“my sakes! david pepper, you can’t get it in.”
“perhaps i can, mrs. peters.”
“no, you can’t. there, give it to me. you’re all het up, runnin’ on arrants for mr. atkins. he
shouldn’t ’a’ told you to hurry clear down here from th’ store.”
david sank down on the wooden box turned upside down outside the peters kitchen door, and
watched mrs. peters’s vigorous efforts to crowd a long woolen coat, very much frayed on the edge,
one sleeve gone, and various other dilapidations that might be noticed, into a round, splint-bottomed
basket. “your ma c’n do th’ mendin’ better’n me,” she said, during the process, and dropping her
voice as her eyes roved anxiously. “i put th’ pieces underneath. o my!” she whirled around suddenly,
her back to the basket, and brought up a red face. “how you scar’t me, tildy!” as the kitchen door
was flung wide and a head thrust out.
“’tain’t pa—you needn’t be afraid.” yet tildy looked over her shoulder and grasped her apron
tighter over something huddled up within its folds, as she skipped over the big flat stone. “you know
as well as i do that he’s well off toward the south medder.”
“’tain’t nothin’ to be certain sure of, if your pa is headed for th’ south medder, that he won’t see
what we’re doin’ here,” said her mother hopelessly. “well, what you got in your apron?”
matilda knelt down by the basket on the grass, and flung her apron wide. “it’s some o’ my quince
sass.”
“you ain’t goin’ to give that away!” cried mrs. peters in alarm, and resting both hands on her knees.
“gracious, your pa—”
“let pa alone, can’t you?” cried matilda lifting the coat-edge to tuck in the big glass jar. “i guess he
won’t rage an’ ramp no more at th’ sass, than your lettin’ mis pepper mend this coat.”
“well, i d’no. sass is sass, an’ your pa knows how many jars you put up—o dear me, matilda!” she
gazed helplessly off toward the south meadow.
davie got off from the wooden box. “oh don’t, mrs. peters,” he begged in great distress, “send the
jelly to mamsie.”
“’tain’t jell—it’s sass,” said matilda, pushing the jar in further, and flapping the coat till it bulged
over the basket. “an’ i guess i ain’t goin’ to let your ma have all them measles to your house, an’ not
do nothin’. there—” she jumped to her feet. “you got to carry it careful, davie. it’s too bad there
ain’t no handle.” she twitched the frayed cord that served as one, “i’ll get another string.”
“come back here, tilly,” cried her mother. “ain’t you crazy! your pa’ll be back. let davie go.”
matilda turned away from the kitchen door. “ain’t you silly, ma!” yet she came back. “well there,
run along, davie, an’ carry it careful.”
“an’ you tell your ma,” said mrs. peters, “we’re sorry she’s got all the measles to her house, an’ she
c’n mend my coat better’n me, an’ she mustn’t tell no one it’s for mis peters, an’—”
“land, ma, th’ boy can’t remember all that,” said matilda, giving david a little push.
“i guess i can—i’ll try to,” said david, grasping the old worn string with both hands.
“you go along,” said matilda, with another push, “an’ if you see pa comin’ along anywhere, you set
th’ basket in behind th’ bushes till he gits by. remember, david pepper!”
“yes,” said david. “i’ll remember.”
“well, now come along, ma peters,” said matilda; “he hain’t spilled th’ things yit, an’ he’s turned th’
road. we’ve got to git back to work.”
“’twouldn’t be so bad ef you hadn’t put in that quince sass, tildy,” mourned her mother, picking up
her worn calico gown to step over a puddle of water from a broken drain-pipe. “but i’m awful
skeered about that.”
“oh, ma, you make me sick.” matilda gave her a little push into the kitchen, slipped in after her, and
slammed the door; but her hand shook as she took up the broom. “i’m goin’ to work anyhow. you
c’n set an’ worry about pa, ef you want to. i’m glad for my part, that mis pepper’s goin’ to have that
basket o’ things.”
“so be i,” cried mrs. peters. “land sakes! i guess i’m as glad as you be, tildy peters. an’ i s’pose
davie’s gittin’ along towards home pretty fast by this time.”
matilda shook her head and pursed up her lips as she went out to sweep the back entry. “all the
same, i wish davie pepper was safe home to the little brown house,” she said to herself.
the old cord cut into davie’s fingers as he trudged along the winding road, the basket wobbling
about from side to side; but every step was bringing him home to mamsie, and he smiled as he went
along.
“hey there!” a sudden turn of the road brought him squarely before a tall gaunt old man leaning
against the stone wall on the other side of a scrub oak.
“where you ben?” demanded old man peters.
“just—just—” began david.
“jest where? stop your hemmin’ an’ hawin’. where you ben?”
davie clutched the basket with trembling fingers and a wild despair that it was now too late to
consider bushes.
“you ben down to my house, i know.” old man peters’s little eyes gleamed fiercely. “well, what
you got in that basket?” pointing to it.
“it’s—it’s—”
“it’s—it’s— didn’t i tell you to stop hemmin’ an’ hawin’, you pepper boy! i’ll give you somethin’
to hem an’ haw for pretty soon, ef you don’t look out.” he broke off a stick from the scrub oak.
davie clutched the old string tighter yet.
“let’s see,” said old man peters, drawing close to poke up a corner of the coat with the stick.
“you mustn’t,” said davie, drawing back, and putting one hand over the top of the basket.
“mustn’t,” roared old man peters, shaking the stick at him.
“no,” said davie. “you mustn’t,” and he tried to edge off farther; but the stick came down across his
little calico blouse.
“i’ll give you somethin’ to make you see that you can’t say ‘mustn’t’ to me,” said mr. peters,
bringing the stick down again. “there, you take that!”
davie was whirling around now so fast that old man peters preferred to try the stick on the little legs
instead of the small shoulders in the calico blouse, while he roared, “i’ll make you dance. drop that
basket, will you!”
“here—what you doin’?” somebody called out, and a young man leaped the stone wall. “hulloa, old
peters, you stop that!”
old man peters turned around. he would have dropped the stick, but the young man saved him the
trouble by seizing it to break it into two pieces and toss them into the dusty road.
“he’s ben a-sassin’ me,” cried the old man, pointing to david, who had sunk down on the grass by
the side of the road, still hanging to the basket.
“well, you ain’t a- goin’ to beat up any boy in badgertown. now i tell you, peters! and who
wouldn’t sass you, i wonder. here you, get up,” he said, going over to david.
but david showing no inclination to get up, the man turned his face over.
“well, i’ll be blowed, ef tain’t one o’ th’ pepper children,” he exclaimed, starting back. “you’ve got
to take somethin’ from me, now i tell you, old man peters!” he pushed up his gray cotton shirt-
sleeves and advanced on the old man, “for beatin’ up one o’ mis pepper’s boys.”
“you git away—tain’t nothin’ to you, jim thompson,” cried mr. peters, “an’ i’ll have th’ law on
you, ef you tetch me!” he put up both horny hands and tried to huddle back of the scrub oak.
“th’ law’s got to deal with you, old peters, first, an’ it’ll fall pretty heavy for hurtin’ one o’ them
pepper children,” declared thompson, dragging him by an angry hand back to the road side.
“david—david pepper!” screamed the old farmer, “you tell him. i ’ain’t hurt ye. tell him, david.
ow! you let me be, jim thompson!”
david looked up and tried to speak. oh, if mamsie were only here! then his head fell down on the
dusty road.
“look at that boy, you old scoundrel!” roared thompson, cuffing old man peters wherever he got a
good chance. then he flung him to the middle of the road. “lie there till i can ’tend to you.” but the
old farmer preferred to attend to himself, and without waiting to pick up his hat that had fallen off in
the scuffle, he slunk off as fast as he conveniently could.
“don’t hurt him,” begged davie feebly, as thompson bent over him. “oh, i want mamsie!”
“you’re a-goin’ to her—i’ll take you.” the young man lifted him up to his shoulder, davie still
clinging to the basket. “where did he hurt you?” he asked anxiously.
“i’m not hurt much,” said davie, trying not to cry.
jim thompson set his teeth hard. “here, give me that basket,” and holding davie fast by one arm, he
strode off, first kicking old man peters’s hat into a neighboring field where it landed in a bog.
“mamsie—somebody’s coming, and he’s got a big bundle—how funny,” cried polly, looking out of
the window.
“a pedlar, most likely,” said mrs. pepper, over in the window, trying to finish a coat to go back to
mr. atkins at the store. the measles were making it extra hard to keep the wolf from the door.
“well, he won’t sell anything here,” said polly with a laugh, and running to the old green door. “why
—” as she flung it open.
it was all over in a minute, and mrs. pepper had her boy in her arms. davie trying to say, “i’m not
much hurt,” and polly running for the camphor bottle, while jim thompson set down the basket on
the floor, where it rolled over and out flew the “quince sass” from the protecting folds of the coat.
“old man peters was a- beatin’ him up,” said the young farmer, working his hands awkwardly
together and wishing he could help.
“mamsie,” said davie, both hands around her neck, and cuddling up to lay his white cheek against
her face, “i didn’t let him have the basket—and you are to mend the coat. you can do it so much
better, she says, than she can.”
“mrs. peters, davie?”
“yes, and miss matilda sent the jelly—no, it isn’t jelly—but—i forget—”
“yes, i know, dear. now let mother see where you are hurt.”
“oh, mamsie!” polly, flying back with the camphor bottle, was aghast as mrs. pepper stripped off the
calico blouse.
“put down the camphor, polly,” said mother pepper. her lips were set very tightly together, and a
bright spot burned on either cheek. “bring mother the oil bottle and get the roll of old cotton in the
lower bureau drawer. be careful not to wake up phronsie. thank you, mr. thompson, for bringing
home my boy,” as polly ran off.
“i guess i’ll go back an’ lick old man peters,” said the young farmer, turning off to the door.
“oh, no,” mother pepper spoke quickly. “say nothing to him. i’ll take care of the matter.”
“i’d love to,” said mr. thompson longingly.
“no—no—” mrs. pepper shook her head decidedly. and he went off.
“oh, mamsie, that wicked old man peters!” polly clasped her hands, and her brown eyes blazed. “i
just want something dreadful to happen to him,” and she hovered over david bolstered up in
mamsie’s rocking chair, his legs and little shoulders bound up in old cotton bandages.
“polly,” said mother pepper sternly, “never let me hear you say anything like that again.”
“i can’t help it,” said polly, fighting with the tears. then she gave it up and ran over to throw herself
down on the floor and lay her head in mother pepper’s lap, “to think of davie being hurt. oh,
mamsie!”
“i’m not much hurt,” said davie, poking up his head from the pillow against his back, “only my legs
—they’re a little bad. don’t cry, polly,” he begged, dreadfully distressed.
“our davie!” sobbed polly, huddling down further in her mother’s lap, “just think, mamsie,—our
davie!”
mrs. pepper shut her lips together, but she smoothed polly’s brown head. “mother will see to it,” she
said, “and you must never say anything like that again, polly. now wipe your eyes; here comes dr.
fisher.”
“well—well—well—” cried the little doctor, coming in cheerily. he was very happy as ben was
getting along splendidly, while as for phronsie, why she just got better and better every day. oh, the
measles wasn’t so very bad after all to fight. but now, here was davie bolstered up in the big calico-
covered chair. o dear, that was too bad!
“well, my boy,” the little doctor got over to the chair and looked down at him with keen eyes behind
the big spectacles, “what’s the matter with you?”
“i’m not much hurt,” said davie, “only my legs—they feel the worst.”
“eh?” said dr. fisher. then he set down his bag and looked over at mrs. pepper. so then the story
had to come out. when it was all told and dr. fisher became quiet, for he was almost as bad as polly
in his indignation, and davie’s legs and shoulders had been taken care of, “you don’t need to do
anything, mrs. pepper,” he said, “i’ll take care of that brute of a man.”
and mother pepper said just as she had told the young farmer, “oh, no, i will see to the matter
myself.”
“oh, goody—i got the wood all piled at deacon blodgett’s.” in rushed joel. “come on, dave,” and
he was scurrying over to mamsie’s big chair, when he spied the basket on the floor, for nobody had
thought or cared about it. and there was the jar of matilda’s “quince sass” that had rolled off by
itself. “oh,” he pounced upon it, “may i have some—may i?” he ran with it to mrs. pepper, nearly
upsetting the little doctor on the way.
“look out there,” cried doctor fisher; “here, don’t run me down, joe,” and then joel saw davie
propped against the pillows. down went matilda’s “quince sass” on the kitchen floor, and he threw
himself into the chair on top of davie, poor bandaged legs and all.
the little old kitchen then was in a hubbub. it all had to be explained to joel, who made things so
very dreadful that finally doctor fisher said, “i’ll take him off, mrs. pepper. hold on to that boy,
polly, till i’ve had a look at ben up in the loft. if phronsie is asleep, she’s all right. then, joel pepper,
you shall hop into my gig.”
