Princess Polly\'s Playmates

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It was evident that he forgave her, for he at once commenced to purr.

When Vivian said that she must go, Polly walked part of the way with her
for company.

"Are you truly going to visit Rose Atherton, soon? Inez Varney said you
were," said Vivian.

"Oh, yes," Polly replied, "I have the invitation, and I'm to go the
first week mama will let me. I may go next week. When I KNOW what day I
can go, I'm to write, and tell Rose, and Rose, with her Aunt, will call
for me at the station."

"Aren't you wild to go?" asked Vivian.

"Wild?" repeated Polly, "why I can hardly wait for the day. I want to
see the lovely, old house, and all the fine things, but most of all, I
long to see Rose."

"Well, Inez said--no, I guess I won't tell you what Inez said," Vivian
paused.

Did she dislike to repeat Inez' words, or was she waiting for Polly to
coax her to tell them? No one could have guessed.

Polly, thinking that Inez often spoke unpleasantly, turned toward
Vivian, and laying her little hand on her arm, said:

"I guess you'd better not tell what Inez said. I won't feel any
different toward Rose, if you do. I love Rose, and I'm going to visit
her, and I know I'll have a fine time."

"Oh, I'm sure you will," said Vivian, and she said it as if she meant
it.

"And Rose is coming to visit me," said Polly, "and when she comes, most
of the girls will be glad to see her. I wish they ALL would."

"_I_ will," said Vivian, "and you'll see that I am. I'll help to make
her glad that she came."

Some one came running swiftly behind them, and they turned to see who it
might be.

It was Harry Grafton, breathless and excited.

"Oh, what do you think?" he cried. "Dollie Burton got almost run over,
and would have, if it hadn't been for Rob Lindsey. I tell you, he's a
splendid fellow, and my father saw it all, and he says it was the
bravest thing he ever saw done, and he shook hands with Rob, and little
Dollie is only frightened, but she's almost--"

"Why, Harry Grafton! What ARE you saying?" cried Polly.

"What has happened to Dollie?" said Vivian.

At that moment Leslie came running to tell the news.

"Only think!" she cried, "dear little Dollie Burton was almost--"

"That's what I just told them!" declared Harry, "and I'm proud just to
be Rob's friend."

Polly and Vivian were as excited as Harry and his sister were, and for a
few moments the four little playmates talked at the same time, and Polly
at last realized that she was not getting a clear idea of what Rob had
done, or what had happened to wee Dollie Burton.

At last Harry grew calmer, and, with Leslie's help, told the story.

Little Dollie had been playing in her own garden, where surely one might
think that she was safe. A horse from a neighbor's stable had escaped,
and went plunging down the street.

The tiny girl ran down the driveway to look after the flying horse, and
just as Dollie reached the road, the horse turned, and ran wildly back
in the direction whence he had come.

The little girl seemed too frightened to run, and stood still in the
path of the madly racing horse.

Rob Lindsey seeing her danger, sprang out into the street, snatched her
up when the animal was about to trample upon her, and bore her to safety
setting her down once more in her own garden.

"My father was just coming along," said Harry, "and he saw Rob rush out
into the street, and grab Dollie just in time to save her, and he says
Rob stood an awful chance of being run over.

"Rob declares it wasn't much to do. He says he didn't have time to
think, and be scared.

"Father took his hand, and just told him that that was the brave part of
it. He told Rob that a coward would have thought only of himself.

"I tell you, he's a hero, as much as those we read of.

"Mrs. Burton says that she can not say enough to tell how she feels,
when she thinks that little Dollie is alive, and unhurt, and all because
of Rob!"

"There he is now," cried Leslie.

"Oh, everyone run along. I want to speak to him just a minute myself,"
said Polly, and, as usual, they obeyed.

Very shyly Rob approached. He felt that he was receiving too much praise
from everyone, and yet--a word of approval from Princess Polly, ah, that
would be worth much!

"Rob," she said, when the others had walked along, "Rob, don't ever say
again that you'd LIKE to be brave. You ARE brave!"

"She wasn't a nymph, and I wasn't a prince," said the boy, blushing.

"You're as brave as any prince in any fairy tale I ever read," said
Polly, and Rob wondered who would care for greater reward than that.

CHAPTER III

POLLY VISITS ROSE

At last the day came when Polly was to make the little trip that would
begin at the station in her own town, and end at a place, some miles
distant, where, when the train stopped, she would see Rose waiting for
her.

She thought it would seem finer to go quite alone, but Mrs. Sherwood
would not permit that.

"The maid must ride with you, and remain beside you until Rose and her
aunt meet you. Then, she can return on the next train," she had said,
and Polly knew it was useless to object.

And when, at last, the excitement of saying "good-bye" was over, and the
train had already left the little town far behind, Polly settled back in
her seat, and fell to dreaming.

The thought of little Dollie, frightened, but unhurt, of Rob who had so
bravely saved her, of Lena's pride in Rob, flitted through her mind. It
would be a pleasant bit of news to tell Rose.

Then she began to think of Great-Aunt Rose, and to wonder how she
looked.

"Rose has told me in her letter that she's a handsome old lady, but that
isn't like seeing her. How ever SHALL I know her? Oh, of course, I will.
She'll be with Rose."

The maid, who had taken the seat behind Polly, reached forward, and
touched her shoulder.

"You're not getting drowsy, are you, Miss Polly?" she asked, "we're
almost there."

A gay little laugh answered her question.

"How COULD I go to sleep on the way to see Rose?" she asked, "and how
near are we now?"

"The next station, but one," said the maid, "and I'll begin to gather up
the bag, and suit case."

"The next but one!" cried Polly, and she sat up very straight, and
looked from the window. Was the town where Rose lived as pretty as this?

There were great trees that cast long shadows, and here, and there a
glimpse of a river that reflected the blue sky, and the floating clouds.
There were fine houses with spacious lawns, and lovely gardens, and over
all the sunlight playing, and Polly felt that she was riding into an
enchanted country, over which Rose, and Great-Aunt Rose presided.

Polly did not notice what the brakeman said, but the maid did, and she
spoke quickly.

"Come, Miss Polly, here we are, and we'll do well to get off right now
before folks crowd toward the door. By the looks I think everyone means
to stop here!"

It certainly looked as if the maid had spoken truly, for men reached for
parcels that had been stowed in bundle racks, and women commenced to
gather up hand bags, and wraps.

Polly wondered if anyone intended to remain in the car.

She slipped from the seat to the floor, and then, just as they stopped
at the station, she turned and peeped from the window.

"Oh, there she is! There she is!" she cried, "and she's in a fine
carriage with an old lady that looks like a portrait in our drawing
room. Look! Look!"

"We can't stop to look," said the maid, "or we'll be left on the train."

"Oh, we CAN'T stay!" cried Polly, as she hurried toward the door.

She could not imagine anything more dreadful than to be detained on the
train, and ride on, and on, while Rose would find no little friend to
welcome.

She alarmed the maid by rushing down the steps, and across the platform,
and she almost took Great-Aunt Rose's breath away, when she flew at
Rose, and the two little girls embraced laughing, and yes, crying just a
little at the same time.

A slender figure, a huge picturesque hat, and a mass of curling, flaxen
hair, were all that Aunt Rose had seen, but now hand in hand, they were
coming toward the carriage.

"A lovely face, surely," murmured Great-Aunt Rose, "a sweet, and lovely
face."

"This is Princess Polly," said Rose, "and Polly, dear, this is my Great-
Aunt Rose."

Aunt Rose, as she preferred to be called, offered her hand to Polly, who
now stood beside the carriage. "I am so glad to see you, my dear," said
the gentle old voice, and so cordially was it said, that Polly blushed,
and smiled with delight.

She afterward told Lena Lindsey that she felt as if Aunt Rose were her
own aunt, and that she had ALWAYS known her.

The ride to the house was along an avenue shaded with huge, old elm
trees, and when they drew up at the house, Polly looked with round eyes
at its grand, old portico, its great pillars, its terraces, and masses
of lovely flowers.

Rose had said that the house was fine, but that had not told half the
beauty of the grand, old mansion.

They sprang from the carriage, and Rose begged that she might run
upstairs with Polly just a moment before lunch.

"I want to show her my room," she said, and Aunt Rose smiled, and nodded
assent.

"Oh, Polly, Princess Polly!" she said, when they reached the pretty
chamber, "it is so long since we've played together, and now--now I have
you, all to myself. See the queer bed, with the canopy over it. The
first night I came, I was afraid to sleep in it. Now, I like it, and to-
night we'll cuddle close together in it, and draw the curtains."

"Oh, what fun!" cried Polly, "and we can play we're in a castle, and no
one can enter, unless we let them!"

"Oh, yes, and we'll stay awake, oh, ever so long, just to talk," said
Rose.

And when Polly had seen everything in the chamber that Rose wished to
show, they ran down to the parlor to see the portraits.

"I'd like to see them all," said Polly, "but most of all I want to see
the picture of the old gentleman that sometimes smiles at you."

Together they ran down the stairway to the parlor.

How cool it was! Vines that hung upon the piazza shaded the windows, and
flickering sunbeams danced upon the polished floor, and brightened the
color of the Persian rug.

The portraits seemed to look with interest at Polly, and she smiled back
at them, and nodded as she passed them.

"They look like real people," she said, "and it doesn't seem polite to
pass them without nodding."

"I know it," agreed Rose, "and I nod and smile at them, but the picture
at the end of the room smiles more than the others do. Come, and see
him."

Together they stood looking at the little old gentleman.

Polly admired his flowered satin waistcoat, his powdered wig, and rosy
cheeks, but most of all she liked his merry, twinkling eyes.

"He DOES smile," said Polly.

"Yes, he does," agreed Rose, "but now, just for a moment, frown, and
then he doesn't SEEM to smile."

It was an odd sight, the two merry little faces puckered into an attempt
at a frown, and the old portrait looking down at them, as if in surprise
that their smiles had vanished.

"Now, let's both smile together!" cried Rose.

Immediately two pairs of merry eyes looked up at him, and two red mouths
smiled, and showed rows of pearly teeth.

"There!" said Polly, "he ALMOST laughed, and that dimple in his chin
looked DIMPLER than before."

"That's what I told you," said Rose, "and sometimes, when I'm lonesome,
he's a comfort."

At lunch Aunt Rose talked much with Polly, and gentle Aunt Lois seemed
charmed with the little guest.

When lunch was over, Aunt Rose left the little playmates to amuse
themselves, because she felt sure that Polly must have a budget of news
to tell, and they certainly would enjoy their bit of gossip better, if
no older person listened.

They spent the afternoon in the garden, walking along, their arms about
each other's waists.

Later they would care for games, but this first day was delightful just
to talk together.

They passed a little arbor, and Polly stopped to admire it.

Just as she looked up at the vine that blossomed on its roof, a strange
little face peeped over the hedge, then dodged out of sight.

"Who was that?" Polly asked.

"Who? Where?"

"Just behind the hedge," whispered Polly.

Rose looked, and in an opening at the lower part of the hedge she saw a
bit of a dark gray frock.

"Oh, it's Evangeline Longfellow Jenks, the little girl that's going to
be a poet," whispered Rose.

"But you said her poetry was funny," said Polly, as softly as Rose had
spoken.

"It IS" declared Rose, "but she keeps writing it all the time."

Just then Evangeline's round, white face again appeared above the hedge,
and at that moment Aunt Rose came out on the porch.

"Come over here, Evangeline," she said kindly, "and meet our little
guest."

"I'm not dressed up," said the voice behind the hedge, "but I've just
made a poem, and I can read it from here!"

Without waiting to be urged, and in a thin, high-pitched voice, she read
these lines, which she earnestly believed were beautiful:

"Oh, the sun is shining,
And the moon is near by;
I can't see the moon,
But it's in the sky-
Somewhere.

"I need no sun or moon;
I'll be a poet soon.
I write every day
Some kind of a lay-
Somewhere."

"What DOES she mean?" whispered Polly.

"I don't think it means ANYTHING, but she enjoys making up verses
whether they mean anything or not," Rose whispered in reply.

Polly was anxious to see what the little girl looked like who felt that
she was to be a poet, but Evangeline Longfellow Jenks did not intend to
be seen in an ordinary frock.

She felt that her position as a future poet demanded that she be finely
dressed.

On this especial morning she had been doing a very unpoetic thing--she
had been trying to drink from the hose!

Her skirts were completely soaked, and her shoes were covered with mud
that the dripping hose had splashed up from the garden bed.

"A person like ME ought not to drink from a horrid old hose. My mama
read about some one, I've forgotten who, who drank from a crystal
chalice. I don't know what that is, but it sounds grand, and I wish I
had one," murmured the small girl behind the hedge.

Aunt Rose repeated her invitation, but the poetic child seldom thought
it necessary to be polite, and never replied unless she chose to. This
time she remained silent, and Aunt Rose, with an odd little smile
returned to the house.

Then a strange thing happened.

Another face peeped over the hedge, but this time it was a saucy one,
with bright, brown eyes that fairly danced with merriment.

"Reg'lar ninny, ain't she?" he asked, with a chuckle.

"Oh, Lester, you MUSTN'T!" cried Rose.

"Yes, I must!" said the boy. "She sneaked off into the house when you
weren't looking, so she can't hear me, and when she's too far off to
hear, I have to call her some kind of a horrid name, 'cause it helps me
some!"

"But she's your own cousin, and you oughtn't, you know. If it isn't
wicked, it MUST be naughty to call her a ninny," said Rose.

"I wish she wasn't my cousin, I ain't fond of her," said the boy, with a
frown on his handsome face.

"She did a mean thing this morning, and I'll get even with her," he
continued, "and when she wrote one of her everlasting old poems about
me, it was more than I could stand. Just read it and I guess you won't
blame me."

He thrust a crumpled bit of paper over the hedge.

Rose ran to the hedge, and took the paper. She was curious to know what
kind of a poem Lester had inspired.

Who could blame her that she laughed when she read the ridiculous lines?

"Lester's a boy, but he's not brave;
The cat scratched him, and he cried.
He's not the kind of a boy I like
Although I've often tried.

His eyes are brown, but I don't care;
His freckles are yellow, and so is his hair.
He teases, so he has no heart,
And he runs after the old ice-cart."

"Could a fellow stand THAT? said Lester, his cheeks very red.

"It wasn't nice," said Rose, "and Lester, wait a moment," as the boy
turned to go.

"This is Polly Sherwood, my best friend. Polly, this is Lester Jenks.
He's a nice boy, only he's provoked this morning."

Polly offered her little hand over the hedge, and Lester blushed, and
took it.

"Are you the little princess?" he asked bluntly.

"Just a make-believe one," said Polly.

"We all call her 'Princess Polly' at home," Rose explained.

"You look right to be called that anywhere," said Lester, and it was
Polly's turn to blush.

"I'd like to come over some day," he said.

"Come NOW," said Rose.

"I wish I could, but I can't," said the boy. "I've an errand to do for
my aunt, and I ought to go now. I'll come some other day, perhaps to-
morrow. I've some money, and I'd like to treat."

He looked admiringly at Polly, and Rose was delighted.

"He's ever so much fun," she said, when Lester had gone to do the errand
that he had spoken of.

"He lives the next house to Evangeline," she continued, "and he's
awfully tired of her poetry."

Polly did not wonder at that.

"And I DO hope, when he comes, Evangeline won't come with him," said
Rose.

"So do I," agreed Polly, "only it may be that she's nice SOMETIMES."

Rose came closer, and looking straight into Polly's blue eyes, she said:

"She brings her old poetry book EVERY time!"

"Oh, dear, can't she leave it at home?" said Polly.

"She WON'T," said Rose, "and she's either writing in it, or reading it
all the time, so there's not a minute for play."

"Doesn't she care for 'Tag' or 'Hide-and-Seek?'" questioned Polly.

"She doesn't EVER like anything but that poetry," declared Rose.

"Oh, dear," sighed Polly, for she felt that if Evangeline were to come
often, she would spoil much of the visit that, without her, would be so
pleasant.

"We'll be out sometimes," said Rose, "for Aunt Rose will take us about,
and we're to go to the studio some day when Aunt Lois goes. I've been
there, and the pictures are lovely, and some days we shall drive, and
then if she comes she won't find us."

"If she'll come on the days that we're OUT, and stay away the days that
we're at home, it will be just FINE!"

"Oh, Rose, I believed it's naughty, but I would be glad if it happened,
just HAPPENED that way," Polly said.

CHAPTER IV

THE VILLAGE NUISANCE

At Sherwood Hall Polly was greatly missed, and her playmates felt less
interest in their games now that she was not with them.

In all the village there was no one so lonely as Aunt Judith. She missed
the merry chatter of happy, cheery Rose. Bright, and merry she had been,
even although there were many things that she longed for, and could not
have, most of all, some one to love her.

Now, as Aunt Judith busied herself about the cottage, or out in the tiny
garden, she realized how much the child's hands had helped.

"She used to dust for me," she would say to herself, as she moved about
the tiny sitting room, putting it in order.

"She always fed the chickens," she murmured, one morning, on her way out
to the coop.

She stooped to open the door, when a shrill voice shouted at her.

"Look out! Look out! The ol' rooster's mad!"

Aunt Judith was startled, and Gyp was delighted.

"Why were you meddling with the hens?" she asked, in quick wrath.

"Don't hurt 'em to be watched, does it?" was the saucy answer.

Aunt Judith looked at the imp-like figure astride the fence.

"You're a nuisance!" she cried, "I wish the town was rid of you!" "Ding-
te-ding-te-dingle-te-ding!" sang Gyp, in an almost ear-splitting solo.

"Ding-te-ding--I tell ye what, if ye put jest the tip of yer finger
between them slats, that 'ere ol' rooster 'll bite it almost off'n yer!"
he remarked, "I know, 'cause I TRIED it."

"You keep your fingers away from the coop, and yourself out of my yard,"
cried Aunt Judith, "or I'll have you arrested."

"Wow!" shrieked Gyp, and slipping from the fence, he ran to the woods,
lest Aunt Judith should immediately put her threat into effect.

The one, and only thing that Gyp feared was a policeman.

A wild little ragamuffin, living in an old hut that was home only in
name, with parents as ignorant as himself, he was viewed with contempt
by every child in the town, and feared by them, as well.

There was nothing that he dared not do--if no policeman were in sight.

It was well known by everyone that when Gyp once became interested in
anything, he would not let it alone until something occurred that he
thought more attractive.

Aunt Judith, shading her eyes with her hand, waited until she felt sure
that Gyp did not intend to return. Then locking the door, and closing
the windows, she made her way down the avenue toward the parsonage.

She felt unusually lonely, and the parson's wife was always glad to see
her.

The walk was a long one, and when Aunt Judith had reached the parsonage,
she paused for a moment to enjoy the light breeze before opening the
little gate. "I saw you coming," said a pleasant voice, "and I guess you
felt the heat on the way. Come in, and sit down under the big maple
trees. It's cooler than it is in the house."

As she spoke, the parson's wife took Aunt Judith's arm, and led her to a
rustic seat, and seating herself beside her, commenced to talk of bits
of parish news.

Aunt Judith's mind was far away with Rose, and her answers became more,
and more wide of the mark.

"I think the boys of the choir sing BEAUTIFULLY," chirped the little
woman, "but they really should have new cotta's, but the society feels
that it really can't afford it."

"Yes'm," said Aunt Judith.

"And there are some that think we ought to have an organist. Mrs.
Bingley volunteers to play until we're able to hire some one, but she
isn't much of a player. She says she can't play any music unless it's
written in ONE flat. She says it's the only key she knows. She says two
flats make her uneasy, but THREE flats makes her simply WILD!"

"Well, if I DON'T let them out of the coop they'll be sick, and if I DO
let them out, they're likely to get lost."

The parson's wife stared uneasily at Aunt Judith. Then thinking that she
must have been needlessly startled, she again spoke.

"As I said before, what makes her WILD is three flats," she said.

"But the chicken-coop is ALL slats," said Aunt Judith, "what DO you mean
by THREE?"

"Don't you feel well?" the little woman asked anxiously, leaning toward
Aunt Judith, and looking up into her shrewd face.

"Why, yes," Aunt Judith replied, "only I'm lonesome without Rose, and
some anxious about the hens."

A sigh of relief escaped the other woman's lips, but she did not
explain.

"She's so worried about her own affairs that she simply didn't notice
what I was talking about," she thought.

Realizing that Aunt Judith's mind was so full of her own interests that,
for the time, she could think of nothing else, she dropped church
matters, and asked when she had heard from Rose.

And while in the cool shade of the large trees, they talked of the tiny
cottage, its garden, the chickens, and most of all, Rose, matters near
the hen-coop were becoming rather lively.

Aunt Judith watching to see if Gyp intended to return, did not dream
that he was watching her.

He saw her enter the cottage, and waited until she left the house to
saunter down the avenue.

Then he ran across the little open field from the wood, and, crouching
behind the back fence, near the coop, again waited until he felt sure
that she was not simply in the house of some neighbor, but, instead, had
gone to the "square."

Then springing over the fence like a monkey, he told a few facts to the
old rooster.

"Ye're a mean ol' thing!" he cried, "jest a mean ol' critter ter bite a
feller's finger like ye did mine. I'll pay yer fer what ye done! Look at
this, an' see how ye like it!"

At that moment, and to the utter astonishment of the rooster, and his
family, Gyp sprang up and down in a series of wild jumps, shouting, and
yelling to the limit of his strength.

"Yow-ow! Hoope-high-jinks!" shrieked Gyp, his wiry arms, and legs flying
in more directions than seemed possible, his shoes, that were many sizes
too large for him, clattering on the hard-trodden earth of the hen-yard.

"How-re-ow-re-owl!" he roared, dodging this way, and that, in order to
keep directly in front of the frightened rooster.

The rooster ducked, and dodged in vain, for Gyp managed to do his
outrageous dance exactly in front of him, wherever he might be.

The hens kept up a perpetual squawking, and ran wildly about, while the
downy chicks huddled in fear under the huge leaves of a burdock plant,
and uttered little frightened peeps that, however, were unheard in the
din that Gyp and the hens created.

Then suddenly something happened.

With a wild whoop, and an extra high jump, he lost his balance, and fell
against the little gate.

He was not hurt, but he was surprised, and, for a moment, sat absolutely
still, while the hens, led by the big rooster, ran over him, and out
into the field beyond.

"I s'pose she'll say I let 'em out. I DID, an' I DIDN'T!" he said with a
chuckle.

"Long's they're out, they might as well have a good run for once," he
cried, and shouting "Shoo! Shoo!" and brandishing his arms, he rushed
after them.

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