Austin Dobson - "De Libris: Prose and Verse"

John Kendrick Bangs - "R. Holmes & Co."

Ferdinand Raimund - "Der Alpenkonig und der Menschenfeind"

P. G. Wodehouse - "Death At The Excelsior"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Five Little Peppers Grown Up

M >> Margaret Sidney >> Five Little Peppers Grown Up




_We Thank Thee, oh Lord,
For this Christmas Day,
And may we love Thee
And serve Thee alway.
For Jesus Christ
The Holy Child's sake.
Amen._

It rang out clear and sweet in childish treble, floating off into the
halls and big rooms.

"Now, Candace," Phronsie lifted a plate of biscuits, and a comfortable
figure of a colored woman, resplendent in the gayest of turbans and a
smart stuff gown, made its appearance by Phronsie's chair.

"I'm here, honey," and Candace's broad palm received the first plate to
be passed, which opened the ceremony of the Christmas feast.

Oh, this Christmas feast at Dunraven! It surpassed all the other
Dunraven Christmases on record; everybody said so. And at last, when no
one could possibly eat more, all the merry roomful, young and old, must
have a holly sprig fastened to the coat, or gown, or apron, and the
procession was formed to march back to the hall; and Mr. Jack Loughead's
stereopticon flashed out the most beautiful pictures, that his bright
descriptions explained to the delighted children; and then games and
romps, and more bonbons, and favors and flowers; and at last the sleighs
and barges for Mr. King's party were drawn up in the moonlight, at the
door of Dunraven, and the Christmas at the Home was only a beautiful
memory.

"Miss Mary"--Mr. Livingston Bayley put out his brown driving
glove--"this way," trying to lead her off from the gay group on the
snow-covered veranda.

"Why, I don't understand," began Polly, in the midst of trying to make
Phronsie see that it was not necessary to go back and comfort Susan with
another good-by, and turning a bewildered face up at him.

"Why, I certainly supposed you accepted my offer to drive you to the
station," said Mr. Bayley hurriedly, and still extending his hand.
"Come, Miss Pepper."

"Come, Polly, I've a seat for you," cried Alexia, just flying into the
biggest barge. "Do hurry, Polly."

"Polly," called Jasper. She could see that he stood by one of the
sleighs, beckoning to her.

Meantime, Phronsie had been borne off by old Mr. King, and Polly could
hear her say, "Somebody get Polly a seat, please."

"I considered it a promise," Livingston Bayley was saying under cover of
the gay confusion. "And accordingly I prepared myself. But of course if
you do not wish to fulfill it, Miss Pepper, why, I"--

"Oh, no, no," cried Polly hastily, "if you really thought I promised
you, Mr. Bayley, I will go, thank you," and without a backward glance at
the others, she moved off to the gay little cutter where the horse stood
shaking his bells impatiently.

"Where's Polly?" somebody called out. And somebody else peered down the
row of vehicles, and answered, "Mr. Bayley's driving her."

And they were all off.

Polly kept saying to herself, "Oh, dear, dear, what could I have said to
make him think I would go with him?" And Livingston Bayley smiled
happily to himself under the collar of his driving coat; and the
sparkling snow cut into little crystals by the horse's flying feet,
dashed into their faces, and the scraps of laughter and merry nonsense
from the other sleighs, made Polly want nothing so much as to cower down
into the corner of the big fur robes, for a good cry.

And before she knew it, Mr. Bayley had turned off, leaving the gay
procession on the main road.

"Oh!" cried Polly then, and starting forward, "Mr. Bayley, why, we're
off the road!"

"I know a short cut to the depot," he answered hastily, "it's a better
way."

"But we may miss the train--oh, do turn back, and overtake them," begged
Polly, in a tremor.

"This is a vastly better road," said Mr. Bayley, and instead of turning
back, he flicked the horse lightly with his whip. "You'll say, Miss
Mary, that it's much better this way." He tried to laugh. "Isn't the
sleighing superb?"

"Oh, yes--oh dear me!" cried poor Polly, straining her eyes to catch a
sight of the last vehicle with its merry load. "Indeed, Mr. Bayley, I'm
afraid we sha'n't get to the depot in time. There may be drifts on this
road, or something to delay us."

"Oh, no, indeed!" cried Livingston Bayley confidently, now smiling again
at his forethought in driving over this very identical piece of roadway,
when the preparations for the Christmas festivity were keeping all the
other people busy at Dunraven, and leaving him free to provide himself
with sleighing facilities for the evening. "Don't be troubled, I know
all about it; I assure you, Miss Mary, we shall reach the depot as soon
as the rest of the party do, for it's really a shorter cut."

Polly beat her foot impatiently on the warm foot-muff he had wrung with
difficulty from the livery keeper, and counted the moments, unable to
say a word.

"Miss Mary"--suddenly Mr. Livingston Bayley turned--"everything is
forgiven under such circumstances, I believe," and he laughed.

Polly didn't speak, only half hearing the words, her heart on the rest
of the party, every instant being carried further from her.

"And you must have seen--'pon me word it is impossible that you didn't
see that--that"--

"Oh, dear," burst out Polly suddenly, and peering anxiously down the
white winding highway. "If there should be a drift on the road!"

Livingston Bayley bit his lip angrily. "'Pon me word, Miss Mary," he
began, "you are the first girl I ever cared to speak to, and now you
can't think of anything but the roads."

Still Polly peered into the unbroken whiteness of the thoroughfare,
lined by the snow-laden pines and spruces, all inextricably mixed as the
sleigh spun by. It was too late to turn back now, she knew; the best
that could be done, was to hurry on--and she began to count the
hoof-beats and to speculate how long it would be before they would see
the lights of the little station, and find the lost party again.

"I might have spoken to a great many other girls," Livingston Bayley was
saying, "and I really don't know why I didn't choose one of them.
Another man in my place would, and you must do me the justice to
acknowledge it; 'pon me word, you must, Miss Mary."

Polly tore off her gaze from the snowy fields where the branches of the
trees were making little zigzag paths in the moonlight, to fasten it on
as much of his face as was visible between his cap and his high collar.

"And I really shouldn't think you would play with me," declared Mr.
Bayley, nervously fingering the whip-handle, "I shouldn't, don't you
know, because you are not the sort of girl to do that thing. 'Pon me
word, you're not, Miss Mary."

"I? what do you mean?" cried poor Polly, growing more and more
bewildered.

"Why I--I--of course you must know; 'pon me word, you must, Miss Mary,
for it began five years ago, before you went abroad, don't you know?"

Polly sank back among her fur robes while he went on.

"And I've done what no other fellow would, I'm sure," he said
incoherently, "in my place, kept constant, don't you know, to one idea.
Been with other girls, of course, but only really made up my mind to
marry you. 'Pon me word, I didn't, Miss Mary."

"And you've brought me out, away from the rest of the party, to tell me
this," exclaimed Polly, springing forward to sit erect with flashing
eyes. "How good of you, Mr. Bayley, to announce your intention to marry
me."

"You can't blame me," cried Mr. Bayley in an injured way. "That cad of a
Loughead means to speak soon--'pon me word, the fellow does. And I've
never changed my mind about it since I made it up, even when you began
to give music lessons."

"Oh, how extremely kind," cried Polly.

"Don't put it that way," he began deprecatingly. "I couldn't help it,
don't you know, for I liked you awfully from the first, and always
intended to marry you. You shall have everything in the world that you
want, and go everywhere. And my family, you know, has an _entree_
to any society that's worth anything."

"I wouldn't marry you," cried Polly stormily, "if you could give me all
the gold in the world; and as for family," here she sat quite erect with
shining eyes, "the Peppers have always been the loveliest people that
ever lived--the very loveliest--oh"--she broke off suddenly, starting
forward--"there's something on the road; see, Mr. Bayley!"

And spinning along, the horse now making up his mind to get to the depot
in time, they both saw a big wagon out of which protruded two or three
bags evidently containing apples and potatoes; one of the wheels
determining to perform no more service for its master, was resting
independently on the snowy thoroughfare, for horse and driver were gone.

"I beg your pardon," exclaimed Mr. Livingston Bayley suddenly, at sight
of this, "for bringing you around here. But how was I to know of that
beastly wreck?"

"We must get out," said Polly, springing off from her side of the
sleigh, "and lead the horse around."

But this was not so easy a matter; for the farmer's wagon had stopped in
the narrowest part of the road, either side shelving off, under its
treacherous covering of snow. At last, after all sorts of ineffectual
attempts on Mr. Bayley's part to induce the horse to stir a step, Polly
desperately laid her hand on the bridle. "Let me try," she said. "There,
you good creature," patting the horse's nose; "come, that's a dear old
fellow," and they never knew quite how, but in the course of time, they
were all on the other side of the wreck, and Mr. Livingston Bayley was
helping her into the sleigh, and showering her with profuse apologies
for the whole thing.

"Never mind," said Polly, as she saw his distress, "only never say such
perfectly dreadful things to me again. And now, hurry just as fast as
you can, please!"

And presently a swift turn brought the twinkling lights of the little
station to view, and there was the entire party calling to them as they
now spied their approach, to "Hurry up!" and there also was the train,
holding its breath in curbed impatience to be off.




CHAPTER V.

BAD NEWS.


"Oh, Mamsie," cried Polly in dismay, "must Papa Fisher know?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Fisher firmly, "your father must be told every
thing."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Polly, turning off in dismay, "it seems so--so
unfair to Mr. Bayley. Mightn't it be just as if he hadn't spoken,
Mamsie?" She came back now to her mother's side, and looked anxiously
into the black eyes.

"But he has spoken," said Mother Fisher, "and your father must be told.
Why, Polly, that isn't like you, child, to want to keep anything from
him," she added reproachfully.

"Oh! I don't--I couldn't ever in all this world keep anything from
Father Fisher," declared Polly vehemently, "only," and the color flew in
rosy waves over her face, "this doesn't seem like my secret, Mamsie. And
Mr. Bayley would feel so badly to have it known," and her head drooped.

"Still it must be known by your father," said her mother firmly, "and I
must tell Mr. King. Then it need go no further."

"Oh, Mamsie!" exclaimed Polly, in a sharp tone of distress, "you
wouldn't ever in all this world tell Grandpapa!"

"I most certainly shall," declared Mrs. Fisher. "He ought to know
everything that concerns you, Polly, and each one of you children. It is
his right."

Polly sat down in the nearest chair and clasped her hands. "Grandpapa
will show Mr. Bayley that he doesn't like it," she mourned, "and it will
hurt his feelings."

Mrs. Fisher's lip curled. "No more do I like it," she said curtly. "In
the first place to speak to you at all; and then to take such a way to
do it; it wasn't a nice thing at all, child, for Mr. Bayley to do," here
Mrs. Fisher walked to the window, her irritation getting the better of
her, so that Polly might not see her face.

"But he didn't mean to speak then--that is"--began Polly.

"He should have spoken to your father or to Mr. King," said Mrs. Fisher,
coming back to face Polly, "but I presume the young man didn't know any
better, or at least, he didn't think, and that's enough to say about
that. But as for not telling Mr. King about it, why, it isn't to be
thought of for a minute. So I best have it over with at once." And with
a reassuring smile at Polly she went out, and closed the door.

"Oh, dear me," cried poor Polly, left alone; and springing out of her
chair, she began to pace the floor. "Now it will be perfectly dreadful
for Mr. Bayley. Grandpapa will be very angry; he never liked him; and
now he can't help showing what he feels. Oh! why did Mr. Bayley speak."

"Polly," called Jasper's voice, out in the hall.

For the first time in her life, she felt like running away from his
call. "Oh! I can't go out; he'll guess something is the matter," she
cried to herself.

"Polly?" and there was a rap at the door.

"Yes," said Polly from within.

"Can I see you a minute?"

Polly slowly opened the door, and tried to lift her brown eyes to his
face.

"Oh, Polly," he pretended not to notice any thing amiss with her, "I
came to tell you first; and you can help me to break it to father."

"Oh, what is it?" cried Polly, looking up quickly. "Oh, Jasper," as she
saw that his face was drawn with the effort not to let her see the
distress he was in.

He tried to cover up his anxiety, but she saw a yellow paper in his
hand. "Oh, Jasper, you've a telegram," she cried breathlessly.

"Polly," said Jasper. He took her hand and held it firmly, "you will
help father and me to bear it, I know."

"Oh, Jasper, I will," promised Polly, clinging to his hand. "Don't be
afraid to tell me, Jasper."

"Listen; Marian has been thrown from her sleigh this morning; the horses
ran," said Jasper hurriedly. "The telegram says 'Come.' She may be
living, Polly; don't look so."

For the room grew suddenly so dark to her that she wavered and would
have fallen had he not caught her. "I won't faint," she cried, "Jasper,
don't be afraid. There, I'm all right. Now, oh, what can I do?"

"Could you go with me when I tell father?" asked Jasper. "I am so afraid
I shall break it to him too sharply; and you know it won't do for him to
be startled. If you could, Polly."

For the second time, everything seemed to turn black before her eyes,
but Polly said bravely, "Yes, I'll go, Jasper." And presently, they
hardly knew how, the two found themselves at old Mr. King's door.

There was a sound of voices within. "Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Polly, "I
forgot Mamsie was here."

Jasper looked his surprise, but said nothing, and as they stood there
irresolutely, Mrs. Fisher opened the door and came out.

"Why, Polly!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, Mrs. Fisher," cried Jasper, "we can't explain now, we must see
father. But Polly will go and tell you," and in another minute they were
both standing before Mr. King.

The old gentleman was walking up and down his apartment, fuming at every
step. "The presumption of the fellow! How did he dare without speaking
to me! Oh, eh, Polly"--and then he caught sight of Jasper, back of her.

"Father," began Jasper, "I've had a telegram from brother Mason."

"Oh, now what has he been doing?" cried Mr. King irritably. "I do wish
Mason wouldn't be so abrupt in his movements. I suppose he is going
abroad again. Well, let's hear."

Jasper tried to speak, but instead, looked at Polly.

"Dear Grandpapa," cried Polly, going unsteadily to the old gentleman's
side, and taking his hand in both of hers. "Oh, we must tell you
something very bad, and we don't know how to tell it, Grandpapa." She
looked up piteously into his face.

Old Mr. King put forth his other hand, and seized the back of a chair to
steady himself. "Tell me at once, Polly," he said hoarsely. "It
isn't--Marian?" It was all he could do to utter the name.

"She is hurt," said Polly, going to the heart of the matter without
delay, "but oh, Grandpapa, it may not be very badly, and they want
Jasper to go on to New York."

[Illustration: "WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO TELL IT, GRANDPAPA."]

Mr. King turned to Jasper. "Give me the telegram, my boy," he said
through white lips; when it was all read, "Now tell Philip to pack me a
portmanteau."

"Father," said Jasper, "you are not going?"

"No questions are to be asked, Jasper," said his father. "Be so good as
to see that Philip packs quickly, and that you are ready. And now,
Polly," the old gentleman turned to her, "I want to take you along,
child, if your mother is willing. Will you go?"

"Oh, Grandpapa," cried Polly, "if I only may; oh, do take me."

"I don't want to go without you," said Mr. King. "There, run, child, and
ask your mother if you may go. Send Phronsie to me; I must explain
matters to her and bid her good-by."

Alexia and some of the other girls were hurrying in the east doorway of
the King mansion, an hour later. "Oh, where's Polly, Mrs. Fisher?" cried
Cathie Harrison.

"Polly has gone," said Mrs. Fisher, coming down the stairs. She looked
as if she wanted to cry, but her hands held the basket of sewing as
firmly as if no bad news had fallen upon the home.

"Gone?" cried all the girls. "Oh, Mrs. Fisher, where? Do tell us where
Polly is?"

For answer Mrs. Fisher made them all go into the little reception room
in an angle of the hall, where she told them the whole story.

"If that isn't perfectly dreadful," cried Alexia Rhys, throwing her muff
into a chair, and herself on an ottoman. "Why, we were going to make up
a theater party for to-morrow night. Mrs. Fisher, and now Polly is
gone."

Her look of dismay was copied by every girl so exactly, that Mrs. Fisher
had no relief in turning to any of the other four.

"And there is her Recital--what will she do about that?" cried Alexia,
rushing on in her complaint. "Perhaps she'll give it up, after all," she
added, brightening. "Now I most know she will, Mrs. Fisher," and she
started up and began to pirouette around the room.

"Of course she has had to postpone it," said Mrs. Fisher, looking after
her, "and she told Joel to write the notes to the pupils explaining
matters. But never you fear, Alexia, that Polly will give up that
Recital for good and all," she added, with a wise nod at her.

"Well, she must give it up for now anyway," said Alexia, coming to a
pause to take breath, "that's some comfort. To think of Joe writing
Polly's notes to the girls, oh, dear me!"

"Let us go and help him," proposed Cathie Harrison suddenly. "He must
hate to do such poky work."

"Oh, dear me," began Alexia, taking up her little bag to look at the
tiny watch in one corner. "We haven't the time. Yes--come on," she burst
out incoherently; "where is he, Mrs. Fisher?"

"In the library, hard at work," said Mrs. Fisher, with a bright smile at
them all.

"Come on, girls," said Alexia, rushing on. "Now that's what I admire
Mrs. Fisher for," she said, when they were well in the hall, "she shows
when she's not pleased, and when she likes what a body does, as well."

"I think she's just elegant," declared Cathie Harrison, who had
privately done a good deal of worshiping at Mrs. Fisher's shrine.

"She's a dear," voted Alexia. "Well, do come on. Oh, Joe!" as they
reached the library door.

Joel sat back of the writing table, a mass of Polly's note paper and
envelopes sprawled before him, his head on his hands and his elbows on
the table. Back of him paced Pickering Dodge with a worried expression
of countenance.

"You do look so funny," burst out Alexia with a laugh; "doesn't he,
girls?" to the bright bevy following her.

"I guess you would if you were in my place," growled Joel, scarcely
giving them a glance. "Go away, Alexia; you can't get me into a scrape
this morning--I've to dig at this."

"I don't want to get you into a scrape," cried Alexia, with a cold
shoulder to Pickering, who had been claimed by the other girls, "we're
going to help you."

"Is that so?" cried Joel radiantly; "then I say you're just jolly,
Alexia," and he beamed at her.

"Yes, we want to help," echoed Cathie, drawing up a chair to the other
side of the table. "Now do set us to work, Joel."

"Indeed and I will," he cried, spreading a clear place with a reckless
hand.

"Take care," warned Alexia, "take care; you are spoiling all Polly's
note paper. I wouldn't let you at my things, I can tell you, Joel
Pepper!"

"As if I'd ever do this sort of thing for you, Alexia," threw back Joel.

"Well, do let us begin," begged Cathie, impatiently drumming on the
table, as the other two girls and Pickering Dodge drew near.

"Yes, do," cried the girls, "and we'll toss those notes off in no time."

"I'll help you clear the table," cried Pickering; "do let me. I can't
write those notes, but I can get the place ready;" and he began to pile
the books on a chair. As he went around to Alexia's place she looked up
and fixed her gaze past him, not noticing his attempt to speak.

"All right; if she wants to act like that, I'm willing," said Pickering
to himself savagely and coolly going on with his work.

"Oh, dear me," groaned Cathie Harrison, "isn't it perfectly dreadful to
have that dear sweet Mrs. Whitney hurt?"

"Ow!" exclaimed Joel.

"Do stop," cried Alexia with a nudge. "Haven't you any more sense,
Cathie Harrison, than to speak of it?"

[Illustration: "NOW DO SET US TO WORK, JOEL"]

Cathie smothered a retort, and bit her lips to keep it back.

"Well, dear me, we are not working much," cried Alexia, pulling off her
gloves; "how many notes have you to write, Joe?"

"Oh, a dozen, I believe," said Joel; "that is, counting this one."

"To whom is that?" asked Alexia, peering over his shoulder. "Oh, to Amy
Loughead."

"Yes, I promised Polly this should go first. That Loughead girl was
expecting her over this morning. Oh, she's a precious nuisance,"
grumbled Joel, dipping his pen in the ink.

"Well, then, I will write to Desiree Frye," said Alexia. "She was going
to play a solo, Polly said, at the Recital. Oh, dear me, what shall I
say?"

"Polly said tell them all what had happened, and that she should stay
away as long as Aunty needed her, but she hoped to be home soon, and she
would write them from New York."

"Oh, Joe, what a lot," exclaimed Alexia, leaving her pen poised in mid
air.

"Cut it short, then," said Joel. "I don't care, only that's the sense of
it."

"Oh, dear," began one of the girls, "I can't bear to write of the
accident, and in the holidays, too."

Alexia made an uneasy gesture, scrawled two or three words, then threw
down her pen and got out of her chair. "It's no use," she cried, running
up to Pickering, who, his hands in his pockets, had his back to them
all, and was looking out of the window. "I can't let myself do anything
till I've said I'm sorry I was so cross," and she put out her hand.

"Eh?" exclaimed Pickering, whirling around in astonishment. "Oh, dear
me!" and he pulled his right hand out of his pocket, and extended it to
her.

"Mrs. Whitney has got hurt, and she was always sweet, and never said
cross things, and oh, dear me!" cried Alexia incoherently, as he shook
her hand violently.

"And I'm glad enough to have it made up," declared Pickering decidedly.
"It's bad enough to have so much trouble in the world, without getting
into fights with people you've known ever since you can remember."

"Trouble?" repeated Alexia wonderingly. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Whitney's
accident, you mean; I know it's awful for all of us."

Pickering Dodge turned on his heel and walked off abruptly, and she ran
back to her work with a final stare at him.

"I know now," she said to herself wisely, "and I've been mean enough to
hurt him when he was bearing it. Oh, dear me, things are getting so
mixed up!"

"Polly, you won't leave me, will you, till I get able to sit up?" cried
Mrs. Whitney one day, a week after.

"No, Aunty, indeed I won't," declared Polly, leaning over to drop a kiss
on the soft hair against the pillows.

Mrs. Whitney put up her hands to draw down the young face.

"Oh, Aunty!" exclaimed Polly in dismay, "be careful; you know doctor
said you mustn't raise your arms."

"Well, just let me kiss you, dear, then," said Mrs. Whitney with a wan
little smile. "Oh, Polly," when the kiss and two or three others had
been dropped on the rosy cheek, "you are sure you can stay with me?"

"I'm sure I can, and I will," said Polly firmly. "Oh, Aunty, I shall be
so glad to be with you; you can't think how glad."

She softly patted the pillows into the position Mrs. Whitney best liked,
and then stood off a bit and beamed at her.

"It's dreadfully selfish in me to keep you," said Mrs. Whitney, "when
you love your work so; and what will the music scholars do, Polly?"

"Oh, they are all right," said Polly gaily, "they're working like
beavers. Indeed, Aunty, I believe they'll practice a great deal more
than if I were home to be talking to them all the while."

"You are a dear blessed comfort, Polly," said Mrs. Whitney, turning on
her pillow with a sigh of relief. "Now I do believe I shall get up very
soon. But Jasper must go back; it won't do for him to stay away any
longer from his business. Promise me, Polly, that you will make him see
that he ought to go."

"I'll try, Aunty," said Polly, "and now that you are so much better,
why, I do believe that Jasper will be willing to go."

"Oh, do make him," begged Mrs. Whitney, and then she tucked her hand
under her cheek, and the first thing Polly knew she heard the slow,
regular breathing that told she was asleep.

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