Pollyanna Eleanor H. Porter (classic english novels txt) đ
- Author: Eleanor H. Porter
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Once again the woman pulled herself erect in her bed.
âWell, if you ainât the amazing young one!â she cried. âHere! do you go to that window and pull up the curtain,â she directed. âI should like to know what you look like!â
Pollyanna rose to her feet, but she laughed a little ruefully.
âO dear! then youâll see my freckles, wonât you?â she sighed, as she went to the window; ââ âand just when I was being so glad it was dark and you couldnât see âem. There! Now you canâ âoh!â she broke off excitedly, as she turned back to the bed; âIâm so glad you wanted to see me, because now I can see you! They didnât tell me you were so pretty!â
âMe!â âpretty!â scoffed the woman, bitterly.
âWhy, yes. Didnât you know it?â cried Pollyanna.
âWell, no, I didnât,â retorted Mrs. Snow, dryly. Mrs. Snow had lived forty years, and for fifteen of those years she had been too busy wishing things were different to find much time to enjoy things as they were.
âOh, but your eyes are so big and dark, and your hairâs all dark, too, and curly,â cooed Pollyanna. âI love black curls. (Thatâs one of the things Iâm going to have when I get to Heaven.) And youâve got two little red spots in your cheeks. Why, Mrs. Snow, you are pretty! I should think youâd know it when you looked at yourself in the glass.â
âThe glass!â snapped the sick woman, falling back on her pillow. âYes, well, I hainât done much prinkinâ before the mirror these daysâ âand you wouldnât, if you was flat on your back as I am!â
âWhy, no, of course not,â agreed Pollyanna, sympathetically. âBut waitâ âjust let me show you,â she exclaimed, skipping over to the bureau and picking up a small hand-glass.
On the way back to the bed she stopped, eyeing the sick woman with a critical gaze.
âI reckon maybe, if you donât mind, Iâd like to fix your hair just a little before I let you see it,â she proposed. âMay I fix your hair, please?â
âWhy, Iâ âsuppose so, if you want to,â permitted Mrs. Snow, grudgingly; âbut âtwonât stay, you know.â
âOh, thank you. I love to fix peopleâs hair,â exulted Pollyanna, carefully laying down the hand-glass and reaching for a comb. âI shanât do much today, of courseâ âIâm in such a hurry for you to see how pretty you are; but some day Iâm going to take it all down and have a perfectly lovely time with it,â she cried, touching with soft fingers the waving hair above the sick womanâs forehead.
For five minutes Pollyanna worked swiftly, deftly, combing a refractory curl into fluffiness, perking up a drooping ruffle at the neck, or shaking a pillow into plumpness so that the head might have a better pose. Meanwhile the sick woman, frowning prodigiously, and openly scoffing at the whole procedure, was, in spite of herself, beginning to tingle with a feeling perilously near to excitement.
âThere!â panted Pollyanna, hastily plucking a pink from a vase near by and tucking it into the dark hair where it would give the best effect. âNow I reckon weâre ready to be looked at!â And she held out the mirror in triumph.
âHumph!â grunted the sick woman, eyeing her reflection severely. âI like red pinks better than pink ones; but then, itâll fade, anyhow, before night, so whatâs the difference!â
âBut I should think youâd be glad they did fade,â laughed Pollyanna, âââcause then you can have the fun of getting some more. I just love your hair fluffed out like that,â she finished with a satisfied gaze. âDonât you?â
âHm-m; maybe. Stillâ ââtwonât last, with me tossing back and forth on the pillow as I do.â
âOf course notâ âand Iâm glad, too,â nodded Pollyanna, cheerfully, âbecause then I can fix it again. Anyhow, I should think youâd be glad itâs blackâ âblack shows up so much nicer on a pillow than yellow hair like mine does.â
âMaybe; but I never did set much store by black hairâ âshows gray too soon,â retorted Mrs. Snow. She spoke fretfully, but she still held the mirror before her face.
âOh, I love black hair! I should be so glad if I only had it,â sighed Pollyanna.
Mrs. Snow dropped the mirror and turned irritably.
âWell, you wouldnât!â ânot if you were me. You wouldnât be glad for black hair nor anything elseâ âif you had to lie here all day as I do!â
Pollyanna bent her brows in a thoughtful frown.
âWhy, âtwould be kind of hardâ âto do it then, wouldnât it?â she mused aloud.
âDo what?â
âBe glad about things.â
âBe glad about thingsâ âwhen youâre sick in bed all your days? Well, I should say it would,â retorted Mrs. Snow. âIf you donât think so, just tell me something to be glad about; thatâs all!â
To Mrs. Snowâs unbounded amazement, Pollyanna sprang to her feet and clapped her hands.
âOh, goody! Thatâll be a hard oneâ âwonât it? Iâve got to go, now, but Iâll think and think all the way home; and maybe the next time I come I can tell it to you. Goodbye. Iâve had a lovely time! Goodbye,â she called again, as she tripped through the doorway.
âWell, I never! Now, what does she mean by that?â ejaculated Mrs. Snow, staring after her visitor. By and by she turned her head and picked up the mirror, eyeing her reflection critically.
âThat little thing has got a knack with hair and no mistake,â she muttered under her breath. âI declare, I didnât know it could look so pretty. But then, whatâs the use?â she sighed, dropping the little glass into the bedclothes, and rolling her head on the pillow fretfully.
A little later, when Milly, Mrs. Snowâs daughter, came in, the mirror still lay among the bedclothesâ âthough it had been carefully hidden from sight.
âWhy, motherâ âthe curtain is up!â cried Milly, dividing her amazed stare between the window and the pink in her motherâs hair.
âWell, what if it is?â snapped the sick woman. âI neednât stay in the dark all my life, if I am sick, need I?â
âWhy, n-no, of course not,â rejoined Milly,
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