The Adventures of Ann | Page 3

a
tingling sensation at the roots of his queue. He wondered what Polly
would say. The first glance at her face, when he lifted Ann off the horse
at his own door, confirmed his fears. She expressed her mind, in a
womanly way, by whispering in his ear at the first opportunity, "She's
as black as an Injun."
After Ann had eaten her supper, and had been tucked away between
some tow sheets and homespun blankets in a trundle-bed, she heard the
whole story, and lifted up her hands with horror. Then the good couple
read a chapter, and prayed, solemnly vowing to do their duty by this
child which they had taken under their roof, and imploring Divine
assistance.
As time wore on, it became evident that they stood in sore need of it.
They had never had any children of their own, and Ann Ginnins was
the first child who had ever lived with them. But she seemed to have
the freaks of a dozen or more in herself, and they bade fair to have the
experience of bringing up a whole troop with this one. They tried
faithfully to do their duty by her, but they were not used to children,
and she was a very hard child to manage. A whole legion of
mischievous spirits seemed to dwell in her at times, and she became in
a small and comparatively innocent way, the scandal of the staid
Puritan neighborhood in which she lived. Yet, withal, she was so
affectionate, and seemed to be actuated by so little real malice in any of
her pranks, that people could not help having a sort of liking for the
child, in spite of them.
She was quick to learn, and smart to work, too, when she chose.
Sometimes she flew about with such alacrity that it seemed as if her
little limbs were hung on wires, and no little girl in the neighborhood
could do her daily tasks in the time she could, and they were no
inconsiderable tasks, either.
Very soon after her arrival she was set to "winding quills," so many
every day. Seated at Mrs. Polly's side, in her little homespun gown,

winding quills through sunny forenoons--how she hated it! She liked
feeding the hens and pigs better, and when she got promoted to driving
the cows, a couple of years later, she was in her element. There were
charming possibilities of nuts and checkerberries and sassafras and
sweet flag all the way between the house and the pasture, and the
chance to loiter, and have a romp.
She rarely showed any unwillingness to go for the cows; but once,
when there was a quilting at her mistress's house, she demurred. It was
right in the midst of the festivities; they were just preparing for supper,
in fact. Ann knew all about the good things in the pantry, she was wild
with delight at the unwonted stir, and anxious not to lose a minute of it.
She thought some one else might go for the cows that night. She cried
and sulked, but there was no help for it. Go she had to. So she tucked
up her gown--it was her best Sunday one--took her stick, and trudged
along. When she came to the pasture, there were her master's cows
waiting at the bars. So were Neighbor Belcher's cows also, in the
adjoining pasture. Ann had her hand on the topmost of her own bars,
when she happened to glance over at Neighbor Belcher's, and a thought
struck her. She burst into a peal of laughter, and took a step towards the
other bars. Then she went back to her own. Finally, she let down the
Belcher bars, and the Belcher cows crowded out, to the great
astonishment of the Wales cows, who stared over their high rails and
mooed uneasily.
Ann drove the Belcher cows home and ushered them into Samuel
Wales' barnyard with speed. Then she went demurely into the house.
The table looked beautiful. Ann was beginning to quake inwardly,
though she still was hugging herself, so to speak, in secret enjoyment of
her own mischief. She had one hope--that supper would be eaten before
her master milked. But the hope was vain. When she saw Mr. Wales
come in, glance her way, and then call his wife out, she knew at once
what had happened, and begun to tremble--she knew perfectly what Mr.
Wales was saying out there. It was this: "That little limb has driven
home all Neighbor Belcher's cows instead of ours; what's going to be
done with her?"

She knew what the answer would be, too. Mrs. Polly was a peremptory
woman.
Back Ann had to go with the Belcher cows, fasten them safely in their
pasture again, and drive her