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_FLAXIE FRIZZLE STORIES._


LITTLE PITCHERS.

    BY
    SOPHIE MAY,
    AUTHOR OF “LITTLE PRUDY STORIES,” “DOTTY DIMPLE STORIES,”
    “LITTLE PRUDY’S FLYAWAY STORIES,” “FLAXIE
    FRIZZLE,” “DOCTOR PAPA,” ETC.


    _ILLUSTRATED._


    BOSTON 1895
    LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS
    10 MILK STREET NEXT “THE OLD SOUTH MEETING HOUSE”




    COPYRIGHT, 1878,
    BY LEE AND SHEPARD
    _All rights reserved._




CONTENTS.


    CHAPTER                            PAGE
       I. POLLIO AND POSY                 9
      II. GOING TO SCHOOL                26
     III. “THE FINNY-CASTICS”            40
      IV. NOT THE END OF IT              61
       V. ON ALL-FOURS                   79
      VI. BEPPO TALKING                  94
     VII. THE LAKE OF LILIES            113
    VIII. POSY’S ROSEBUD                127
      IX. GOING VISITING                143
       X. THE QUAKER MEETING            157
      XI. POLLIO MAKES UP HIS MIND      175
     XII. HOP-CLOVER’S HOME             190




LITTLE PITCHERS.




CHAPTER I.

POLLIO AND POSY.


THERE were seven Pitchers in the family,—Judge Pitcher and his wife and
five children; but, as the twins were the youngest of all, they were
often called “the Little Pitchers.”

They were Flaxie Frizzle’s cousins; and the more I think about them,
the more I think I will try to put them into a story. They lived so far
away from New York, that Flaxie had never seen, and had scarcely ever
heard of them. Their home was in a town we will call Rosewood, on the
banks of a beautiful river, and so high up that the air was very pure
and cool; only it did not seem like living on a hill, for, as far as
you could see, the whole country looked nearly as flat as a table.

The twins were four years old. I don’t mean that was always their age;
but they were four when our story begins. If you had looked in the
great gilt-edged family Bible on the parlor-table, you would have seen
that their whole names were Napoleon Bonaparte Pitcher, and Josephine
Bonaparte Pitcher; but it did no great harm, for nobody called them any
thing worse than Pollio and Posy.

“_I_ don’t fink we’re twins,” said Pollio, the boy; “I fink we’re
_odds_. We don’t look any bit alike.”

And they didn’t. Strangers often asked if Pollio belonged to the
family; for he looked like a French boy, with his straight dark hair,
brown eyes, and brown skin. Posy’s hair fell in golden curls; her eyes
were blue, and her face very fair. Pollio was so homely and funny that
it made you laugh; and she was so beautiful that it made you smile.

They had two high chairs exactly alike; only Pollio had rubbed the arms
of his with his elbows, and scratched them sadly with his fork.

They had each a fur cap and tippet to wear in the winter; only Posy
kept hers on a nail, and Pollio threw his down wherever he happened to
be.

No, they were not “any bit alike;” but what loving little friends they
were, and how gayly they did trudge about the grounds at home, and
up and down the village street, with their arms around each other’s
waists! The neighbors came to the windows of their houses as the little
couple passed by, saying, “See those little Pitchers! Don’t they look
like Tom Thumb and his wife?” When people spoke to them, Posy dropped
her eyes, and blushed; but Pollio held up his head, and made answer for
both.

Once, in the winter, when they were going out walking, and Posy was
half stifled with her fur cap and a big comforter wound twice round her
neck, Pollio said,—

“She wants to walk _sturbously_ free, and not be mumbled up.”

“Sturbously” was one of his big words that mamma had to guess at; but
she unwound the comforter, and Pollio said,—

“Fank you. It’s awful mild, and she fought she’d choke. Good-by now:
we’re going.”

“Posy would never have complained of the comforter; but she has a
brother who is always ready to scold for her,” said mamma, looking
fondly after her darlings.

“Don’t you be afraid; there sha’n’t any dogs hurt _you_,” she heard him
say to his timid little sister, as Dr. Field’s Fido barked at their
heels.

He often promised to protect his mother and his aunt Ann from the same
dog, and from all the horses in town; for Pollio was a very brave boy.

“Good-morning, General Pollio! Good-morning, Mrs. _Posio_! Guess what
I’ve got in my jug,” called out Bobby Thatcher.

So of course the children followed him; and when they came home from
their walk, instead of being “mumbled up,” Pollio had left his ulster
at Mrs. Thatcher’s, and his jacket was sticky with maple-sirup.

“What _did_ you wipe your hands on?” asked aunt Ann.

“On my apron.” But looking down, and seeing he wore none, he added
promptly, “_If I’d had one on._”

Aunt Ann laughed, and “hoped he had not been teasing the neighbors for
something to eat.”

“What you s’pose?” cried Pollio indignantly. “I only told Mrs. Fatcher,
‘Oh, _dear_, we’re so hunger-y!’”

Mrs. Thatcher spoiled the twins a little; and so, I fear, did most of
the neighbors, as well as the family at home; but they _did_ have such
a good time in this bright, fresh, beautiful world! Pollio had what his
uncle Rufus called “a strong sense of the funny,” and could imitate all
sorts of noises. He could crow, bark, and mew, and even bray like a
donkey. Teddy, the boy next older, was handsomer and behaved better;
but Posy thought the sun never shone on a boy so bright as “her Pollio.”

Their papa was gone from home a great deal, attending court. The twins
had no idea what a court might be; but Pollio “fought” it was some kind
of a store, for papa always came home from it with his pockets full of
presents. He was a great fleshy man, a little gray and a little bald,
with the most winning smile around the corners of his mouth.

He liked to see his children all about him when he was at home; so he
would not stay up stairs in his study, but wrote every evening at the
parlor-table between the two front-windows. Nunky—that was uncle Rufus
Gilman—sat in the corner, reading; Nanty—that was aunt Ann Pitcher—sat
by a little basket-table, sewing; Edith and Dick—the older brother and
sister—pretended to study; and mamma—well, mamma spent half her time
keeping the three youngest children away from papa’s inkstand.

One evening Pollio got down on all-fours, put up his back, and hissed
like a cat. His father only laughed till he hit the table and upset the
inkstand, and then he had to be sent out of the room. Posy begged to go
too: she always wanted to be punished with Pollio.

Eliza Potter, the cook, was washing dishes when they came into the
kitchen.

“O you little witch, quit that!” said she to Pollio, as he began to
build houses with the knives and forks.

It always amused him to hear her say “Quit that!” and to see her wink
her eyelashes. The more she scolded, the faster she winked.

Next evening Pollio was noisy again in the parlor; but nobody minded it
till he said,—

“Don’t you see I’m naughty, mamma? Why don’t you send me out in the
kitchen?”

He wanted to tease Eliza again; but his mother punished him this time
by sending him to bed. It seemed pretty hard; for he was very wide
awake, and, though not afraid, found it rather lonesome without his
bed-fellow, Teddy. In a few moments he was heard screaming, and his
mother ran up to see what was the matter.

“O Lord! I’m a poor little boy all alone in the dark. Do send me a
la-amp, a la-amp, a _la-amp_!”

“Pollio!” exclaimed his mother as soon as she could reach his chamber.

“Why, mamma,” said he, looking up in her face very innocently, “I was
only _praying_! You want me to pray, don’t you?”

Mamma told Nunky afterwards that she did not know what to say to her
queer little boy. He and Posy both had such strange ideas about God,
that she wished Nunky would talk with them some time and try to make
them understand who He is and why we should pray to Him.

Nunky said, perhaps they were too young; but he would do the best he
could. He was like a father to them when their own father was gone. He
was quite a young man, and an artist. And here I will stop a moment,
and tell you more about him.

He had a room at the very top of the house, called a studio; and you
climbed some crooked stairs to reach it. He spent all his mornings in
this room, with the door locked but once or twice the twins had peeped
in and seen him sitting before a great easel painting pictures. He wore
a gray dressing gown, and velvet cap with a tassel; and the sun poured
straight down on his head through a hole in the roof.

“Ho yo! that’s jolly!” shouted Pollio.

Instantly the door was shut in his face. So unkind of Nunky! The twins
wouldn’t have meddled with his paints, of course: hadn’t they _told_
him they wouldn’t meddle?

“If we once got in, he’d want us to stay: he finks _everyfing_ of us,”
said Pollio to Posy.

“Let’s get in,” said she.

So one day they crept up stairs and knocked. Posy had her doll, and
Pollio his drum; for they meant to make it very pleasant for Nunky.

Knock! knock!

“We won’t be _sturbous_!” said Pollio.

“Can’t we come in a tinty minute?” pleaded Posy, fumbling at the
keyhole; while Pollio’s drum tumbled down stairs, rattlety bang.

Instead of answering, Nunky growled like a bear, and roared like a
lion; and they were obliged to go at last; for they might have stood
all day without getting in. Nunky was a man that couldn’t be coaxed.

But that very evening, when his work was done, he was perfectly lovely,
and played for them on his flute. The tune Pollio liked best was “The
Shepherd’s Pipe upon the Mountain.” He thought it was a meerschaum like
papa’s, and the shepherd was smoking it as he drove his sheep along.
Nunky forgot to say he was making his flute sound like a _bagpipe_.

But the tune Posy liked best was “The Mother’s Prayer,” low and faint
at first, then growing clearer and sweeter.

“Well, darling, what does it make you think of?” said Nunky as she sat
on his knee, her wee hands folded, and her eyes raised to his face.

“Makes me fink of the heaven-folks,” replied she solemnly. “I wish
little Alice would come down here and live again. Me and Pollio, we’d
be very glad.”

Alice was a little sister she had never seen.

“I’ve asked God to send her down,” said Pollio; “but He won’t. I
sha’n’t pray to God any more. _You_ may if you want to, Posy; but _I_
sha’n’t. I keep a-talkin’, and He don’t say a word.”

Now was the time for Nunky to tell them something about God; but what
should he say? What could they understand?

“God does speak to you, Pollio: not in words; but he speaks to your
_heart_.”

“Oh! does He? I know where my heart is,—right here under my jag-knife
pocket.”

“Well, there is a voice in there sometimes, that tells you when you do
wrong.”

“Is there?—-Put your ear down, Posy. Can you hear anyfing?”

“No, no,” said Nunky, trying not to smile: “the voice isn’t heard; it
is _felt_. Tell me, little ones, don’t you _feel_ sorry when you do
wrong?”

“When I get sent to bed I do,” said Pollio.

“Once I felt awful bad when I fell down cellar,” remarked Posy.

Nunky smiled outright then, and had a great mind not to say any more;
but he did so wish to plant a seed of truth in these little minds!

“Was it right, Pollio, to take those tarts yesterday without leave?”

The little boy hung his head, and wondered how Nunky knew about that.

“Didn’t something tell you it was wrong?”

“Yes, sir,” whispered Pollio faintly.

“Well, that was God’s voice. He spoke to your heart then.”

“Oh!”

Pollio began to understand.

“That is the way He speaks. Now, I don’t want to hear you say again, ‘I
keep a-talkin’ and a-talkin’, and He don’t say a word.’”

“No, I won’t,” said Pollio, his brown face lighting up. “He whispers
right under your pocket. I’m going to pray some more now: I’d just as
lief pray as not.”

“So’d I,” said Posy. “But I sha’n’t ask him to ‘bless papa and mamma,
and _everybody_,’ ’cause I don’t want him to bless the naughty Indians;
do _you_, Nunky?”

“Ask him to make them good,” replied Nunky, stroking the little golden
head, and wondering how much Posy understood of what he had been saying.

“Well, I will. I love God and the angels better’n I do you, Nunky. Of
course I _ought_ to love the heaven-folks best.”

“Does God do just what you ask him to when you pray?” said Pollio, who
had been for some moments lost in thought.

“Yes, if He thinks it best, he does.”

“Well, then, I sha’n’t say, ‘Accept me through thy Son;’ for the _sun_
is too hot: I’d rather go through the _moon_.”

Nunky had to turn his head away to laugh. He did not try in the least
to explain any thing more to Pollio that evening, and he really thought
all his words had been thrown away. But this was a mistake. A new idea
had entered the children’s minds,—an idea they would never forget.
Nunky found this out a long while afterward, and was very glad he had
taken so much pains.

But just now he had talked long enough; so he dropped the children from
his knee suddenly, pretending he hadn’t known they were there.

“What! _you_ here, little Pitchers? Off with you this minute!—Oh, no!
come back: you haven’t thanked me for the music.”

Nunky was careful of their manners; but I think, too, he had “a strong
sense of the funny” as well as Pollio, and enjoyed seeing his nephew
pull his front-hair and make a bow; while Posy dropped a deep, deep
courtesy, and they both lisped out,—

“Fank you, Nunky.”

You know, Pollio’s hair was uncommonly straight and black, and he
twitched it as if he were pulling a bell-rope; and Posy, being rather
fat, bounced up and down like a rubber ball.

I am sure their uncle made them say “Fank you” when there wasn’t the
least need of it, just to see how comical they looked.




CHAPTER II.

GOING TO SCHOOL.


WHEN the twins were five years old, they began to go to school.

As they were trudging along with Teddy and the dog on the first
morning, feeling very happy and very important, Edith called aunt Ann
to see how cunning they looked,—Posy in a white frock and sun-bonnet;
and Pollio all in blue, with a white sailor-hat. Posy had curled some
dandelion-stems, and Teddy had tied them to the dog’s ears; so Beppo
was as fine as the twins.

Dr. Field met the merry party on the street.

“Good-morning, little _twimlings_! Going to school? Well, don’t be
_sturbous_, my dears.”

Pollio pulled Posy along with a jerk.

“Oh! give my regards to the family when you go home, and tell your
mamma I disapprove of your studying too hard.”

Pollio ran faster yet. He never could see the least fun in the doctor’s
jokes.

The schoolhouse was a large brick building, half a mile away; and the
teacher seemed very glad to see the twins (of course they knew she
would be), and she let them sit together. They liked it extremely, till
Pollio happened to observe that he was one boy in the midst of forty
girls: whereupon he stalked out to Miss Chase, and said with great
dignity,—

“If you’ll scuse me, I want to sit the way the other folks do.”

Miss Chase smiled, and seated him beside Jamie Cushing (a boy of
eight), and Posy beside a lame girl of seven. Pollio liked Jamie,
because he had a pop-gun in his desk, and promised to show him at
recess how to fire it off. Posy liked _her_ seat-mate, because she had
a very sweet face, and because she hopped on one foot, and dragged the
other as a tired bird does; but her clothes were very ragged.

“I know who you are: you are Posy Pitcher.”

Posy nodded.

“And I’m Lucinda Outhouse.”

“Oh! are you? And does your mamma know you have such big holes in your
clo’es, _Lucy-vindy_?”

“Oh! this woman I live with isn’t my mamma: my mamma’s dead.”

Posy looked sorry.

“My papa died first, and my mamma married me another papa; and then my
mamma died, and _he_ married me another _mamma_. But _she_ don’t belong
to me, and _he_ don’t belong to me; and I haven’t any papa and mamma.”

Posy could not understand.

“Don’t you live anywhere?”

“Yes, they let me live with ’em; but they don’t like me. Don’t cry,
darling,” added _Lucy-vindy_ with a smile and nod: “God’ll take care o’
_me_.”

“Oh, yes! He’s one o’ that kind that don’t have anyfing to do but take
care o’ folks,” said Posy, her face brightening.

And then her class was called. How her little heart beat under her
white frock! and how the blushes came in her soft cheeks! She could
hardly read above her breath; but Pollio, who had never been to school
before any more than she had, and didn’t know quite so much, poked her
with his elbow, and whispered, “What you ’fraid of?” And, when his turn
came, he read so loud, you could have heard him in the street.

“Well, how do you like it, my dears?” asked papa at night.

“Oh, she’s the best teacher _I_ ever had!” said Pollio promptly.

“Indeed! Have you learned any thing to-day?”

“Yes, sir,” said Posy, eager to speak: “_the world walks!_”

“You know what she means; ‘the earth moves,’” laughed Teddy. “She heard
’em say that in the jography-class.”

Posy could see no difference between walking and moving; but she did
wish Teddy wouldn’t laugh at every thing she said.

Papa shook his head at Teddy, and went on questioning Posy, who sat on
his knee.

“Did my little girl whisper in school?”

“Yes, sir: once or twice or _three_.”

“Oh my! I should think”—

“Hush, Teddy! Did you carry your slate, Pollio?”

“Yes, sir; and I can make pictures better’n any of ’em.”

His father presumed this was true; for Pollio’s drawings were rather
remarkable for a small child.

“And I draw horses for the fellow that sits with me. He’s a jolly
boy,—fires ’tatoes out of a gun.”

“Well, the girl with me hops lame,” said Posy, determined not to be
outdone by Pollio. “She’s a _hypocrite_.”

“_Cripple!_” explained Teddy.

“I think it must be the little girl I meet on the street so often,”
said Nunky. “I call her ‘Hop-clover.’ She has a very sweet face.”

“Her father’s an awful drunkard,” remarked Teddy.

“Well, he isn’t her truly papa, and she hasn’t any truly mamma. Her
name’s _Lucy-vindy_, and she hasn’t anybody to take care of her but
just God. I wish I could give her my pink dress,” begged Posy.

“We will see about that,” said mamma.

Next day it “rained so hard, the water couldn’t catch its breath;”
but the little Pitchers were so eager for school, that their mother
let them go. They marched off very proudly under an umbrella; while
Teddy walked before them with the books, and Beppo behind with the
dinner-pail.

“Hop-clover” carried her dinner too; but at noon, when she saw Posy
giving Beppo a piece of cold lamb, she thought,—

“I ’most wish I was Posy Pitcher’s dog, so she’d give _me_ some meat.”

“Where’s your dinner?” said Posy.

“Hop-clover” spread it out then on her desk, looking ashamed as she did
so; for it was nothing but dry bread and _very_ dried apple-pie. Posy
thought that was what came of having such a queer mother that _wasn’t_
a mother; and offered her new friend an orange.

“Oh, thank you ever so much!” said Hop-clover, her sad eyes sparkling.
“I’ve seen oranges lots of times, but I never ate one before.”

Posy looked up in surprise.

“What a baby that is!” thought Jimmy Cushing, spying Posy’s innocent
face just then as he came along, swinging his arms, and whistling.
“Guess I’ll plague her a little.”

“Oh! is that you, Posy Pitcher?” said he aloud. “Well, I’ve got
something for you.”

She blushed and smiled.

“Put out your hand,” said he, offering her a clam. “There, just feel of
that: isn’t it smooth? Put your fingers inside.”

She knew no better than to do as he said; and the clam, which was
alive, knew no better than to seize her little hand with a dreadful
grip. Dear little Posy screamed fearfully, and some of the larger boys
had to come in and break the clam-shell with a hammer before her hand
was set free.

Pollio knew nothing about it till it was all over, and he found her
drying her eyes on Addie Thatcher’s neck.

“Hurt you bad, dear?” asked he tenderly.

“Yes, it did; and that boy _saw_ how I cried. Why, I cried awf’lly!”

The angry brother clinched his fists, and ran to find Jimmy. He did
not stop to think of Jimmy’s age and size, but rushed at him wildly,
exclaiming, “Take _that_ for ’busing my sister!”

It was the last sentence Pollio spoke for five minutes. How _could_ he
speak, with Jimmy’s foot on his back, and his own face close to the
earth, eating dirt? It was as much as _he_ could do to breathe.

“Want to whip me _again_, my son? I’m ready for you!” called out that
dreadful Jimmy with a gay laugh.

Wasn’t it hateful, when Pollio couldn’t hurt him any more than a fly at
the best of times, and needed both hands now to stop the nose-bleed?

Pollio ran home in a fever of rage; but when the rain had cooled him
a little he dreaded to see his mother, and let her know he had been
quarrelling.

His aunt Ann met him at the door with a look of amazement; for he had
no umbrella, his clothes were soaking with water, and the handkerchief
he held to his nose was red with blood.

“Fought I’d come home,” stammered he, darting into the entry. “Dr.
Field sent his ’gards to you, Nanty.”

“You didn’t come home in the rain to tell me that? How _did_ you get
hurt so, my child?”

Pollio wondered how she knew he was hurt, when he hadn’t told her a
word.

“Dr. Field _did_ sent his ’gards to you, Nanty.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And he sent his ’gards to Nunky, and he sent ’em to the whole
fam-i-ly.”

The last word ended in a wail. His nose did ache so! and—oh, dear!—it
was bleeding again.

Aunt Ann screamed for his mother. He had taken away the handkerchief,
and revealed the worst-looking nose you ever saw on a human boy. She
thought it was broken, but it was not.

“Jimmy Cushion did that,—the boy I liked that had a pop-gun,” said
Pollio after his mother had bathed his face with arnica, and asked him
fifty questions.

“What! that large boy?”

“Yes: he’ll be nine years old ’fore I am,” said little Pollio.

“Several years before. Of course, my dear, you had done something to
Jimmy?”

“No, mamma. You see, I tried to; but I couldn’t!”

“Tried to! What made you try, my son?”

“Why, you s’pose I’m going to let him ’buse my little sister,—nipping
up her hands like a pair o’ tongs with a pair o’ clams?”

“Oh! was that it?”

Mrs. Pitcher couldn’t help hugging Pollio; for he didn’t seem to mind
his own sufferings when he thought of his precious Posy.

“Well, my son, if Jimmy pinched her, that was wrong. I like to see you
so ready to protect your sister; but you needn’t fly at anybody like a
little savage. I _can’t_ have my darling boy fight!”

Pollio buried his aching nose in his mother’s bosom. He didn’t want to
fight again that day, you may be sure.

It was a whole week before he could go to school again; for his nose
was hideous. It was red, blue, green, and yellow; and Nunky said nobody
could get an education who looked like that.

Posy would not go without her brother, and mourned very much because
people laughed at him.

“Don’t cry about _me_,” said Pollio: “I’m only a boy! If ’twas a girl,
’twould be awful!”




CHAPTER III.

“THE FINNY-CASTICS.”


POLLIO didn’t learn much during his first term at school, except
mischief. He learned to whoop like a wild Indian, and stand on his head
like the clown at a circus. Eliza said that whoop was “enough to split
her ears in two,” and he never entered the house without it.

But it was midsummer now, and vacation had begun. Fourth of July was
coming; and Judge Pitcher, before going away to attend court, had
bought Teddy and Pollio a good supply of pin-wheels and fire-crackers.
Posy did not fancy such noisy playthings, and he had given _her_ some
money to buy “Hop-clover” a dress.

It would not be the Fourth till to-morrow; but Pollio had fired off
nearly all his crackers, and was now frightening Posy by climbing the
ridge-pole of the barn. While she was running back and forth, clasping
her hands, and begging him to come down, their kind old Quaker friend,
Mr. Littlefield, drove up to the gate.

“Hurry, hurry!” cried Posy: “the _Earthquake’s_ coming.”

The Quaker laughed to hear himself called an _earthquake_: though
he did shake the floor a little when he walked; for he was a fleshy
man,—as large as Judge Pitcher.

“How does thee do, Josephine?” said he, patting her curls as he entered
the yard. “Where’s thy little brother?”

Then, spying him on the roof of the barn, he exclaimed, “Napoleon,
Napoleon, come down here! Thee shouldn’t play the monkey like that!”

“Napoleon” obeyed quickly.

“Now tell me what makes thee climb such high places? Thee’ll break thy
neck yet.”

“Oh! I told Posy I was going to; and you wouldn’t have me tell her a
lie, would you?” replied Pollio with a very serious face.

The Quaker would not allow himself to smile at this. “Is thy mother
willing to have thee do so?”

Pollio knew she was not; and he hung his head, and began to beat the
dirt in the road with a stick. He was very fond of Mr. Littlefield, and
did not like to have the good man know he ever did wrong.

“Stop, my son! Is it possible thee kills snakes?”

For Pollio was crushing a little snake with his stick.

“No, sir: ’twas dead in the first place, and I just killed it a little
more.”

The Quaker smiled, and went into the house with the children. He
staid to tea; and at the table he observed once or twice that Pollio
did not obey his mother the very moment she spoke, and he feared his
little pet was growing naughty. “Napoleon,” said he, as the little boy
came skipping out after supper to see him mount his horse. (He would
never call him Pollio, though he disliked his real name, for “Napoleon
Bonaparte was a fighting-man.”) “Napoleon!”

“Sir?” said Pollio.

“Thee is a great favorite of mine, Napoleon; but I have a