just time to get things in order, when Fanny came up, crosser than
ever; for Trix had been telling her of all sorts of fun in which she
might have had a share, if Polly had held her tongue.
“Where is she?” asked Fan, wishing to vent her vexation on her
friend.
“Moping in her room, I suppose,” replied Tom, who was
discovered reading studiously.
Now, while this had been happening, Maud had been getting into
hot water also; for when her maid left her, to see a friend below,
Miss Maud paraded into Polly’s room, and solaced herself with
mischief. In an evil hour Polly had let her play boat in her big
trunk, which stood empty. Since then Polly had stored some of her
most private treasures in the upper tray, so that she might feel sure
they were safe from all eyes. She had forgotten to lock the trunk,
and when Maud raised the lid to begin her voyage, several objects
of interest met her eyes. She was deep in her researches when Fan
came in and looked over her shoulder, feeling too cross with Polly
to chide Maud.
As Polly had no money for presents, she had exerted her ingenuity
to devise all sorts of gifts, hoping by quantity to atone for any
shortcomings in quality. Some of her attempts were successful,
others were failures; but she kept them all, fine or funny, knowing
the children at home would enjoy anything new. Some of Maud’s
cast-off toys had been neatly mended for Kitty; some of Fan’s old
ribbons and laces were converted into dolls’ finery; and Tom’s little
figures, whittled out of wood in idle minutes, were laid away to
show Will what could be done with a knife.
“What rubbish!” said Fanny.
“Queer girl, is n’t she?” added Tom, who had followed to see what
was going on.
“Don’t you laugh at Polly’s things. She makes nicer dolls than you,
Fan; and she can wite and dwar ever so much better than Tom,”
cried Maud. “How do you know? I never saw her draw,” said
Tom.
“Here ‘s a book with lots of pictures in it. I can’t wead the witing;
but the pictures are so funny.”
Eager to display her friend’s accomplishments, Maud pulled out a
fat little book, marked “Polly’s Journal,” and spread it in her lap.
“Only the pictures; no harm in taking a look at ’em,” said Tom.
“Just one peep,” answered Fanny; and the next minute both were
laughing at a droll sketch of Tom in the gutter, with the big dog
howling over him, and the velocipede running away. Very rough
and faulty, but so funny, that it was evident Polly’s sense of humor
was strong. A few pages farther back came Fanny and Mr. Frank,
caricatured; then grandma, carefully done; Tom reciting his
battle-piece; Mr. Shaw and Polly in the park; Maud being borne
away by Katy; and all the school-girls turned into ridicule with an
unsparing hand.
“Sly little puss, to make fun of us behind our backs,” said Fan,
rather nettled by Polly’s quiet retaliation for many slights from
herself and friends.
“She does draw well,” said Tom, looking critically at the sketch of
a boy with a pleasant face, round whom Polly had drawn rays like
the sun, and under which was written, “My dear Jimmy.”
“You would n’t admire her, if you knew what she wrote here about
you,” said Fanny, whose eyes had strayed to the written page
opposite, and lingered there long enough to read something that
excited her curiosity.
“What is it?” asked Tom, forgetting his honorable resolves for a
minute.
“She says, ‘I try to like Tom, and when he is pleasant we do very
well; but he don’t stay so long. He gets cross and rough, and
disrespectful to his father and mother, and plagues us girls, and is
so horrid I almost hate him. It ‘s very wrong, but I can’t help it.’
How do you like that?” asked Fanny.
“Go ahead, and see how she comes down on you, ma’am,” retorted
Tom, who had read on a bit.
“Does she?” And Fanny continued, rapidly: “As for Fan, I don’t