Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter (books to read fiction .TXT) 📕

no matter where ye be. If ye don’t⁠—well, it’ll take somethin’ smarter’n we be ter find anythin’ ter be glad about in that!” she finished, shooing Pollyanna into the house as she would shoo an unruly chicken into a coop.

Breakfast, for the first five minutes, was a silent meal; then Miss Polly, her disapproving eyes following the airy wings of two flies darting here and there over the table, said sternly:

“Nancy, where did those flies come from?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. There wasn’t one in the kitchen.” Nancy had been too excited to notice Pollyanna’s up-flung windows the afternoon before.

“I reckon maybe they’re my flies, Aunt Polly,” observed Pollyanna, amiably. “There were lots of them this morning having a beautiful time upstairs.”

Nancy left the room precipitately, though to do so she had to carry out the hot muffins she had just brought in.

“Yours!” gasped Miss Polly. “What do you mean? Where did they come from?”

“Why, Aunt Polly, they came from out of doors of course, through the windows. I saw some of them come in.”

“You saw them! You mean you raised those windows without any screens?”

“Why, yes. There weren’t any screens there, Aunt Polly.”

Nancy, at this moment, came in again with the muffins. Her face was grave, but very red.

“Nancy,” directed her mistress, sharply, “you may set the muffins down and go at once to Miss Pollyanna’s room and shut the windows. Shut the doors, also. Later, when your morning work is done, go through every room with the spatter. See that you make a thorough search.”

To her niece she said:

“Pollyanna, I have ordered screens for those windows. I knew, of course, that it was my duty to do that. But it seems to me that you have quite forgotten your duty.”

“My⁠—duty?” Pollyanna’s eyes were wide with wonder.

“Certainly. I know it is warm, but I consider it your duty to keep your windows closed till those screens come. Flies, Pollyanna, are not only unclean and annoying, but very dangerous to health. After breakfast I will give you a little pamphlet on this matter to read.”

“To read? Oh, thank you, Aunt Polly. I love to read!”

Miss Polly drew in her breath audibly, then she shut her lips together hard. Pollyanna, seeing her stern face, frowned a little thoughtfully.

“Of course I’m sorry about the duty I forgot, Aunt Polly,” she apologized timidly. “I won’t raise the windows again.”

Her aunt made no reply. She did not speak, indeed, until the meal was over. Then she rose, went to the bookcase in the sitting room, took out a small paper booklet, and crossed the room to her niece’s side.

“This is the article I spoke of, Pollyanna. I desire you to go to your room at once and read it. I will be up in half an hour to look over your things.”

Pollyanna, her eyes on the illustration of a fly’s head, many times magnified, cried joyously:

“Oh, thank you, Aunt Polly!” The next moment she skipped merrily from the room, banging the door behind her.

Miss Polly frowned, hesitated, then crossed the room majestically and opened the door; but Pollyanna was already out of sight, clattering up the attic stairs.

Half an hour later when Miss Polly, her face expressing stern duty in every line, climbed those stairs and entered Pollyanna’s room, she was greeted with a burst of eager enthusiasm.

“Oh, Aunt Polly, I never saw anything so perfectly lovely and interesting in my life. I’m so glad you gave me that book to read! Why, I didn’t suppose flies could carry such a lot of things on their feet, and⁠—”

“That will do,” observed Aunt Polly, with dignity. “Pollyanna, you may bring out your clothes now, and I will look them over. What are not suitable for you I shall give to the Sullivans, of course.”

With visible reluctance Pollyanna laid down the pamphlet and turned toward the closet.

“I’m afraid you’ll think they’re worse than the Ladies’ Aid did⁠—and they said they were shameful,” she sighed. “But there were mostly things for boys and older folks in the last two or three barrels; and⁠—did you ever have a missionary barrel, Aunt Polly?”

At her aunt’s look of shocked anger, Pollyanna corrected herself at once.

“Why, no, of course you didn’t, Aunt Polly!” she hurried on, with a hot blush. “I forgot; rich folks never have to have them. But you see sometimes I kind of forget that you are rich⁠—up here in this room, you know.”

Miss Polly’s lips parted indignantly, but no words came. Pollyanna, plainly unaware that she had said anything in the least unpleasant, was hurrying on.

“Well, as I was going to say, you can’t tell a thing about missionary barrels⁠—except that you won’t find in ’em what you think you’re going to⁠—even when you think you won’t. It was the barrels every time, too, that were hardest to play the game on, for father and⁠—”

Just in time Pollyanna remembered that she was not to talk of her father to her aunt. She dived into her closet then, hurriedly, and brought out all the poor little dresses in both her arms.

“They aren’t nice, at all,” she choked, “and they’d been black if it hadn’t been for the red carpet for the church; but they’re all I’ve got.”

With the tips of her fingers Miss Polly turned over the conglomerate garments, so obviously made for anybody but Pollyanna. Next she bestowed frowning attention on the patched undergarments in the bureau drawers.

“I’ve got the best ones on,” confessed Pollyanna, anxiously. “The Ladies’ Aid bought me one set straight through all whole. Mrs. Jones⁠—she’s the president⁠—told ’em I should have that if they had to clatter down bare aisles themselves the rest of their days. But they won’t. Mr. White doesn’t like the noise. He’s got nerves, his wife says; but he’s got money, too, and they expect he’ll give a lot toward the carpet⁠—on account of the nerves, you know. I should think he’d be glad that if he did have the nerves he’d got money, too; shouldn’t you?”

Miss Polly did not seem to