub, somewhat low, to be
sure, but still allowing the view of the festive cup to be seen. "She's my
child, now. Will you have some choc'late?"--with a winning smile that
ran all over her dirty face and wrinkled it up alarmingly.
"Oh, no, she's my child," protested Phronsie, the tears beginning again.
"I mean till I get through my five-o'clock tea," cried the girl; "can't you
understand? Then she'll be yours, an' I'll take you home. Will you have
choc'late?--you must, Lady--what's your name, anyway?" she
demanded abruptly, bringing her black eyes to bear on Phronsie.
Phronsie could hardly stammer it out for the tears she was choking

back.
"Oh, my eye, what a name!" laughed the Dukess, in derision. "Well,
you can be Lady Funsie--Fornsie--whatever you call it. Now, will you
have some choc'late? 'Taint perlite not to answer."
"I'd rather have some milk," said Phronsie faintly, "if you please."
"Oh, 'tain't no trouble," said the Dukess airily,