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

made very sure that she knew the way home⁠—that she knew just where Commonwealth Avenue came down to Arlington Street across from the Garden. And always she must go home when the clock in the church tower said it was half-past four.

Pollyanna went often to the Garden after this. Occasionally she went with some of the girls from school. More often she went alone. In spite of the somewhat irksome restrictions she enjoyed herself very much. She could watch the people even if she could not talk to them; and she could talk to the squirrels and pigeons and sparrows that so eagerly came for the nuts and grain which she soon learned to carry to them every time she went.

Pollyanna often looked for her old friends of that first day⁠—the man who was so glad he had his eyes and legs and arms, and the pretty young lady who would not go with the handsome man; but she never saw them. She did frequently see the boy in the wheel chair, and she wished she could talk to him. The boy fed the birds and squirrels, too, and they were so tame that the doves would perch on his head and shoulders, and the squirrels would burrow in his pockets for nuts. But Pollyanna, watching from a distance, always noticed one strange circumstance: in spite of the boy’s very evident delight in serving his banquet, his supply of food always ran short almost at once; and though he invariably looked fully as disappointed as did the squirrel after a nutless burrowing, yet he never remedied the matter by bringing more food the next day⁠—which seemed most shortsighted to Pollyanna.

When the boy was not playing with the birds and squirrels he was reading⁠—always reading. In his chair were usually two or three worn books, and sometimes a magazine or two. He was nearly always to be found in one especial place, and Pollyanna used to wonder how he got there. Then, one unforgettable day, she found out. It was a school holiday, and she had come to the Garden in the forenoon; and it was soon after she reached the place that she saw him being wheeled along one of the paths by a snub-nosed, sandy-haired boy. She gave a keen glance into the sandy-haired boy’s face, then ran toward him with a glad little cry.

“Oh, you⁠—you! I know you⁠—even if I don’t know your name. You found me! Don’t you remember? Oh, I’m so glad to see you! I’ve so wanted to say thank you!”

“Gee, if it ain’t the swell little lost kid of the Avenoo!” grinned the boy. “Well, what do you know about that! Lost again?”

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Pollyanna, dancing up and down on her toes in irrepressible joy. “I can’t get lost any more⁠—I have to stay right here. And I mustn’t talk, you know. But I can to you, for I know you; and I can to him⁠—after you introduce me,” she finished, with a beaming glance at the lame boy, and a hopeful pause.

The sandy-haired youth chuckled softly, and tapped the shoulder of the boy in the chair.

“Listen ter that, will ye? Ain’t that the real thing, now? Just you wait while I introdooce ye!” And he struck a pompous attitude. “Madam, this is me friend, Sir James, Lord of Murphy’s Alley, and⁠—” But the boy in the chair interrupted him.

“Jerry, quit your nonsense!” he cried vexedly. Then to Pollyanna he turned a glowing face. “I’ve seen you here lots of times before. I’ve watched you feed the birds and squirrels⁠—you always have such a lot for them! And I think you like Sir Lancelot the best, too. Of course, there’s the Lady Rowena⁠—but wasn’t she rude to Guinevere yesterday⁠—snatching her dinner right away from her like that?”

Pollyanna blinked and frowned, looking from one to the other of the boys in plain doubt. Jerry chuckled again. Then, with a final push he wheeled the chair into its usual position, and turned to go. Over his shoulder he called to Pollyanna:

“Say, kid, jest let me put ye wise ter somethin’. This chap ain’t drunk nor crazy. See? Them’s jest names he’s give his young friends here,”⁠—with a flourish of his arms toward the furred and feathered creatures that were gathering from all directions. “An’ they ain’t even names of folks. They’re just guys out of books. Are ye on? Yet he’d ruther feed them than feed hisself. Ain’t he the limit? Ta-ta, Sir James,” he added, with a grimace, to the boy in the chair. “Buck up, now⁠—nix on the no grub racket for you! See you later.” And he was gone.

Pollyanna was still blinking and frowning when the lame boy turned with a smile.

“You mustn’t mind Jerry. That’s just his way. He’d cut off his right hand for me⁠—Jerry would; but he loves to tease. Where’d you see him? Does he know you? He didn’t tell me your name.”

“I’m Pollyanna Whittier. I was lost and he found me and took me home,” answered Pollyanna, still a little dazedly.

“I see. Just like him,” nodded the boy. “Don’t he tote me up here every day?”

A quick sympathy came to Pollyanna’s eyes.

“Can’t you walk⁠—at all⁠—er⁠—Sir J-James?”

The boy laughed gleefully.

“ ‘Sir James,’ indeed! That’s only more of Jerry’s nonsense. I ain’t a ‘Sir.’ ”

Pollyanna looked clearly disappointed.

“You aren’t? Nor a⁠—a lord, like he said?”

“I sure ain’t.”

“Oh, I hoped you were⁠—like Little Lord Fauntleroy, you know,” rejoined Pollyanna. “And⁠—”

But the boy interrupted her with an eager:

“Do you know Little Lord Fauntleroy? And do you know about Sir Lancelot, and the Holy Grail, and King Arthur and his Round Table, and the Lady Rowena, and Ivanhoe, and all those? Do you?”

Pollyanna gave her head a dubious shake.

“Well, I’m afraid maybe I don’t know all of ’em,” she admitted. “Are they all⁠—in books?”

The boy nodded.

“I’ve got ’em here⁠—some of ’em,” he said. “I like to read ’em over and over. There’s always something new in ’em. Besides, I hain’t got no others, anyway.