Pollyanna Eleanor H. Porter (classic english novels txt) đ
- Author: Eleanor H. Porter
Book online «Pollyanna Eleanor H. Porter (classic english novels txt) đ». Author Eleanor H. Porter
She paused, and cleared her throat; but when she resumed her voice was still husky.
âMaybe you donât know it, but Iâve seen a good deal of that little girl of yours. We live on the Pendleton Hill road, and she used to go by oftenâ âonly she didnât always go by. She came in and played with the kids and talked to meâ âand my man, when he was home. She seemed to like it, and to like us. She didnât know, I suspect, that her kind of folks donât generally call on my kind. Maybe if they did call more, Miss Harrington, there wouldnât be so manyâ âof my kind,â she added, with sudden bitterness.
âBe that as it may, she came; and she didnât do herself no harm, and she did do us goodâ âa lot oâ good. How much she wonât knowâ ânor canât know, I hope; âcause if she did, sheâd know other thingsâ âthat I donât want her to know.
âBut itâs just this. Itâs been hard times with us this year, in more ways than one. Weâve been blue and discouragedâ âmy man and me, and ready forâ ââmost anything. We was reckoning on getting a divorce about now, and letting the kids well, we didnât know what we would do with the kids. Then came the accident, and what we heard about the little girlâs never walking again. And we got to thinking how she used to come and sit on our doorstep and train with the kids, and laugh, andâ âand just be glad. She was always being glad about something; and then, one day, she told us why, and about the game, you know; and tried to coax us to play it.
âWell, weâve heard now that sheâs fretting her poor little life out of her, because she canât play it no moreâ âthat thereâs nothing to be glad about. And thatâs what I came to tell her todayâ âthat maybe she can be a little glad for us, âcause weâve decided to stick to each other, and play the game ourselves. I knew she would be glad, because she used to feel kind of badâ âat things we said, sometimes. Just how the game is going to help us, I canât say that I exactly see, yet; but maybe âtwill. Anyhow, weâre going to tryâ ââcause she wanted us to. Will you tell her?â
âYes, I will tell her,â promised Miss Polly, a little faintly. Then, with sudden impulse, she stepped forward and held out her hand. âAnd thank you for coming, Mrs. Payson,â she said simply.
The defiant chin fell. The lips above it trembled visibly. With an incoherently mumbled something, Mrs. Payson blindly clutched at the outstretched hand, turned, and fled.
The door had scarcely closed behind her before Miss Polly was confronting Nancy in the kitchen.
âNancy!â
Miss Polly spoke sharply. The series of puzzling, disconcerting visits of the last few days, culminating as they had in the extraordinary experience of the afternoon, had strained her nerves to the snapping point. Not since Miss Pollyannaâs accident had Nancy heard her mistress speak so sternly.
âNancy, will you tell me what this absurd âgameâ is that the whole town seems to be babbling about? And what, please, has my niece to do with it? Why does everybody, from Milly Snow to Mrs. Tom Payson, send word to her that theyâre âplaying itâ? As near as I can judge, half the town are putting on blue ribbons, or stopping family quarrels, or learning to like something they never liked before, and all because of Pollyanna. I tried to ask the child herself about it, but I canât seem to make much headway, and of course I donât like to worry herâ ânow. But from something I heard her say to you last night, I should judge you were one of them, too. Now will you tell me what it all means?â
To Miss Pollyâs surprise and dismay, Nancy burst into tears.
âIt means that ever since last June that blessed child has jest been makinâ the whole town glad, anâ now theyâre turninâ âround anâ tryinâ ter make her a little glad, too.â
âGlad of what?â
âJust glad! Thatâs the game.â
Miss Polly actually stamped her foot.
âThere you go like all the rest, Nancy. What game?â
Nancy lifted her chin. She faced her mistress and looked her squarely in the eye.
âIâll tell ye, maâam. Itâs a game Miss Pollyannaâs father learned her ter play. She got a pair of crutches once in a missionary barrel when she was wantinâ a doll; anâ she cried, of course, like any child would. It seems âtwas then her father told her that there wasnât ever anythinâ but what there was somethinâ about it that you could be glad about; anâ that she could be glad about them crutches.â
âGlad forâ âcrutches!â Miss Polly choked back a sobâ âshe was thinking of the helpless little legs on the bed upstairs.
âYesâm. Thatâs what I said, anâ Miss Pollyanna said thatâs what she said, too. But he told her she could be gladâ ââcause she didnât need âem.â
âOh-h!â cried Miss Polly.
âAnd after that she said he made a regular game of itâ âfindinâ somethinâ in everythinâ ter be glad about. Anâ she said ye could do it, too, and that ye didnât seem ter mind not havinâ the doll so much, âcause ye was so glad ye didnât need the crutches. Anâ they called it the âjest beinâ gladâ game. Thatâs the game, maâam. Sheâs played it ever since.â
âBut, howâ âhowâ ââ Miss Polly came to a helpless pause.
âAnâ youâd be surprised ter find how cute it works, maâam, too,â maintained Nancy, with almost the eagerness of Pollyanna herself. âI wish I could tell ye what a lot sheâs done for mother anâ the folks out home. Sheâs been ter see âem, ye know, twice, with me. Sheâs made me glad, too, on such a lot oâ thingsâ âlittle things, anâ big things; anâ itâs made âem so much easier. For instance, I donât mind âNancyâ for a
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