Our Davie Pepper

“My sakes! David Pepper, you can’t get it in.”

“Perhaps I can, Mrs. Peters.”

“No, you can’t. There, give it to me. You’re all het up, runnin’ on arrants for Mr. Atkins. He shouldn’t ’a’ told you to hurry clear down here from th’ store.”

David sank down on the wooden box turned upside down outside the Peters kitchen door, and watched Mrs. Peters’s vigorous efforts to crowd a long woolen coat, very much frayed on the edge, one sleeve gone, and various other dilapidations that might be noticed, into a round, splint-bottomed basket. “Your ma c’n do th’ mendin’ better’n me,” she said, during the process, and dropping her voice as her eyes roved anxiously. “I put th’ pieces underneath. O my!” she whirled around suddenly, her back to the basket, and brought up a red face. “How you scar’t me, Tildy!” as the kitchen door was flung wide and a head thrust out.

“’Tain’t Pa--you needn’t be afraid.” Yet Tildy looked over her shoulder and grasped her apron tighter over something huddled up within its folds, as she skipped over the big flat stone. “You know as well as I do that he’s well off toward the south medder.”

“’Tain’t nothin’ to be certain sure of, if your pa is headed for th’ south medder, that he won’t see what we’re doin’ here,” said her mother hopelessly. “Well, what you got in your apron?”

Matilda knelt down by the basket on the grass, and flung her apron wide. “It’s some o’ my quince sass.”

“You ain’t goin’ to give that away!” cried Mrs. Peters in alarm, and resting both hands on her knees. “Gracious, your pa--”

“Let Pa alone, can’t you?” cried Matilda lifting the coat-edge to tuck in the big glass jar. “I guess he won’t rage an’ ramp no more at th’ sass, than your lettin’ Mis Pepper mend this coat.”

“Well, I d’no. Sass is sass, an’ your pa knows how many jars you put up--O dear me, Matilda!” She gazed helplessly off toward the south meadow.

Davie got off from the wooden box. “Oh don’t, Mrs. Peters,” he begged in great distress, “send the jelly to Mamsie.”

“’Tain’t jell--it’s sass,” said Matilda, pushing the jar in further, and flapping the coat till it bulged over the basket. “An’ I guess I ain’t goin’ to let your ma have all them measles to your house, an’ not do nothin’. There--” She jumped to her feet. “You got to carry it careful, Davie. It’s too bad there ain’t no handle.” She twitched the frayed cord that served as one, “I’ll get another string.”

“Come back here, Tilly,” cried her mother. “Ain’t you crazy! Your pa’ll be back. Let Davie go.”

Matilda turned away from the kitchen door. “Ain’t you silly, Ma!” yet she came back. “Well there, run along, Davie, an’ carry it careful.”

“An’ you tell your ma,” said Mrs. Peters, “we’re sorry she’s got all the measles to her house, an’ she c’n mend my coat better’n me, an’ she mustn’t tell no one it’s for Mis Peters, an’--”

“Land, Ma, th’ boy can’t remember all that,” said Matilda, giving David a little push.

“I guess I can--I’ll try to,” said David, grasping the old worn string with both hands.

“You go along,” said Matilda, with another push, “an’ if you see Pa comin’ along anywhere, you set th’ basket in behind th’ bushes till he gits by. Remember, David Pepper!”

“Yes,” said David. “I’ll remember.”

“Well, now come along, Ma Peters,” said Matilda; “he hain’t spilled th’ things yit, an’ he’s turned th’ road. We’ve got to git back to work.”

“’Twouldn’t be so bad ef you hadn’t put in that quince sass, Tildy,” mourned her mother, picking up her worn calico gown to step over a puddle of water from a broken drain-pipe. “But I’m awful skeered about that.”

“Oh, Ma, you make me sick.” Matilda gave her a little push into the kitchen, slipped in after her, and slammed the door; but her hand shook as she took up the broom. “I’m goin’ to work anyhow. You c’n set an’ worry about Pa, ef you want to. I’m glad for my part, that Mis Pepper’s goin’ to have that basket o’ things.”

“So be I,” cried Mrs. Peters. “Land sakes! I guess I’m as glad as you be, Tildy Peters. An’ I s’pose Davie’s gittin’ along towards home pretty fast by this time.”

Matilda shook her head and pursed up her lips as she went out to sweep the back entry. “All the same, I wish Davie Pepper was safe home to the little brown house,” she said to herself.

The old cord cut into Davie’s fingers as he trudged along the winding road, the basket wobbling about from side to side; but every step was bringing him home to Mamsie, and he smiled as he went along.

“Hey there!” a sudden turn of the road brought him squarely before a tall gaunt old man leaning against the stone wall on the other side of a scrub oak.

“Where you ben?” demanded Old Man Peters.

“Just--just--” began David.

“Jest where? Stop your hemmin’ an’ hawin’. Where you ben?”

Davie clutched the basket with trembling fingers and a wild despair that it was now too late to consider bushes.

“You ben down to my house, I know.” Old Man Peters’s little eyes gleamed fiercely. “Well, what you got in that basket?” pointing to it.

“It’s--it’s--”

“It’s--it’s-- Didn’t I tell you to stop hemmin’ an’ hawin’, you Pepper Boy! I’ll give you somethin’ to hem an’ haw for pretty soon, ef you don’t look out.” He broke off a stick from the scrub oak.

Davie clutched the old string tighter yet.

“Let’s see,” said Old Man Peters, drawing close to poke up a corner of the coat with the stick.

“You mustn’t,” said Davie, drawing back, and putting one hand over the top of the basket.

“Mustn’t,” roared Old Man Peters, shaking the stick at him.

“No,” said Davie. “You mustn’t,” and he tried to edge off farther; but the stick came down across his little calico blouse.

“I’ll give you somethin’ to make you see that you can’t say ‘mustn’t’ to me,” said Mr. Peters, bringing the stick down again. “There, you take that!”

Davie was whirling around now so fast that Old Man Peters preferred to try the stick on the little legs instead of the small shoulders in the calico blouse, while he roared, “I’ll make you dance. Drop that basket, will you!”