“you don’t say!” old man beebe turned around on his little ladder where he was reaching down a

pair of number six shoes for a customer. “sho’ now, i am beat, mis brown! mebbe ’tain’t true.” he

held the shoes aloft, the long strings dangling down.

“there ain’t no morsel o’ doubt about it,” said mrs. brown decidedly. “i’ve jest come from the store,

an’ mr. atkins himself told me. i can’t wait all day, mr. beebe; an’ i said gaiters. i don’t want no

shoes.”

“you said shoes,” said mr. beebe. “however did i git up here, ef you hadn’t asked for ’em.”

“i don’t know nothin’ about th’ workin’ o’ your mind, mr. beebe,” said mrs. brown, “i said gaiters

as plain as day—and do hurry!” she whipped the ends of her shawl impatiently around her gaunt

figure.

“i d’no’s i have any gaiters—that is—that’ll fit you,” said the little shoemaker, putting the “number

sixes” into their box, and slowly fitting on the cover. “p’raps i have a pair on the lower shelf.” he got

down laboriously from the ladder, put it in the corner and began to rummage his stock.

“an’ there’s my bread waitin’ to go in th’ oven, an’ i’ve got cake to bake for the sewin’ s’ciety,—do

hurry, mr. beebe.”

“i s’pose they’ve got to have rubber sides,” mused mr. beebe, getting down on his knees, to explore

behind the chintz curtains that fell from the lowest shelf.

“why, of course,” said mrs. brown, impatiently, “gaiters is gaiters, ain’t they? an’ i never saw a pair

without them rubber sides to ’em, did you, mr. beebe?”

“i d’no’s i did,” said the little shoemaker, his head under the curtain. “well, now here’s a pair, i do

believe,” and he dragged out a box, whipped off the cover and disclosed a pair with elastic sides.

“them’s congress gaiters,” he said, “an’ they look as if they’d fit like your skin.”

“i’m sure i hope so,” said mrs. brown, putting out her generous foot. “an’ do hurry an’ try ’em on,

for mercy’s sakes!”

“i’m hurryin’ as fast as i can,” said mr. beebe, coming over to the bench where the customers always

sat for the shoes to be tried on, “but you’ve upset me so about that bad news. sho’ now!—to think

that anythin’ should happen to the little brown house folks.”

“what’s that—what’s that, pa?” mrs. beebe’s head appeared in the doorway between the little shop

and the sitting-room. she had been frying doughnuts and she carried one in now on a blue plate, as

she always did while they were nice and hot. “what’s th’ matter with th’ little brown house folks?

oh, how do you do, mis brown?”

mrs. brown’s nose wrinkled up appreciatively at sight of the doughnut.

“i hope nothin’, ma,” said mr. beebe, not looking at the plate.

“you always have such luck with your doughnuts, mis beebe,” said mrs. brown longingly.

“well, what is it, anyway?” demanded mrs. beebe, setting down the plate on the counter that ran on

one side of the little shop, and coming up to the shoe-bench. “what was you sayin’, pa, about th’

pepperses?”

“polly’s got the measles now.”

“good land o’ goshen!” exclaimed old mrs. beebe. then she sat down on the other end of the bench

and folded her plump hands.

“p’raps ’tain’t true,” he said, with trembling hands pulling on the gaiter.

“that’s too tight,” declared mrs. brown, wrenching her mind from the doughnuts and twisting her

foot from one side to the other.

“’twon’t be when th’ rubber ’lastic has got stretched,” said mr. beebe.

“yes, an’ then the ’lastic will be all wore out, an’ bulge,” said mrs. brown discontentedly. “hain’t

you got another pair, mr. beebe?”

“not your size,” said the little shoemaker.

“well, if polly pepper’s got th’ measles, i’m goin’ right down to the little brown house,” declared old

mrs. beebe, getting up from the shoe-bench. “i’ll set out your dinner, pa, the cold meat an’ pie, and

there’s some hot soup on the stove. i’m goin’ to stay an’ help mis pepper,” and she waddled out.

“well, for mercy’s sake, mr. beebe, try on th’ other gaiter. i’ve got to git home some time to-day,”

said mrs. brown crossly, all hope of a doughnut coming her way now gone entirely.

the little shoemaker stood by the door of his shop thoughtfully jingling the silver pieces in his hands,

after his customer had gone out.

“to think o’ polly bein’ took! o dear, dear! i declare i forgot to give ma some pink sticks to take to

the childern.” he hurried out to the small entry, took down his coat and old cap and rammed his

hands into his big pockets.

“here they are, just as i saved ’em for joel.” then he locked up his little shop and ambled down the

cobble-stones to overtake old mrs. beebe on her way to the little brown house.

but she got there first and opened the old green door without knocking. mrs. pepper was coming out

of the bedroom with a bowl and a spoon in her hands. her face was very white, but she tried to smile

a welcome.

“land alive!” exclaimed old mrs. beebe in a loud whisper. “is polly took?”

“yes,” said mrs. pepper.

“well, i never!” mrs. beebe sank down in mother pepper’s calico-covered chair. “that beats all—to

think that polly’s took! whatever’ll you do now!”

“take care,” warned mrs. pepper, “she’ll hear you,” and she pointed to the bedroom.

“i’m whisperin’,” said old mrs. beebe, holding her plump hands tightly together.

mrs. pepper hurried up to the loft to see how ben was getting on.

and in came the little shoemaker, his round face quite red, he had hurried so.

“is she bad?” the whisper was so much worse than that of old mrs. beebe, that she got out of the big

chair and hurried over to him. “pa, you mustn’t—she’ll hear you.” she pointed to the bedroom and

twitched his sleeve.

“i ain’t a- talkin’, i’m whisperin’,” he said. “is polly bad, ma?” he pulled out his bandanna

handkerchief and wiped his anxious face.

“oh, i d’no,” said mrs. beebe disconsolately. “everything bad that mis pepper gits, deary me!”

“well, i brought some pink sticks for joel and davie,” said old mr. beebe, pulling out the paper from

his pocket. “there ma,” he laid them down on the table. “where’s th’ boys?” he peered around the

old kitchen.

“they’re over to deacon blodgett’s, i s’pose,” said mrs. beebe. “o dear me, they’ve got to work

worse’n ever, now ben’s sick.”

“sho, now!” exclaimed the little shoemaker, dreadfully upset. “where’s mis pepper?”

“up there,” old mrs. beebe pointed to the loft stairs.

“i d’no what mis pepper is goin’ to do now that polly is took with th’ measles,” said mr. beebe in a

loud whisper. “hem! o dear me!” and he blew his nose violently.

“hush, pa! you do speak dretful loud,” as mrs. pepper came down the loft stairs.

“it’s good of you to come, mr. beebe,” she said, hurrying into the bedroom and closing the door.

“mamsie,” cried polly, flying into the middle of the bed; the tears were racing down under the

bandage that dr. fisher had tied over her eyes that morning. “whatever will you do now that i’ve got

’em—oh, mamsie!” she threw her arms around mother pepper.

“polly—polly, child!” mrs. pepper held her close. “you mustn’t cry. don’t you know what dr.

fisher told you. there—there,” she patted the brown hair as polly snuggled up to her.

“i can’t help it,” said polly, the tears tumbling over each other in their mad race down her cheeks. “i

don’t mind my eyes, if only i could help you. oh, what will you do, mamsie?”

“oh, i will get along,” said mrs. pepper in a cheerful voice. “and just think how good joel is.”

“it’s good joey hasn’t got the measles,” said polly, trying to smile through her tears.

“isn’t it?” said mrs. pepper. “and deacon blodgett says he does splendidly working about the place.

and davie, too—oh, polly, just think what a comfort those two boys are.”

“i know it,” said polly, trying to speak cheerfully, “but i do wish i could help you sew on the coats,”

she said, and her face drooped further within mother pepper’s arms.

“it’s just because you have sewed so much that your eyes are bad.” mrs. pepper couldn’t repress the

sigh.

“mamsie, now don’t you feel badly,” polly brought her head up suddenly. “oh, i wish i could see

your face—don’t you, mamsie?” she clutched her mother tightly, and the tears began to come again.

“polly,” said mrs. pepper, “now you and i have both got to be brave. it’s not time for crying, and you

must just be mother’s girl, and lie down and keep warm under the clothes. that’s the very best way to

help me.”

“i’ll try,” said polly, as mrs. pepper tucked her in under the old comforter.

but although old mrs. beebe was kind as could be, and grandma bascom hobbled over every now

and then, and parson henderson and his wife helped in every imaginable way, a black cloud settled

over the little brown house. and one day badgertown heard the news: “joel pepper is took sick with

th’ measles, and he’s awful bad.”

“i don’t believe it,” said mr. atkins, turning off with the jug he was filling from the big barrel of

molasses for a customer, “that boy can’t be sick.”

“well, he is,” declared the customer. “look out! th’ ’lasses is all a-runnin’ over th’ floor!”

“thunderation!” the storekeeper jumped back and picked his foot out of the sticky mess, while he

thrust the jug under the bunghole. “hold your tongue, timothy bliss! joel pepper was in here

yist’day—no, that was david bringin’ back th’ coats mis pepper had sewed—’twas day before

yist’day joe came runnin’ in, smart as a cricket. he warn’t goin’ to have no squeezles, he said, no,

sir!” mr. atkins turned off the spigot sharply, and set the jug on the counter with a thud.

“he’s got ’em now at any rate,” said mr. bliss solemnly. “an’ mis beebe says they wouldn’t wonder

ef he was goin’ to die.”

“die!” roared the storekeeper. “ain’t you ’shamed, timothy bliss, to stand there sayin’ sech stuff!

joel pepper can’t die.” yet mr. atkins gripped the counter with both hands, while everything in his

store seemed to spin around.

“mis beebe said—standin’ in th’ door o’ th’ shoe-shop as i come by,” began mr. bliss, leaning up

against the counter.

“don’t tell me no more,” interrupted the storekeeper, waving both sticky hands excitedly; “it’s

scand’lous startin’ such tales.” then he rushed over to the small door connecting with his house. “ma

—ma,” he screamed, “joel pepper’s awful sick with the measles!”

“you don’t say!” mrs. atkins came to the top of the stairs, her sweeping-cap on her head and a dust-

brush in her hand. “o me, o my!” she mourned. “what will mis pepper do now, with both of her

boys took sick?”

“well, she’s got davie,” said the storekeeper, determined to get some comfort, and hanging to the

newel post.

“davie’s so little.” mrs. atkins sat down on the upper stair. “he’d help all he could, but he’s so

little,” she repeated.

“david’s awful smart,” said mr. atkins.

“i know it; they’re all smart, them pepper childern, but joel’s so up an’ comin’, you can’t think of

davie somehow as takin’ hold o’ things. seth atkins, you’ve got ’lasses all over your trousers!”

she ran down the stairs and peered anxiously at her husband’s legs.

the storekeeper twitched away. “that’s timothy bliss’ fault. he scaret me so about joe,” and he

darted back into the store.

“i’m goin’ to help mamsie.” david stood in the middle of the kitchen, twisting his hands together

anxiously. “i’m getting to be real big now, mrs. beebe,” and he stood on his tiptoes.

“bless your heart!” exclaimed old mrs. beebe, making gruel on the old stove, “so you be, davie.”

“and pretty soon i’ll be as big as—as joel.” then he swallowed hard at the sound of joel’s name.

“so you will—so you will,” said mrs. beebe. “an’ you help your mother now, davie boy.”

“do i?” cried david. a little pink spot came on each cheek, and he unclenched his hands, for he

wasn’t going to cry now.

“to be sure you do,” declared mrs. beebe, bobbing her cap at him. “your ma told me yest’day she

depended on you.”

“did she?” david ran over to clutch her apron, the pink spots getting quite rosy. “oh, i’m going to do

just everything that ben and joel did—i am, mrs. beebe.”

“well, you look out, you don’t work too hard, davie,” mrs. beebe stopped stirring a minute, and

regarded him anxiously, “that would worry your ma most dretful. there, that’s done.” she swished

the spoon about a few times, then poured the gruel into a bowl. “now, then, i’ll give it to ben.”

“oh, let me,” cried davie, putting up both hands eagerly.

“you’re too tired—you’ve ben a-runnin’ all th’ mornin’,” began mrs. beebe, yet her stout legs ached

badly.

“i’m not tired,” cried davie, and in a minute he had the bowl and was going carefully up the loft

stairs.

“now that blessed child is just like the rest o’ th’ childern,” mused old mrs. beebe, sinking down in a

chair. “davie’s quiet, but he get’s there all the same.”

and davie’s little legs “got there all the same” through the dark days when joel went deeper and

deeper into the gloom. and the little brown house people held their breath in very dread of the

coming hours. and good doctor fisher lay awake every night after the day’s hard work, going over

and over in his troubled mind how he might save mrs. pepper’s boy.

“o dear me!” a voice broke in upon the woodshed, where davie sat on the chopping-block. his legs

ached dreadfully, but he wasn’t thinking of them. he was awfully afraid he was going to cry after all,

and he twisted up his small cheeks, and held his hands together oh, oh so tightly!

“just as i expected,” miss jerusha henderson put her head in, “all this talk about the pepper childern

workin’ to help their mother is just rubbish,” she sniffed and came up to the chopping-block; “there

you set, you lazy boy, you.”

“i’m not a lazy boy,” said david, getting off from the chopping-block. “mamsie told me there wasn’t

anything to do now.” his little cheeks burned like fire.

“anything to do!” miss jerusha raised her long fingers and waved them about. “did i ever—and look

at all this messy place! why ain’t you choppin’ wood, i sh’d like to know?”

“mamsie told me not to do anything till she called me.” his head ached dreadfully, and he wanted to

run, but he stood his ground.

“if ever i saw a woman who spoiled her childern, it’s your ma,” said miss jerusha, sniffing again.

“it’s no wonder she has trouble.”

david swallowed hard, then he looked up into her snappy little black eyes. “i wish you’d go away,”

he said quietly.

“of all the impertinent boys!” exclaimed the parson’s sister, an angry flush spreading over her gaunt

face. “well, i’m not going, i can tell you that. and i shall come every day and do my duty by you,

david pepper.”

“no,” said david, “you mustn’t come any more.”

“and i am going to speak to your ma now, and tell her what a naughty boy you are.” miss jerusha

picked up her gingham gown and went off on angry feet out of the woodshed.

david ran past her, and up to the door of the little brown house. when she got there he was holding

the latch with both hands.

“you get off that door-step!” cried miss jerusha, now in a towering passion, and seizing his little

calico blouse, “i declare i just ache to give you a whipping!” she raised one long hand threateningly.

“you don’t get any with that silly mother of yours. get off that door-step, i say! it’s my duty to speak

to your ma.”

“you can’t,” said davie stoutly, “because you can’t get in.” he gripped the latch tighter, and his blue

eyes flashed just like mother pepper’s black ones.

“can’t, hey?” miss jerusha’s hard hand was laid not very gently on david’s little ones holding the

old latch. her other was raised threateningly. “let go of that latch, or i’ll box your ears.”

davie clung tighter than ever to the latch. down came miss jerusha’s hand on his small ear. an

angry red spot was on her cheek, and she struck again.

“what’s this—what’s this?” doctor fisher came briskly up the path. the parson’s sister turned

suddenly, her hand falling to her side.

“this boy has been very naughty,” she said, the blood rushing over her gaunt cheeks.

dr. fisher set his big spectacles straight, and regarded her keenly.

“he has sassed me by holding this door, an’ i’m goin’ in to see his ma.”

“davie’s just right,” said the little doctor. he turned to give an approving smile to him still clinging

to the old latch.

“jest right!” screamed miss jerusha, in a towering passion. “do you know who i be? i’m parson

henderson’s sister.”

“yes, i know,” said doctor fisher, “and i’m dreadfully sorry for the parson. i wish i could help him.

but as for david here, he’s got my permission to keep out anybody he wants to. mrs. pepper isn’t to

be worried by visitors.”

“i shall report you to the parson,” said miss jerusha, getting off from the flat stone.

“yes, do,” said doctor fisher, as she stalked down the path. then he went into the little brown house

to battle for joel’s life.