Part 81

“I can sew 'em, Polly,” she said, holding up her hand for the big needle that Polly was trying to thread--“I can now truly; let me, Polly, do!”

“Dear no!” said Polly with a little laugh, beginning to be very much ashamed. “What could you do with your little mites of hands pulling this big thread through that old leather? There, scamper into bed again; you'll catch cold out here.

“Tisn't very cold,” said Phronsie, tucking up her toes under the night-gown, but Polly hurried her into bed, where she curled herself up under the clothes, watching her make a big knot. But the knot didn't stay; for when Polly drew up the long thread triumphantly to the end--out it flew, and away the button hopped again as if glad to be released. And then the thread kinked horribly, and got all twisted up in disagreeable little snarls that took all Polly's patience to unravel.

“It's because you're in such a hurry,” said Mrs. Pepper, who was getting Phronsie's clothes. And coming over across the room she got down on one knee, and looked over Polly's shoulder. “There now, let mother see what's the matter.”

“Oh dear,” said Polly, resigning the needle with a big sigh, and leaning back to take a good stretch, followed by Phronsie's sympathizing eyes; “they never'll be on! And there goes the first bell!” as the loud sounds under Jane's vigorous ringing pealed up over the stairs. “There won't be time anyway, now! I wish there wasn't such a thing as shoes in the world!” And she gave a flounce and sat up straight in front of her mother.

“Polly!” said Mrs. Pepper sternly, deftly fastening the little buttons tightly into place with quick, firm stitches, “better be glad you've got them to sew at all. There now, here they are. Those won't come off in a hurry!”

“Oh, mamsie!” cried Polly, ignoring for a moment the delights of the finished shoe to fling her arms around her mother's neck and give her a good hug. “You're just the splendidest, goodest mamsie in all the world. And I'm a hateful, cross old bear, so I am!” she cried remorsefully, buttoning herself into her boots. Which done, she flew at the rest of her preparations and tried to make up for lost time.

But 'twas all of no use. The day seemed to be always just racing ahead of her, and turning a corner, before she could catch up to it, and Ben and the other boys only caught dissolving views of her as she flitted through halls or over stairs.

“Where's Polly?” said Percy at last, coming with great dissatisfaction in his voice to the library door. “We've called her, I guess a million times, and she won't hurry.”

“What do you want to have her do?” asked Jasper, looking up from the sofa where he had flung himself with a book.

“Why, she said she'd make Van and me our sails you know,” said Percy, holding up a rather forlorn looking specimen of a boat, but which the boys had carved with the greatest enthusiasm, “and we want her now.”

“Can't you let her alone till she's ready to come?” said Jasper quickly. “You're always teasing her to do something,” he added.

“I didn't tease,” said Percy indignantly, coming up to the sofa, boat in hand, to enforce his words. “She said she'd love to do 'em, so there, Jasper King!”

“Coming! coming!” sang Polly over the stairs, and bobbing into the library, “Oh--here you are, Percy! I couldn't come before; mamsie wanted me. Now, says I, for the sails.” And she began to flap out a long white piece of cotton cloth on the table to trim into just the desired shape.

“That isn't the way,” said Percy, crowding up, the brightness that had flashed over his face at Polly's appearance beginning to fade. “Hoh! those won't be good for anything--those ain't sails.”

“I haven't finished,” said Polly, snipping away vigorously, and longing to get back to mamsie. “Wait till they're done; then they'll be good--as good as can be!”

“And it's bad enough to have to make them,” put in Jasper, flinging aside his book and rolling over to watch them, “without having to be found fault with every second, Percy.”

“They're too big,” said Percy, surveying them critically, and then looking at his boat.

“Oh, that corner's coming off,” cried Polly cheerfully, giving it a sharp cut that sent it flying on the floor. “And they won't be too big when they're done, Percy, all hemmed and everything. There,” as she held one up for inspection, “that's just the way I used to make Ben's and mine, when we sailed boats.”

“Is it?” asked Percy, looking with more respect at the piece of cloth Polly was waving alluringly before him. “Just exactly like it, Polly?”

“Yes,” said Polly, laying it down again for a pattern--“oh, how does this go--oh--that's it, there--yes, this is just exactly like Bensie's and mine--that was when I was ever so little; and then I used to make Joel's and Davie's afterwards and--”

“And were theirs just like this?” asked Percy, laying his hand on the sail she had finished cutting out.

“Pre-cisely,” said Polly, with a pin in her mouth. “Just as like as two peas, Percy Whitney.”

“Then I like them,” cried Percy, veering round and regarding them with great satisfaction--as Van bounded in with a torrent of complaints, and great disappointment in every line of his face.

“Oh now, that's too bad!” he cried, seeing Polly fold up the remaining bits of cloth, and pick up the scraps on the floor. “And you've gone and let her cut out every one of 'em, and never told me a word! You're a mean, old hateful thing, Percy Whitney!”

“Oh don't!” said Polly, on her knees on the floor.

“I forgot--” began Percy, “and she cut 'em so quick--and--”

“And I've been waiting,” said Van, in a loud wrathful key, “and waiting--and waiting!”