An Old-Fashioned Girl. Луиза Мэй Олкотт

up, and he wouldn’t give in. If Polly had cried a little just here, he would have yielded; unfortunately she giggled, for Tom’s fierce attitude was such a funny contrast to his dress that she couldn’t help it. That settled the matter. No girl that ever lived should giggle at him, much less lock him up like a small child. Without a word, he made a grab at Polly’s arm, for the hand holding the key was still in her pocket. With her other hand she clutched her frock, and for a minute held on stoutly. But Tom’s strong fingers were irresistible; rip went the pocket, out came the hand, and with a cry of pain from Polly, the key fell on the floor.

      “It’s your own fault if you’re hurt. I didn’t mean to,” muttered Tom, as he hastily departed, leaving Polly to groan over her sprained wrist. He went down, but not into the parlor, for somehow the joke seemed to have lost its relish; so he made the girls in the kitchen laugh, and then crept up the back way, hoping to make it all right with Polly. But she had gone to grandma’s room, for, though the old lady was out, it seemed a refuge. He had just time to get things in order, when Fanny came up, crosser than ever; for Trix had been telling her of all sorts of fun in which she might have had a share, if Polly had held her tongue.

      “Where is she?” asked Fan, wishing to vent her vexation on her friend.

      “Moping in her room, I suppose,” replied Tom, who was discovered reading studiously.

      Now, while this had been happening, Maud had been getting into hot water also; for when her maid left her, to see a friend below, Miss Maud paraded into Polly’s room, and solaced herself with mischief. In an evil hour Polly had let her play boat in her big trunk, which stood empty. Since then Polly had stored some of her most private treasures in the upper tray, so that she might feel sure they were safe from all eyes. She had forgotten to lock the trunk, and when Maud raised the lid to begin her voyage, several objects of interest met her eyes. She was deep in her researches when Fan came in and looked over her shoulder, feeling too cross with Polly to chide Maud.

      As Polly had no money for presents, she had exerted her ingenuity to devise all sorts of gifts, hoping by quantity to atone for any shortcomings in quality. Some of her attempts were successful, others were failures; but she kept them all, fine or funny, knowing the children at home would enjoy anything new. Some of Maud’s cast-off toys had been neatly mended for Kitty; some of Fan’s old ribbons and laces were converted into dolls’ finery; and Tom’s little figures, whittled out of wood in idle minutes, were laid away to show Will what could be done with a knife.

      “What rubbish!” said Fanny.

      “Queer girl, isn’t she?” added Tom, who had followed to see what was going on.

      “Don’t you laugh at Polly’s things. She makes nicer dolls than you, Fan; and she can wite and dwar ever so much better than Tom,” cried Maud.

      “How do you know? I never saw her draw,” said Tom.

      “Here’s a book with lots of pictures in it. I can’t wead the witing; but the pictures are so funny.”

      Eager to display her friend’s accomplishments, Maud pulled out a fat little book, marked “Polly’s Journal,” and spread it in her lap.

      “Only the pictures; no harm in taking a look at ’em,” said Tom.

      “Just one peep,” answered Fanny; and the next minute both were laughing at a droll sketch of Tom in the gutter, with the big dog howling over him, and the velocipede running away. Very rough and faulty, but so funny, that it was evident Polly’s sense of humor was strong. A few pages farther back came Fanny and Mr. Frank, caricatured; then grandma, carefully done; Tom reciting his battle-piece; Mr. Shaw and Polly in the park; Maud being borne away by Katy; and all the schoolgirls turned into ridicule with an unsparing hand.

      “Sly little puss, to make fun of us behind our backs,” said Fan, rather nettled by Polly’s quiet retaliation for many slights from herself and friends.

      “She does draw well,” said Tom, looking critically at the sketch of a boy with a pleasant face, round whom Polly had drawn rays like the sun, and under which was written, “My dear Jimmy.”

      “You wouldn’t admire her, if you knew what she wrote here about you,” said Fanny, whose eyes had strayed to the written page opposite, and lingered there long enough to read something that excited her curiosity.

      “What is it?” asked Tom, forgetting his honorable resolves for a minute.

      “She says, ‘I try to like Tom, and when he is pleasant we do very well; but he don’t stay so long. He gets cross and rough, and disrespectful to his father and mother, and plagues us girls, and is so horrid I almost hate him. It’s very wrong, but I can’t help it.’ How do you like that?” asked Fanny.

      “Go ahead, and see how she comes down on you, ma’am,” retorted Tom, who had read on a bit.

      “Does she?” And Fanny continued, rapidly: “As for Fan, I don’t think we can be friends any more; for she told her father a lie, and won’t forgive me for not doing so too. I used to think her a very fine girl; but I don’t now. If she would be as she was when I first knew her, I should love her just the same; but she isn’t kind to me; and though she is always talking about politeness, I don’t think it is polite to treat company as she does me. She thinks I am odd and countrified, and I dare say I am; but I shouldn’t laugh at a girl’s clothes because she was poor, or keep her out of the way because she didn’t do just as other girls do here. I see her make fun of me, and I can’t feel as I did; and I’d go home, only it would seem ungrateful to Mr. Shaw and grandma, and I do love them dearly.”

      “I say, Fan, you’ve got it now. Shut the book and come away,” cried Tom, enjoying this broadside immensely, but feeling guilty, as well he might.

      “Just one bit more,” whispered Fanny, turning on a page or two, and stopping at a leaf that was blurred here and there, as if tears had dropped on it.

      “Sunday morning, early. Nobody is up to spoil my quiet time, and I must write my journal, for I’ve been so bad lately, I couldn’t bear to do it. I’m glad my visit is most done, for things worry me here, and there isn’t anyone to help me get right when I get wrong. I used to envy Fanny; but I don’t now, for her father and mother don’t take care of her as mine do of me. She is afraid of her father, and makes her mother do as she likes. I’m glad I came though, for I see money don’t give people everything; but I’d like a little all the same, for it is so comfortable to buy nice things. I read over my journal just now, and I’m afraid it’s not a good one; for I have said all sorts of things about the people here, and it isn’t kind. I should tear it out, only I promised to keep my diary, and I want to talk over things that puzzle me with mother. I see now that it is my fault a good deal; for I haven’t been half as patient and pleasant as I ought to be. I will truly try for the rest of the time, and be as good and grateful as I can; for I want them to like me, though I’m only ‘an old-fashioned country girl.’”

      That last sentence made Fanny shut the book, with a face full of self-reproach; for she had said those words herself, in a fit of petulance, and Polly had made no answer, though her eyes filled and her cheeks burned. Fan opened her lips to say something; but not a sound followed, for there stood Polly looking at them with an expression they had never seen before.

      “What are you doing with my things?” she demanded, in a low tone, while her eyes kindled and her color changed.

      “Maud showed us a book she found, and we were just looking at the pictures,” began Fanny, dropping it as if it burnt her fingers.

      “And reading my journal, and laughing at my presents, and then putting the blame on Maud. It’s the meanest thing I ever saw; and I’ll never forgive you as long as I live!”

      Polly said this all in one indignant breath, and then as if afraid of saying too much, ran out of the room with such a look of mingled contempt, grief, and anger, that the three culprits stood dumb with shame. Tom hadn’t even a whistle at his command; Maud was so scared at gentle Polly’s outbreak, that she sat as still as a mouse; while Fanny, conscience-stricken, laid back the poor little presents with a respectful hand, for somehow the thought of Polly’s poverty came over her as it