Pollyanna Grows Up, Eleanor H. Porter [best short novels of all time txt] 📗

that child would go crazy. She put on to me every ring, brooch, bracelet, and necklace that I owned, and insisted on fastening both diamond tiaras in my hair (when she found out what they were), until there I sat, hung with pearls and diamonds and emeralds, and feeling like a heathen goddess in a Hindu temple, especially when that preposterous child began to dance round and round me, clapping her hands and chanting, ‘Oh, how perfectly lovely, how perfectly lovely! How I would love to hang you on a string in the window⁠—you’d make such a beautiful prism!’

“I was just going to ask her what on earth she meant by that when down she dropped in the middle of the floor and began to cry. And what do you suppose she was crying for? Because she was so glad she’d got eyes that could see! Now what do you think of that?

“Of course this isn’t all. It’s only the beginning. Pollyanna has been here four days, and she’s filled every one of them full. She already numbers among her friends the ash-man, the policeman on the beat, and the paper boy, to say nothing of every servant in my employ. They seem actually bewitched with her, every one of them. But please do not think I am, for I’m not. I would send the child back to you at once if I didn’t feel obliged to fulfil my promise to keep her this winter. As for her making me forget Jamie and my great sorrow⁠—that is impossible. She only makes me feel my loss all the more keenly⁠—because I have her instead of him. But, as I said, I shall keep her⁠—until she begins to preach. Then back she goes to you. But she hasn’t preached yet.

“Lovingly but distractedly yours,

“Ruth.”

“ ‘Hasn’t preached yet,’ indeed!” chuckled Della Wetherby to herself, folding up the closely-written sheets of her sister’s letter. “Oh, Ruth, Ruth! and yet you admit that you’ve opened every room, raised every shade, decked yourself in satin and jewels⁠—and Pollyanna hasn’t been there a week yet. But she hasn’t preached⁠—oh, no, she hasn’t preached!”

IV The Game and Mrs. Carew

Boston, to Pollyanna, was a new experience, and certainly Pollyanna, to Boston⁠—such part of it as was privileged to know her⁠—was very much of a new experience.

Pollyanna said she liked Boston, but that she did wish it was not quite so big.

“You see,” she explained earnestly to Mrs. Carew, the day following her arrival, “I want to see and know it all, and I can’t. It’s just like Aunt Polly’s company dinners; there’s so much to eat⁠—I mean, to see⁠—that you don’t eat⁠—I mean, see⁠—anything, because you’re always trying to decide what to eat⁠—I mean, to see.

“Of course you can be glad there is such a lot,” resumed Pollyanna, after taking breath, “ ’cause a whole lot of anything is nice⁠—that is, good things; not such things as medicine and funerals, of course!⁠—but at the same time I couldn’t used to help wishing Aunt Polly’s company dinners could be spread out a little over the days when there wasn’t any cake and pie; and I feel the same way about Boston. I wish I could take part of it home with me up to Beldingsville so I’d have something new next summer. But of course I can’t. Cities aren’t like frosted cake⁠—and, anyhow, even the cake didn’t keep very well. I tried it, and it dried up, ’specially the frosting. I reckon the time to take frosting and good times is while they are going; so I want to see all I can now while I’m here.”

Pollyanna, unlike the people who think that to see the world one must begin at the most distant point, began her “seeing Boston” by a thorough exploration of her immediate surroundings⁠—the beautiful Commonwealth Avenue residence which was now her home. This, with her school work, fully occupied her time and attention for some days.

There was so much to see, and so much to learn; and everything was so marvelous and so beautiful, from the tiny buttons in the wall that flooded the rooms with light, to the great silent ballroom hung with mirrors and pictures. There were so many delightful people to know, too, for besides Mrs. Carew herself there were Mary, who dusted the drawing-rooms, answered the bell, and accompanied Pollyanna to and from school each day; Bridget, who lived in the kitchen and cooked; Jennie, who waited at table, and Perkins who drove the automobile. And they were all so delightful⁠—yet so different!

Pollyanna had arrived on a Monday, so it was almost a week before the first Sunday. She came downstairs that morning with a beaming countenance.

“I love Sundays,” she sighed happily.

“Do you?” Mrs. Carew’s voice had the weariness of one who loves no day.

“Yes, on account of church, you know, and Sunday school. Which do you like best, church, or Sunday school?”

“Well, really, I⁠—” began Mrs. Carew, who seldom went to church and never went to Sunday school.

“ ’Tis hard to tell, isn’t it?” interposed Pollyanna, with luminous but serious eyes. “But you see I like church best, on account of father. You know he was a minister, and of course he’s really up in Heaven with mother and the rest of us, but I try to imagine him down here, lots of times; and it’s easiest in church, when the minister is talking. I shut my eyes and imagine it’s father up there; and it helps lots. I’m so glad we can imagine things, aren’t you?”

“I’m not so sure of that, Pollyanna.”

“Oh, but just think how much nicer our imagined things are than our really truly ones⁠—that is, of course, yours aren’t, because your real ones are so nice.” Mrs. Carew angrily started to speak, but Pollyanna was hurrying on. “And of course my real ones are ever so much nicer than they used to be. But all that time I was hurt, when my legs didn’t go, I just