“th’ beef’s biled ’mos’ to nothin’,” said mrs. brown, sticking a long iron fork into the pot of corned
beef, surrounded by bubbling heaps of cabbage. she had thrown off her sunbonnet on the old sofa in
the sitting-room, and hurried into the bedroom where she had deposited phronsie, fast asleep, on the
gay patched bedquilt.
“there, you sweet lamb, you!” then she hurried out to see about the belated dinner.
“john,” she called, as she ran out to the barn, “come, dinner’s ready.”
farmer brown turned as he was leading the old white horse to his stall. “is she awake?” pointing with
his thumb to the house.
“no,” mrs. brown sped back to the kitchen.
“what’ll we do with that little gal?” the farmer’s face puckered all up with dismay as he reflected:
“nobody on th’ road knows th’ fust thing about her, an’ i s’pose her ma’s cryin’ her eyes out.” he
slouched up to the kitchen door.
“i thought you was never comin’”; his wife set the big blue platter with the corned beef and its
generous fringe of cabbage on the table; then down went the dish of potatoes and the loaf of bread.
“th’ beef’s all biled to pieces,” she said, getting into her chair.
“what beats me,” said mr. brown, sitting down heavily, and taking up the horn-handled carving
knife and fork, “is, what are we to do with her.” he pointed with carving knife to the bedroom.
“i d’no,” said his wife; “do help out that beef. it’s all biled to death,” passing her plate.
“it will eat just as good,” said the farmer, cutting off a scraggy strip, and dishing up a generous
spoonful of cabbage to go with it to the waiting plate. “well, nancy, i’m beat to know what we’re
goin’ to do with her.”
“do stop talkin’ about her,” cried his wife. “she’s asleep now. and i’m as nervous as a witch.”
“i s’pose we might as well eat,” said the farmer, helping himself liberally. “mebbe we can decide
what to do better after we have eat.”
“i can’t think why i didn’t set that pot clear back on the stove,” said mrs. brown in vexation. “i
might ’a’ known ’twould bile too fast when we went to badgertown. i didn’t s’pose we’d be gone so
long.”
“well, ef we’d got home sooner we wouldn’t ’a’ come up with the little gal,” observed the farmer
philosophically, while his portion of beef and cabbage was going rapidly to its last resting-place.
“what good will it do that we found her?” said his wife discontentedly. “we’ve got to give her up.”
“well, i s’pose so,” said mr. brown slowly. “hem! ain’t i ever goin’ to have no tea?” he asked in an
injured voice, looking hard across at his wife.
“oh, mercy!” mrs. brown hopped out of her chair. “i don’t wonder that i forgot th’ teapot. th’ angel
gabriel couldn’t never remember anythin’ on sech a mornin’ as we’ve had!” she whipped her
husband’s big blue cup off from the dresser, bringing it back full and steaming hot.
“i guess th’ angel gabriel hain’t ever had much to do with tea,” said mr. brown, putting in a good
spoonful of brown sugar, and all the cream that would get safely into the cup; “he’s got enough to do
a-blowin’ that horn o’ his’n. well, don’t worry, ma. do set down an’ take it easy. th’ little gal hain’t
got to go yet.”
“but we’ve got to start after dinner about it.” mrs. brown played nervously with her knife and fork.
then she threw them down on her plate, jumped up and turned her back on the farmer, dinner and all.
“my soul an’ body!” cried mr. brown, his knife half-way to his mouth. he stopped to stare aghast at
her. “you hain’t never acted like this, nancy.”
“well, i hain’t never had nothin’ like this to set me goin’,” said nancy, her voice trembling. “to
think that child should ’a’ sprung up to-day, an’ i’ve always wanted a little gal—”
farmer brown shook all over. down fell the knife to the kitchen floor. he glared all around the big
kitchen as if somehow that were to blame. then he cleared his throat two or three times. “p’raps
they’ll let us keep her, nancy,” he managed to get out at last.
but nancy, sobbing in her apron, was beyond the sound of comfort.
“you know as well as you set in that chair that they won’t,” she sobbed. “o dear, why did we find her
—and i want a little gal so!”
“hush!—somebody’s comin’,” warned the farmer. round the corner of the house came two figures,
and pretty soon “rap—rap!” on the old door.
“set down, nancy!” cried her husband; “for goodness sake, all maybury will think you an’ me’s ben
quarreling!”
“they couldn’t think that, john,” cried mrs. brown in dismay, and hurried back to the dinner table.
“when they see you a-cryin’, you can’t tell what they’d think,” said the farmer grimly, and taking his
time about opening the door.
“i ain’t cryin’,” said his wife, wiping all traces of the tears from her large face, and sitting very
straight in her chair, as she got her company face on.
“oh!” mr. brown flung wide the big door. “how do, hubbard.” then his eye fell on a very small boy
with big blue eyes, who was crowding up anxiously, and, not waiting to be invited, was already in the
kitchen and staring around.
“you must ’xcuse him,” said young hubbard, “he’s lost his sister.”
the farmer’s wife jumped out of her chair, and seized the boy’s arm. “we’ve got her,” she said;
“don’t look so; she’s all safe here.”
“i must take her to mamsie,” said davie, lifting his white face.
“yes—yes,” said mrs. brown, while the old farmer and the young one stood by silently. “you come
in here, an’ see for yourself how safe she is.”
davie rushed into the bedroom and gave one bound over to the big bed. phronsie was just getting up
to the middle of it, and wiping her eyes. when she saw davie she gave a little crow of delight. “i’m
going to mamsie,” she announced, as she threw her arms around him.
“yes,” said davie, staggering off with her to the kitchen.
“you’re goin’ to have your dinner first,” said the farmer’s wife in alarm. “gracious me—th’ very
idea of goin’ without a bite,” she added, bustling about for more dishes and knives and forks.
“we can’t,” said davie, struggling along to the door. “i must get her to mamsie.”
“young man,” roared farmer brown at him. “you set down to that table. now, ma, dish up some hot
meat an’ taters.”
“and a glass of milk,” said mrs. brown, hurrying into the pantry.
“i want some milk,” cried phronsie, hungrily stretching out her arms. so before david hardly knew
how, there she was sitting on the big family bible that mr. brown placed on one of the chairs, before
the dinner table. when she saw it was really and truly milk with a frothy top, she was quite overcome
and sat looking at it.
“drink it, little gal,” said farmer brown, with a hand on her yellow hair.
phronsie laughed a pleased little gurgle, and set her small teeth on the edge of the mug, drinking as
fast as she could.
“hulloa—hold up a bit,” said the farmer, with a big hand on her arm. phronsie’s blue eyes over the
cup-edge turned on him inquiringly. “go slower, little gal.” mr. brown took the mug and set it on the
table. “th’ milk will wait for you.”
“it is nice,” said phronsie, beaming delightedly at him.
“so ’tis,” said the farmer, wiping off the milk streaks from her face. “an’ you shall have th’ rest by
an’ by.”
“shall i?” asked phronsie, looking at the mug affectionately.
“sure,” declared mr. brown.
meantime the farmer’s wife was having a perfectly dreadful time with david, who stood impatiently
off by the door, his hand on the latch.
“for mercy’s sakes!” she exclaimed, “do you set down an’ eat dinner, jed,” to the young farmer, “an’
p’raps th’ boy will listen to reason an’ eat some too.”
“now see here, young man,” farmer brown stalked over to david, as jed hubbard, nothing loath,
slipped into his chair to tackle the corned beef and cabbage, “how d’ye s’pose you’re goin’ to git that
little gal to your ma—hey?”
“i’m going to carry her,” said david, “and we must go.” he clasped his hands and turned a pleading
face up to the farmer.
“you carry her?” repeated the farmer.
“hoh—hoh!” he threw back his head and laughed.
“don’t laugh at him, pa,” begged mrs. brown, piling on more food to farmer hubbard’s plate; “he’s
awful distressed,” as davie begged, “do let us go—mamsie will—”
“you’re a-goin’,” mr. brown interrupted; “i shall take you an’ th’ leetle gal in th’ wagon, as soon as
you’ve et somethin’.”
“will you really take us to mamsie?” cried davie, the color coming quickly into his white cheeks.
“sure,” promised the farmer heartily, as david flew into the chair that mrs. brown had dragged up to
the table.
“now get him a good plateful, ma,” said the farmer, getting into his own chair. “land—i hain’t
worked so hard for many a day— whew!”
but although david had a “good plateful” before him, it was impossible for him to eat to the
satisfaction of the good people, as he turned anxious eyes upon farmer brown and then to the door.
“i don’t b’lieve he’ll swaller enough to keep a crow alive,” said mrs. brown in dismay.
“pa, wouldn’t it be best to do up some vittles in a paper, an’ he can eat on the way.”
“i’ve come to the conclusion it would,” said her husband grimly.
“an’ i’ll put in some cookies for th’ little gal,” said his wife, darting into the pantry to the big stone
jar.
“an’ i’ll harness up,” said mr. brown, going to the big door.
the young farmer looked up from his dinner. “you better take my horse, mr. brown,” he said.
“kin you spare her?”
“yes—an’ take th’ buggy too. you can have it all as easy as anything. you an’ me are such close
neighbors, i can come over an’ git it to-night.”
“now that’s real kind,” said farmer brown, going out.
“th’ buggy?” repeated mrs. brown, coming out of the pantry with the bundle of cookies. “well, i’m
goin’, too, jed. i don’t b’lieve there’s room for us all to set comfortable.”
jedediah looked her all over. “’twill be a close fit, maybe, but the wagon’s so heavy. must you go,
mis brown?”
“jedediah hubbard,” mrs. brown set down the cookies on the table, and looked at him hard. “i ain’t
a-goin’ to give up that little gal a minute sooner’n i’ve got to,” she said decidedly. “an’ i’m goin’ to
see her ma.”
“all right, mrs. brown,” and jedediah returned to his dinner.
but when the starting off arrived, there was a pretty bad time—farmer brown protesting there wasn’t
“enough room to squeeze a cat in.” mrs. brown ended the matter by saying “there ain’t goin’ to be
no cat,” and getting in she established herself, phronsie on her lap, on one half of the leather seat of
the top buggy.
“where’s the boy goin’ to set?” demanded her husband, looking at her.
“i d’no about that,” said his wife, wrapping her shawl carefully around phronsie. “yes, you can carry
the cookies, child. men folks must look out for themselves,” she said coolly.
“it’s all very well for you to set there an’ tell me that,” said farmer brown in a disgruntled way, as he
got in over the wheel, “but then, you’re a woman.”
“yes, i’m a woman,” said mrs. brown composedly. “oh, th’ boy can set on a stool in front. jed, just
bring out that little cricket from th’ settin’-room, will you?”
david, with the paper bag containing slices of corned beef between pieces of bread, not caring where
he sat so long as he was on the way with phronsie to mamsie, settled down on the cricket that young
mr. hubbard brought. then he looked up into the young farmer’s face. “good-by,” he said, “and
thank you for bringing me here.”
“oh, good-by, youngster,” said jedediah, wringing a hand that tingled most of the way home. “well,
i hope to run across you again some time. if you ever lose your sister, you just call on me.”
“we aren’t ever going to lose phronsie,” declared david, bobbing his head solemnly, as the top
buggy and the young farmer’s horse moved off.
mrs. brown didn’t utter a word all the way to badgertown except “how d’ye s’pose jedediah ever
found that we had the little gal?”
“let jed hubbard alone for findin’ out anythin’,” said farmer brown. he was so occupied in gazing
at phronsie, carefully eating around the edge of each cooky before enjoying the whole of it, that the
smart young horse went pretty much as he pleased. finally mr. brown looked down at davie on his
cricket.
“ain’t you ever goin’ to eat your dinner, young man?” he said. “ef you don’t we’ll turn an’ go back
again,” he added severely.
“oh, i will—i will,” cried davie, who had forgotten all about his dinner in his efforts to measure the
distance being overcome on the way home to mamsie. and he unrolled the paper bundle.
when it was all exposed to view, the corned beef smelt so good that he set his teeth in it, and gave a
sigh of delight.
farmer brown winked across to his wife over davie’s head and presently the bread, and even a cold
potato well sprinkled with salt, disappeared, and only the empty paper lay in davie’s lap.
“throw it out in th’ road,” said farmer brown, well satisfied that the dinner was at last where it
should be.
“oh, no, no,” said david, holding the paper fast.
“’tain’t no good—throw it out, boy.”
“mamsie wouldn’t like me to throw papers in the road. it scares horses.”
“sho—now!” farmer brown pushed up his cap and scratched his head. “i guess your ma’s all right,”
at last he said.
when the little brown house popped into view, david flew around on his cricket excitedly. “there
’tis—it’s there!”
“i see it,” said farmer brown. “set still—we’ll be there in a minute.”
“it’s my little brown house,” cried phronsie, trying to slip out from mrs. brown’s lap.
“oh, you lamb—do wait. little gal, we’ll take you there in a minute. set still, child.”
“and i see mamsie—oh, i want my mamsie!” cried phronsie, struggling worse than ever, her little
legs flying in her efforts to be free.
david stood straight, his head knocking the buggy top. “polly, we’re coming!” he shouted.
“hold on—don’t you jump!” roared the farmer, catching his jacket, as polly dashed up to the buggy
and ran along by its side, the brown waves of hair flying over her face.
“mamsie!” called phronsie, leaning as far as she could from mrs. brown’s lap, “see my arm,” as mrs.
pepper drew near, and she held it up with its bandage soaked in opodeldoc that the farmer’s wife had
tied on.
“whoa!” farmer brown brought the hubbard horse up with a smart jerk. “you might as well git out
here,” he said, “for i’ll never keep you two in this buggy till we git to th’ house.”
“i never can thank you,” mother pepper was saying, as the farmer’s wife got heavily out of the
buggy, “for all your goodness.”
mrs. brown’s mouth worked and she tried to speak. “i wish—” she looked off to the little brown
house, but she couldn’t finish what she had been composing all the way along—“you’d let me have
this little gal for a while, anyway; you’ve got so many children; and i haven’t got one.” so she only
kept on wobbling her lips and twisting her hands.
“hem!” farmer brown cleared his throat. “i’ll come over an’ git them two,” pointing a rugged
forefinger in the direction of davie and phronsie, “ef you’ll let ’em come over an’ pass th’ day with
us some time.”
“he’s got chickies,” said phronsie, raising her head from mrs. pepper’s arms.
“and pigs,” said farmer brown, “little uns—don’t you forgit them.”
“and dear sweet little pigs—oh, mamsie, and i am going to scratch their backs.”
“an’,” farmer brown whirled around on david, “this young man’s comin’, sure! he’s a right smart
boy, an’ i’ve took a fancy to him.”
“they shall go,” said mrs. pepper, with a bright smile. “and phronsie will never forget you, dear
mrs. —”
“brown,” said the farmer promptly, seeing his wife couldn’t speak.
“no, she will never forget you, dear mrs. brown.” mother pepper got hold of the big hand, twisting
its mate.
the farmer’s wife clutched it. “you see i always wanted a little gal,” she whispered close to mrs.
pepper’s ear.
then mother pepper did a thing the children had never seen before. she leaned forward and kissed
the large face.
“we must be goin’,” declared farmer brown, whipping out his big red handkerchief to blow his nose
loudly. “hem! come, ma.”
“did mamsie cry when we didn’t come home?” asked david anxiously, as they all filed off toward
the little brown house.
“no. oh, i’m so sorry you worried, davie,” cried polly. “you see i ran down to deacon blodgett’s to
tell mamsie, and mr. atkins saw me go by, and he called out that a mr. hubbard had you in that very
buggy you came home in.”
“yes, he did,” said david.
“and he said he knew you were going after phronsie.”
“yes, we did,” said david.
“and then he told us that a man in the store said that some folks over at maybury—real good folks,
had phronsie in their wagon, and—”
“yes,” said david, “they did.”
“so we knew everything was all right,” polly ran on gayly, “and mamsie said all we had to do was to
wait patiently, and not stir ben and joel up where they were at work in deacon blodgett’s south
meadow, so—”
“polly,” cried davie excitedly, as they ran into the little brown house, “i like that big mr. brown very
much indeed.”
