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

hear. Her scrutiny of the undergarments finished, she turned to Pollyanna somewhat abruptly.

“You have been to school, of course, Pollyanna?”

“Oh, yes, Aunt Polly. Besides, fath⁠—I mean, I was taught at home some, too.”

Miss Polly frowned.

“Very good. In the fall you will enter school here, of course. Mr. Hall, the principal, will doubtless settle in which grade you belong. Meanwhile, I suppose I ought to hear you read aloud half an hour each day.”

“I love to read; but if you don’t want to hear me I’d be just glad to read to myself⁠—truly, Aunt Polly. And I wouldn’t have to half try to be glad, either, for I like best to read to myself⁠—on account of the big words, you know.”

“I don’t doubt it,” rejoined Miss Polly, grimly. “Have you studied music?”

“Not much. I don’t like my music⁠—I like other people’s, though. I learned to play on the piano a little. Miss Gray⁠—she plays for church⁠—she taught me. But I’d just as soon let that go as not, Aunt Polly. I’d rather, truly.”

“Very likely,” observed Aunt Polly, with slightly uplifted eyebrows. “Nevertheless I think it is my duty to see that you are properly instructed in at least the rudiments of music. You sew, of course.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Pollyanna sighed. “The Ladies’ Aid taught me that. But I had an awful time. Mrs. Jones didn’t believe in holding your needle like the rest of ’em did on buttonholing, and Mrs. White thought backstitching ought to be taught you before hemming (or else the other way), and Mrs. Harriman didn’t believe in putting you on patchwork ever, at all.”

“Well, there will be no difficulty of that kind any longer, Pollyanna. I shall teach you sewing myself, of course. You do not know how to cook, I presume.”

Pollyanna laughed suddenly.

“They were just beginning to teach me that this summer, but I hadn’t got far. They were more divided up on that than they were on the sewing. They were going to begin on bread; but there wasn’t two of ’em that made it alike, so after arguing it all one sewing-meeting, they decided to take turns at me one forenoon a week⁠—in their own kitchens, you know. I’d only learned chocolate fudge and fig cake, though, when⁠—when I had to stop.” Her voice broke.

“Chocolate fudge and fig cake, indeed!” scorned Miss Polly. “I think we can remedy that very soon.” She paused in thought for a minute, then went on slowly: “At nine o’clock every morning you will read aloud one half-hour to me. Before that you will use the time to put this room in order. Wednesday and Saturday forenoons, after half-past nine, you will spend with Nancy in the kitchen, learning to cook. Other mornings you will sew with me. That will leave the afternoons for your music. I shall, of course, procure a teacher at once for you,” she finished decisively, as she arose from her chair.

Pollyanna cried out in dismay.

“Oh, but Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, you haven’t left me any time at all just to⁠—to live.”

“To live, child! What do you mean? As if you weren’t living all the time!”

“Oh, of course I’d be breathing all the time I was doing those things, Aunt Polly, but I wouldn’t be living. You breathe all the time you’re asleep, but you aren’t living. I mean living⁠—doing the things you want to do: playing outdoors, reading (to myself, of course), climbing hills, talking to Mr. Tom in the garden, and Nancy, and finding out all about the houses and the people and everything everywhere all through the perfectly lovely streets I came through yesterday. That’s what I call living, Aunt Polly. Just breathing isn’t living!”

Miss Polly lifted her head irritably.

“Pollyanna, you are the most extraordinary child! You will be allowed a proper amount of playtime, of course. But, surely, it seems to me if I am willing to do my duty in seeing that you have proper care and instruction, you ought to be willing to do yours by seeing that that care and instruction are not ungratefully wasted.”

Pollyanna looked shocked.

“Oh, Aunt Polly, as if I ever could be ungrateful⁠—to you! Why, I love you⁠—and you aren’t even a Ladies’ Aider; you’re an aunt!”

“Very well; then see that you don’t act ungrateful,” vouchsafed Miss Polly, as she turned toward the door.

She had gone halfway down the stairs when a small, unsteady voice called after her:

“Please, Aunt Polly, you didn’t tell me which of my things you wanted to⁠—to give away.”

Aunt Polly emitted a tired sigh⁠—a sigh that ascended straight to Pollyanna’s ears.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Pollyanna. Timothy will drive us into town at half-past one this afternoon. Not one of your garments is fit for my niece to wear. Certainly I should be very far from doing my duty by you if I should let you appear out in any one of them.”

Pollyanna sighed now⁠—she believed she was going to hate that word⁠—duty.

“Aunt Polly, please,” she called wistfully, “isn’t there any way you can be glad about all that⁠—duty business?”

“What?” Miss Polly looked up in dazed surprise; then, suddenly, with very red cheeks, she turned and swept angrily down the stairs. “Don’t be impertinent, Pollyanna!”

In the hot little attic room Pollyanna dropped herself on to one of the straight-backed chairs. To her, existence loomed ahead one endless round of duty.

“I don’t see, really, what there was impertinent about that,” she sighed. “I was only asking her if she couldn’t tell me something to be glad about in all that duty business.”

For several minutes Pollyanna sat in silence, her rueful eyes fixed on the forlorn heap of garments on the bed. Then, slowly, she rose and began to put away the dresses.

“There just isn’t anything to be glad about, that I can see,” she said aloud; “unless⁠—it’s to be glad when the duty’s done!” Whereupon she laughed suddenly.

VII Pollyanna and Punishments

At half-past one o’clock Timothy drove Miss Polly and her niece to the four or five principal dry goods stores, which