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

Once again the woman pulled herself erect in her bed.

“Well, if you ain’t the amazing young one!” she cried. “Here! do you go to that window and pull up the curtain,” she directed. “I should like to know what you look like!”

Pollyanna rose to her feet, but she laughed a little ruefully.

“O dear! then you’ll see my freckles, won’t you?” she sighed, as she went to the window; “⁠—and just when I was being so glad it was dark and you couldn’t see ’em. There! Now you can⁠—oh!” she broke off excitedly, as she turned back to the bed; “I’m so glad you wanted to see me, because now I can see you! They didn’t tell me you were so pretty!”

“Me!⁠—pretty!” scoffed the woman, bitterly.

“Why, yes. Didn’t you know it?” cried Pollyanna.

“Well, no, I didn’t,” retorted Mrs. Snow, dryly. Mrs. Snow had lived forty years, and for fifteen of those years she had been too busy wishing things were different to find much time to enjoy things as they were.

“Oh, but your eyes are so big and dark, and your hair’s all dark, too, and curly,” cooed Pollyanna. “I love black curls. (That’s one of the things I’m going to have when I get to Heaven.) And you’ve got two little red spots in your cheeks. Why, Mrs. Snow, you are pretty! I should think you’d know it when you looked at yourself in the glass.”

“The glass!” snapped the sick woman, falling back on her pillow. “Yes, well, I hain’t done much prinkin’ before the mirror these days⁠—and you wouldn’t, if you was flat on your back as I am!”

“Why, no, of course not,” agreed Pollyanna, sympathetically. “But wait⁠—just let me show you,” she exclaimed, skipping over to the bureau and picking up a small hand-glass.

On the way back to the bed she stopped, eyeing the sick woman with a critical gaze.

“I reckon maybe, if you don’t mind, I’d like to fix your hair just a little before I let you see it,” she proposed. “May I fix your hair, please?”

“Why, I⁠—suppose so, if you want to,” permitted Mrs. Snow, grudgingly; “but ’twon’t stay, you know.”

“Oh, thank you. I love to fix people’s hair,” exulted Pollyanna, carefully laying down the hand-glass and reaching for a comb. “I shan’t do much today, of course⁠—I’m in such a hurry for you to see how pretty you are; but some day I’m going to take it all down and have a perfectly lovely time with it,” she cried, touching with soft fingers the waving hair above the sick woman’s forehead.

For five minutes Pollyanna worked swiftly, deftly, combing a refractory curl into fluffiness, perking up a drooping ruffle at the neck, or shaking a pillow into plumpness so that the head might have a better pose. Meanwhile the sick woman, frowning prodigiously, and openly scoffing at the whole procedure, was, in spite of herself, beginning to tingle with a feeling perilously near to excitement.

“There!” panted Pollyanna, hastily plucking a pink from a vase near by and tucking it into the dark hair where it would give the best effect. “Now I reckon we’re ready to be looked at!” And she held out the mirror in triumph.

“Humph!” grunted the sick woman, eyeing her reflection severely. “I like red pinks better than pink ones; but then, it’ll fade, anyhow, before night, so what’s the difference!”

“But I should think you’d be glad they did fade,” laughed Pollyanna, “ ’cause then you can have the fun of getting some more. I just love your hair fluffed out like that,” she finished with a satisfied gaze. “Don’t you?”

“Hm-m; maybe. Still⁠—’twon’t last, with me tossing back and forth on the pillow as I do.”

“Of course not⁠—and I’m glad, too,” nodded Pollyanna, cheerfully, “because then I can fix it again. Anyhow, I should think you’d be glad it’s black⁠—black shows up so much nicer on a pillow than yellow hair like mine does.”

“Maybe; but I never did set much store by black hair⁠—shows gray too soon,” retorted Mrs. Snow. She spoke fretfully, but she still held the mirror before her face.

“Oh, I love black hair! I should be so glad if I only had it,” sighed Pollyanna.

Mrs. Snow dropped the mirror and turned irritably.

“Well, you wouldn’t!⁠—not if you were me. You wouldn’t be glad for black hair nor anything else⁠—if you had to lie here all day as I do!”

Pollyanna bent her brows in a thoughtful frown.

“Why, ’twould be kind of hard⁠—to do it then, wouldn’t it?” she mused aloud.

“Do what?”

“Be glad about things.”

“Be glad about things⁠—when you’re sick in bed all your days? Well, I should say it would,” retorted Mrs. Snow. “If you don’t think so, just tell me something to be glad about; that’s all!”

To Mrs. Snow’s unbounded amazement, Pollyanna sprang to her feet and clapped her hands.

“Oh, goody! That’ll be a hard one⁠—won’t it? I’ve got to go, now, but I’ll think and think all the way home; and maybe the next time I come I can tell it to you. Goodbye. I’ve had a lovely time! Goodbye,” she called again, as she tripped through the doorway.

“Well, I never! Now, what does she mean by that?” ejaculated Mrs. Snow, staring after her visitor. By and by she turned her head and picked up the mirror, eyeing her reflection critically.

“That little thing has got a knack with hair and no mistake,” she muttered under her breath. “I declare, I didn’t know it could look so pretty. But then, what’s the use?” she sighed, dropping the little glass into the bedclothes, and rolling her head on the pillow fretfully.

A little later, when Milly, Mrs. Snow’s daughter, came in, the mirror still lay among the bedclothes⁠—though it had been carefully hidden from sight.

“Why, mother⁠—the curtain is up!” cried Milly, dividing her amazed stare between the window and the pink in her mother’s hair.

“Well, what if it is?” snapped the sick woman. “I needn’t stay in the dark all my life, if I am sick, need I?”

“Why, n-no, of course not,” rejoined Milly,