The Adventures of Ann | Page 8

and pies marshalled to go in the oven when Grandma had
proposed to do some baking. Grandma bore it patiently for a long time;
but Ann was with difficulty restrained from freeing her small mind, and
her black eyes snapped more dangerously, at every new offence.
One morning, Grandma had two loaves of "riz bread," and some
election cakes, rising, and was intending to bake them in about an hour,
when they should be sufficiently light. What should Mrs. Dorcas do,
but mix up sour milk bread, and some pies with the greatest speed, and
fill up the oven, before Grandma's cookery was ready!
Grandma sent Ann out into the kitchen to put the loaves in the oven and
lo and behold! the oven was full. Ann stood staring for a minute, with a
loaf of election cake in her hands; that and the bread would be ruined if
they were not baked immediately, as they were raised enough. Mrs.
Dorcas had taken Thirsey and stepped out somewhere, and there was

no one in the kitchen. Ann set the election cake back on the table. Then,
with the aid of the tongs, she reached into the brick oven and took out
every one of Mrs. Dorcas' pies and loaves. Then she arranged them
deliberately in a pitiful semicircle on the hearth, and put Grandma's
cookery in the oven.
She went back to the southwest room then, and sat quietly down to her
spinning. Grandma asked if she had put the things in, and she said "Yes,
ma'am," meekly. There was a bright red spot on each of her dark
cheeks.
When Mrs. Dorcas entered the kitchen, carrying Thirsey wrapped up in
an old homespun blanket, she nearly dropped as her gaze fell on the
fire-place and the hearth. There sat her bread and pies, in the most
lamentable half-baked, sticky, doughy condition imaginable. She
opened the oven, and peered in. There were Grandma's loaves, all a
lovely brown. Out they came, with a twitch. Luckily, they were done.
Her own went in, but they were irretrievable failures.
Of course, quite a commotion came from this. Dorcas raised her shrill
voice pretty high, and Grandma, though she had been innocent of the
whole transaction, was so blamed that she gave Dorcas a piece of her
mind at last. Ann surveyed the nice brown loaves, and listened to the
talk in secret satisfaction; but she had to suffer for it afterward.
Grandma punished her for the first time, and she discovered that that
kind old hand was pretty firm and strong. "No matter what you think or
whether you air in the rights on't, or not, a little gal mustn't ever sass
her elders," said Grandma.
But if Ann's interference was blamable, it was productive of one good
result--the matter came to Mr. Atherton's ears, and he had a stern sense
of justice when roused, and a great veneration for his mother. His
father's will should be carried out to the letter, he declared; and it was.
Grandma baked and boiled in peace, outwardly, at least, after that.
Ann was a great comfort to her; she was outgrowing her wild,
mischievous ways, and she was so bright and quick. She promised to be
pretty, too. Grandma compared her favorably with her own

grandchildren, especially, Mrs. Dorcas' eldest daughter Martha, who
was nearly Ann's age. "Marthy's a pretty little gal enough," she used to
say, "but she ain't got the snap to her that Ann has, though I wouldn't
tell Atherton's wife so, for the world."
She promised Ann her gold beads, when she should be done with them,
under strict injunctions not to say anything about it till the time came;
for the others might feel hard as she wasn't her own flesh and blood.
The gold beads were Ann's ideals of beauty, and richness, though she
did not like to hear Grandma talk about being "done with them."
Grandma always wore them around her fair, plump old neck; she had
never seen her without her string of beads.
As before said, Ann was now very seldom mischievous enough to
make herself serious trouble; but, once in a while, her natural
propensities would crop out. When they did, Mrs. Dorcas was
exceedingly bitter. Indeed, her dislike of Ann was, at all times,
smouldering, and needed only a slight fanning to break out.
One stormy winter day, Mrs. Dorcas had been working till dark,
making candle-wicks. When she came to get tea, she tied the white
fleecy rolls together, a great bundle of them, and hung them up in the
cellar-way, over the stairs, to be out of the way. They were extra fine
wicks, being made of flax for the company candles. "I've got a good job
done," said Mrs. Dorcas, surveying them complacently.