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

there’s⁠—there’s everything,” murmured Pollyanna, still with that dazed unbelief. “There⁠—there’s this beautiful house.”

“It’s just a place to eat and sleep⁠—and I don’t want to eat and sleep.”

“But there are all these perfectly lovely things,” faltered Pollyanna.

“I’m tired of them.”

“And your automobile that will take you anywhere.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere.”

Pollyanna quite gasped aloud.

“But think of the people and things you could see, Mrs. Carew.”

“They would not interest me, Pollyanna.”

Once again Pollyanna stared in amazement. The troubled frown on her face deepened.

“But, Mrs. Carew, I don’t see,” she urged. “Always, before, there have been bad things for folks to play the game on, and the badder they are the more fun ’tis to get them out⁠—find the things to be glad for, I mean. But where there aren’t any bad things, I shouldn’t know how to play the game myself.”

There was no answer for a time. Mrs. Carew sat with her eyes out the window. Gradually the angry rebellion on her face changed to a look of hopeless sadness. Very slowly then she turned and said:

“Pollyanna, I had thought I wouldn’t tell you this; but I’ve decided that I will. I’m going to tell you why nothing that I have can make me⁠—glad.” And she began the story of Jamie, the little four-year-old boy who, eight long years before, had stepped as into another world, leaving the door fast shut between.

“And you’ve never seen him since⁠—anywhere?” faltered Pollyanna, with tear-wet eyes, when the story was done.

“Never.”

“But we’ll find him, Mrs. Carew⁠—I’m sure we’ll find him.”

Mrs. Carew shook her head sadly.

“But I can’t. I’ve looked everywhere, even in foreign lands.”

“But he must be somewhere.”

“He may be⁠—dead, Pollyanna.”

Pollyanna gave a quick cry.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Carew. Please don’t say that! Let’s imagine he’s alive. We can do that, and that’ll help; and when we get him imagined alive we can just as well imagine we’re going to find him. And that’ll help a whole lot more.”

“But I’m afraid he’s⁠—dead, Pollyanna,” choked Mrs. Carew.

“You don’t know it for sure, do you?” besought the little girl, anxiously.

“N-no.”

“Well, then, you’re just imagining it,” maintained Pollyanna, in triumph. “And if you can imagine him dead, you can just as well imagine him alive, and it’ll be a whole lot nicer while you’re doing it. Don’t you see? And some day, I’m just sure you’ll find him. Why, Mrs. Carew, you can play the game now! You can play it on Jamie. You can be glad every day, for every day brings you just one day nearer to the time when you’re going to find him. See?”

But Mrs. Carew did not “see.” She rose drearily to her feet and said:

“No, no, child! You don’t understand⁠—you don’t understand. Now run away, please, and read, or do anything you like. My head aches. I’m going to lie down.”

And Pollyanna, with a troubled, sober face, slowly left the room.

V Pollyanna Takes a Walk

It was on the second Saturday afternoon that Pollyanna took her memorable walk. Heretofore Pollyanna had not walked out alone, except to go to and from school. That she would ever attempt to explore Boston streets by herself, never occurred to Mrs. Carew, hence she naturally had never forbidden it. In Beldingsville, however, Pollyanna had found⁠—especially at the first⁠—her chief diversion in strolling about the rambling old village streets in search of new friends and new adventures.

On this particular Saturday afternoon Mrs. Carew had said, as she often did say: “There, there, child, run away; please do. Go where you like and do what you like, only don’t, please, ask me any more questions today!”

Until now, left to herself, Pollyanna had always found plenty to interest her within the four walls of the house; for, if inanimate things failed, there were yet Mary, Jennie, Bridget, and Perkins. Today, however, Mary had a headache, Jennie was trimming a new hat, Bridget was making apple pies, and Perkins was nowhere to be found. Moreover it was a particularly beautiful September day, and nothing within the house was so alluring as the bright sunlight and balmy air outside. So outside Pollyanna went and dropped herself down on the steps.

For some time she watched in silence the well-dressed men, women, and children, who walked briskly by the house, or else sauntered more leisurely through the parkway that extended up and down the middle of the Avenue. Then she got to her feet, skipped down the steps, and stood looking, first to the right, then to the left.

Pollyanna had decided that she, too, would take a walk. It was a beautiful day for a walk, and not once, yet, had she taken one at all⁠—not a real walk. Just going to and from school did not count. So she would take one today. Mrs. Carew would not mind. Had she not told her to do just what she pleased so long as she asked no more questions? And there was the whole long afternoon before her. Only think what a lot one might see in a whole long afternoon! And it really was such a beautiful day. She would go⁠—this way! And with a little whirl and skip of pure joy, Pollyanna turned and walked blithely down the Avenue.

Into the eyes of those she met Pollyanna smiled joyously. She was disappointed⁠—but not surprised⁠—that she received no answering smile in return. She was used to that now⁠—in Boston. She still smiled, however, hopefully: there might be someone, sometime, who would smile back.

Mrs. Carew’s home was very near the beginning of Commonwealth Avenue, so it was not long before Pollyanna found herself at the edge of a street crossing her way at right angles. Across the street, in all its autumn glory, lay what to Pollyanna was the most beautiful “yard” she had ever seen⁠—the Boston Public Garden.

For a moment Pollyanna hesitated, her eyes longingly fixed on the wealth of beauty before her. That it was the private grounds of some rich man or woman, she did not for a moment doubt. Once, with Dr. Ames at the Sanatorium, she had been taken to