Polly

Polly

By D. C. Retsloff

The first seen of them was when what is known in the Middle West as a "prairie schooner" stopped in the outskirts of town and in the abandoned yard of Count Jensen's old place. Half a dozen poorly clad, elfish-looking little children peeped from the wagon ends. Two bony horses wandered here and there, inside the rickety fence, trying to pick something worth eating among the stumps and blackberry vines. "The Count's place," as it was called, stood in a grove of tall cedars, whose sobbing at times seemed pitifully human. The dilapidated old house, surrounded by a tumble-down fence, bulged in many curves, as if strained in an effort to keep itself standing. At one time there was a gate, but it had long been gone, and even the walk leading to the house had rotted away. The broken steps, paneless windows, and sagging doors told the story of neglect and decay. Uncared for, it had stood vacant for many years, save for families of rats or an occasional tramp who spent a night beneath the shelter of the moss grown roof. By what right the strangers took possession of the premises no one knew; likewise, where they came from was an unanswered question. But there they were and there they stayed; it seemed the proper setting for them, too; the wobbly fence, the weedy yard, were quite in keeping with the poor, old horses and rattling wagon. It was as if the place sympathized with them in their poverty and did not want to appear to better advantage than its inmates. It was late in the afternoon of an August day when Mi\s. Chadwick first noticed the wagon in the yard across the road. In the daylight which still remained and during the lonj:. northern twilight she watched them transfer the few <ld» and ends from the wagon to the house. She was pleased with the signs of life around the old ph.ee, and even the nearness of the many children did not disconcert her.

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As she was finishing her dishes the next morning, a slip of a girl entered the gate. The child, for she was no more, approached half timidly and bashfully said: "I'm Polly, we have just come here to live, and my Ma, she wants the loan of your skillet, we lost ourn somewhere." "Come right in, little girl, 1 will get you a big frying pan that I don't use; tell your mother that she may keep it." Polly stood in the center of the spotless kitchen and looked in every direction — a queer little figure in a faded calico dress, short by two inches in length of skirt, and so narrow that if she wanted to run she would have to gather it up around her waist. The shortest fleeting glance would have told the most casual observer that she had been raised in a promiscuous manner. Her hair was tightly braided in two long pig tails, tied with wide, white rags, but very beautiful were the brown eyes, and wistful and sweet was the face she raised to Mrs. Chadwick's as she took the "skillet" and turned to go. "So you are Polly, are you? What is the rest of your name?" A flush crept into her cheeks, the big eyes snapped, a battle raged within. Only for a few seconds, however. Something like an unspoken passport flashed between them. Then came the answer, "Polly Plenty Pepper, but I never tell it, only when I have to. I hate it, I hate it." A lump arose in the woman's throat as she looked at the girl; something mysterious and mystic was born in a moment, something that drew them together. "I must go now, for Ma, she licks most awful hard when she licks." Polly darted away, the big black, iron frying pan in one hand, her skirts raised in the other and the two braids of hair with their rag ribbons fluttering in the wind like flags of truce. From that day Polly was a frequent caller, coming each time to borrow, for her mother was nearly always "just out" of some common household article. The oftener she came, the more interesting she grew. There was much in her to study. She was original and old fashioned. She seemed to hunger for the love and mothering which she did not find in her own home. She was very sensitive about her name and hated it with all the strength of her twelve years. "I wish my name was Chadwick," Polly remarked on one of her borrowing trips. She set her teeth, took a long breath, and added: "Polly is bad enough, the Pepper is awful, and when anybody says Plenty, I would like to scratch their eyes out, I would. I do not see why Ma gave me such a name. I believe

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I hate her for it. If I don't take rat pizen before I get married, I'll name all my little girls after the flowers; then no one can poke fun at them. Do you know, Mrs. Chadwick, I have heard the flowers laugh in the wind. I know they dance with the moonbeams, and some mornings I think they have been crying, for their faces are all wet? I don't see why God did not make me a flower, or a little creek; maybe I'd rather be the creek, for it goes on, and on, and always sings, the more it tumbles down, the louder it laughs." "Why do you think He made me a child, with so many brothers and sisters, and why did He tell me to pick out a mother who would give me such a name as Polly Plenty Pepper?" "Hush, child, hush, you must not talk in that way. It does not matter what your name is; that is of little moment in this great, busy world. Be your own sweet self; do not think about your name. Polly is not bad at all. Do you know that it comes from Mary and means 'Star of the Sea?' Remember that, and when you look at night up to God's blue overhead, notice how each little star seems trying to outshine every other little star, and try to be better and kinder than other girls who have prettier names. People will love you for the brightness of your nature and you will be a star indeed. Remember, Polly, we, our spirits, came into this universe by our own desire. All our experiences shall be for our individual good. We roll around like a marble on a smooth floor, till we drop into a pocket and there we are; not the pocket we would choose, probably, but the one selected for us by the Good Father of all, and to which selection we consented, that we might have the experience that should prove us and make us grow in strength and power to overcome, and prepare us for greater things hereafter. Then, it is up to us to fit ourselves into that place, and to do our very

best. We all have a share in making the lives of those around us, and never forget that you stand like a sign post; you do not know who may be looking to you for guidance." "If every one was as kind as you are, Mrs. Chadwick, I'd not mind the Polly, but the bovs call me 'Polly parrot' and say, 'does Polly want a cracker'? They call after me, 'Polly, oh, poor Polly!' till I want to fight them. Some day I'll jam Henry Hopkins a foot in the ground. I hate him, he's the worst boy in town. I wish something would gnaw him into bits. I hate the school, I hate the teacher. Yesterday she made me stay in after the rest were gone, because I'd not tell my name before the whole class. I didn't tell her yet, and I 'low I never will. I'm only twelve years old, but I reckon they have been sorrowfuller years than you ever had in all your life. It's

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just terrible not to have enough of anything, only the name 'Plenty.' I can't see why God made so many poor people; sometimes I hate everything and everyone. The moonbeam ladder that comes down on my bed at night is the only thing I don't hate. I make believe that it is a path leading away off to some place where there are no bad boys, no crying babies, no ragged dresses, but to a spot where the sun is always shining and little Christmas trees growing. I must go now, for since Ma got the new twins, I have to tend the baby all the time. I feel like a volcano, ready to 'bust' open and shoot out fire and hot rocks. I wish I could, if they would hit the boys that call me names." The strength of the child's passion and the expression that overspread her face almost startled Mrs. Chadwick. She knew how little brightness there was in Polly's life. The mother, ignorant and untidy, the father shiftless and easy, the house — for there was not the slightest hint of it being — a home was simply a place in which to eat and sleep. Months passed, each succeeding week bringing Polly new annoyances from the village boys, led by Henry Hopkins, who made life most unhappy for the girl. One afternoon Mrs. Chadwick, sitting by an open window, heard an unusual noise in the street. Looking out she saw and understood the reason. The sight long lingered in her menory. Polly and five boys were indulging in a most disgraceful affair. The two long braids of hair kept time with the child's skinny arms as she struck at her tormentors. Like tamer and animals they eyed one another, not a boy — not even Henry dared to attack her singly. They circled and danced, like a band of wild Indians. Polly, as alert as a young deer and nimble as a jack rabbit, was holding her own, advancing rather than retreating. Mrs. Chadwick started for the scene of battle. At her approach the boys scurried off like dogs driven from a feast, while Polly called: "Just you wait, some day I'll hang you all higher than Wo Lee does his wash!" The next instant she found herself gathered in a pair of motherly arms. The angry fire died and she burst into tears. Mrs. Chadwick did not say a word as she led her into the tidy kitchen and drew her down upon her lap. After a time Polly said between sobs: "That settles it. I'm going to take rat pizen tonight. What's the use for me to try to live and be good in the same world with Henry Hopkins? Today he called me, 'Polly long legs,' and 'Plenty skinny.' If I could punish him I would. Why did God make boys? I hate

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everything and everyone 'cept you. Sometimes I hate you 'cause you are not my mother." "Polly, Polly, calm yourself, you will be sick!" "I don't care; why did God make all the birds happy, give them lovely trees to live in, and then make folks who are always cross and sad, and have them live in crazy old houses? He makes the hills beautiful in soft green and bright with flowers, why did he make me to wear faded clothing and not enough of that even?" "Child, you must not feel that way. God made the world and all that we see for you and me. Our trials shall give us experience and shall result in our good. Christ our Lord suffered, and descended below them all, and none of us is greater than he. Every living thing has as much right to be gay and happy as people. You would not love the trees if they were ugly. You do not want the hills to be brown and bare. Try to realize that He made them bright so you might enjoy them to the uttermost depths of your soul." "But, Mrs. Chadwick, how can I be happy? I've had this sorryness so long I 'low it is just a part of me. The only time I'm happy is when I have my moonbeam ladder. If I could live here with you, maybe, by and by, I'd forget to hate, but over there I can't. We have so many children and never enough of anything. I dress so skimpy and am so skinny." Tears again filled the brown eyes and her voice had in it a touch of plaintiveness that touched the listener's heart. "Would you really like to be my little girl, Polly? Will you come to live with me, if we can get your motherr's consent?" "Will I?" cried the child. "Just give me the chance. I don't reckon I'd hate the name Polly so much if I was living with you." Together they crossed the road. Mrs. Pepper listened to the proposal quite indifferently, then replied: "So you want Polly. Well now, I never thought anyone would want her. I 'low it don't make any difference where a kid grows up and gets its 'eats' and 'sleeps.' Polly is queer and not thankful for all we've done for her. Like her pa, she'll fight at the drop of a hat, and her tongue, it haint ever still. I reckon you'll have your hands fuller than you've ever had them if you tack on to her. She'll fill you with trouble. She mopes around and wonders why God made so many poor people. I told her the other day that I 'lowed they were his favorites, being as how he had made so many of them, and what do you think she did? Bust out crying and said she hated God, hated everything, hated me, and me her own mother! Can you beat that? Isn't it the

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most unnatural thing you ever heard of? If you can stand for that kind of foolishness, take her. Many a time she has needed the hide about tanned off her. Now remember what I am telling you." The fact that there was an immortal soul in the body of her child did not seem to enter Mrs. Pepper's mind, and there were no softening lines on her cold face. With apparently no regret on either side Polly severed her connections with her natural mother, who was an unnatural one as well. A happy home is a cheerful agent. The change in the child's mental attitude was soon noticeable. Mrs. Chadwick's very presence radiated joy and happiness. Polly developed as rapidly as a young plant in fertile soil and genial sunshine. * # *

Twelve years passed. Again an August sun fell on the Chadwick cottage. The yard was filled with blossoms, each leaf, vine, and shrub seemed quivering with expectancy as they nodded gaily or danced in the gentle breeze, while the birds in the shrubbery sang at the risk of bursting their throats. The gate opened, a tall young woman with hair like burnished copper, and wonderful brown eyes, went quickly up the walk. The noise of the latch brought Mrs. Chadwick to the door. "Polly, Polly, my dear child, I did not expect you till the evening train." "Not sorry, are you?" The voice was musical and low, and the laugh that followed like the happy gurgle of lapping waves. "Oh, my dear, I could hardly wait. I am so proud of you. You must tell me all the things you have done, all about the girls you teach and the school." "That will be easy. I have written you so much and sent copies of leaves from my diary; there is not much left to say." Seated in a low rocker with the older woman close by, Polly began: "First I want to say again how much I feel that I owe to you and the training I received in this dear, little, white cottage. If it had not been for your influence, your love, your sympathy, your consideration, I could never have been a teacher in such a school. Incorrigible girls need a personality much like yours, Mrs. Chadwick. The knowledge gained from your example helped me every day." "But, Polly, I cannot think I am responsible for your success." "Indeed, all I am I owe to you. You never presented antagonism, you tried to understand my impulses and motives, you did not put resentful interpretations on my actions."

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"Why should I, child? Character-forming is as worthy an object as book-learning." "You are right. 1 know that many of the girls in the school have been controlled by winning their hearts, as you did mine. Do you remember how you used to keep me busy with bright, pretty things and how much you taught me of Nature?" "You always loved Nature, Polly. I did not have to teach you that. You were the one who heard the first call of the mother birds, you found the pussy willows in their silver furs long before any one else thought of looking for them. It was no trouble to keep you busy; all you needed was a definite object. Those things were within yourself, Polly. I may have helped develop them. I can see you now the first year you were with me, out there under the cedar tree, the day the boys killed the spotted snake. I can hear the sob in your voice as you called me and asked why they hurt it when God had made it so beautiful? And do you remember the time you cried all afternoon because the big alder was cut down? You said all the leaf babies would die in their cradles. Does not that prove that you always, even as a child, was a Nature lover?" "Then let me put it this way, you intensified my love for all living things. One of the most lasting lessons you ever gave me, Mrs. Chadwick, was when you told me the story of th_ sculptor who always saw an angel in a block of marble. In finishing, you said: 'Polly, in you I see possibilities for everything you want to be.' I have never forgotten that. I try to see the highest type of womanhood in the very worst girl, even as you did in me." "Child, you must not give me all this credit. That I was a helpful medium I am willing to admit, but, my dear, we both must remember that, 'the Father who dwelleth in us, he doeth the work.' "Let us forget about myself, Mrs. Chadwick, I want you to tell me how things are in this quiet village. You know, after the long years spent here, it seems a part of my former self." "There are improvements in all lines, Polly, and in the people as well. I believe the greatest and the most remarkable is in your old enemy, Henry Hopkins. He has developed into a wonderful man. Everyone is proud of him. His college career was one success after another, and now comes his crowning triumph, the winning of that big corporation suit. He found time while in the university to make an exhaustive study of graft, graft methods, and grafters. Through this knowledge he was able to outwit and outstrip his opponents and come off with flying colors. There is not a breath of scandal, nor a

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smutty stain on his name, or his methods; nor on the name of the corporation he represented. "They say his language, aside from being forceful and convincing, was as smooth and ripply as the waves on a summer sea; in fact, a plea in blank verse. He stands for justice, honesty, and clean business. He is a remarkable young man. I sometimes wonder if anyone as practical can have a grain of sentimentality — Again the gate latch gave its tell-tale warning; elastic footsteps sounded on the walk; there was a light tap on the door, and then a quick turning of the knob, and Henry Hopkins, slim and shapely, stood in the opening, an eager light on his strong face. Mrs. Chadwick, with extended hand advanced to meet him. "My dear boy," she said, "this is an unexpected pleasure. I have been wanting an opportunity to congratulate you on winning the suit against the graft machinery. It must be highly gratifying to feel that you have achieved a success. We all are proud of you, Henry." A great tenderness came into the young man's eyes. His line of vision appeared to focus on Polly, as he replied: "Mrs. Chadwick, I thank you, but all the glory will fade from my life if I do not win my next suit, which now is pending." He crossed the room to Polly, his powerful face betraying his soul hunger. No word of love had passed between them, but eyes and blood had translated the voiceless language of the heart. They knew they loved each other. Looking at the blushing face of the girl, as she stood near the window, through which glimmering sunlight fell in long streamers of gold, Mrs. Chadwick did not have to be told that Henry Hopkins had won his suit. San Diego, Cat.

"The greatest poets in all ages have been great admirers of animals, and their sayings would form a code of tenderness for these, our fellow creatures; throughout Shakespeare's writings, for instance, you can detect the love he had for animals." * * * When, for instance, the lower animal is constantly the companion of man, and is one of the family, as, for — example the horse with his Arab master the man begins to understand the lower animal; and understanding of this sort necessarily produces kindness and sympathy." Animals and their Masters.