Baby Pitcher's Trials Part 15

"How is Deacon Brown?"

"He is pretty well, I thank you. My name is Flora Lee."

"And how are all the Sunday children?"

"Oh! they are pretty well, I thank you too. And I am; and Dinah is. She is asleep."

"You have had your face washed since I saw you last. That is the reason I didn't know you. I never saw you with a clean face before."

"Hands, too," said Flora, holding out one plump hand. She was holding on with the other.

"How we are slicked up!" he exclaimed, "and it isn't Sunday, either!"

CHAPTER XI.

SHE SAYS GOOD-BY TO THE SOAP MAN.

The readers of the Little Pitcher stories will recognize this young man.

Flora met him one day in a crowd around a peddler's wagon, drawn thither by a poor blind kitten that had been brought to light from the depths of the peddler's rag-bag. She had not forgotten him, but he never would have thought of her again, if she had not addressed him by the odd name he had given her as his own. That refreshed his memory, and he laughed to think that she really believed him when he told her his name was Hodge Podge.

As the little cart was jerked along over the rough ground, Flora became very chatty. She did not in the least mind being jolted, and she was not afraid of falling from the seat for she held fast to the driver's greasy frock. The blue box behind her was full of soap grease, but the cover was down, and the baskets that hung upon the iron hooks that bristled from all sides, were filled with bottles and sc.r.a.ps of various kinds, that made a pleasant jingle as they were jostled against each other by the motion of the cart. She had never enjoyed a ride so much. Her father's easy carriage, with cushioned seat and elastic springs, could not be compared to the soap man's little box on red wheels. Besides, papa's horse could not dance, he had never learned how; and he ran so fast that she could not see the flowers and the pretty sights as they rode along. She was not at all concerned as to how the ride would end, and where she was going she had not the slightest idea. So the old horse jogged along, carrying her farther and farther from home every minute, and she chatted sociably with Mr. Podge, and never felt so happy in her life.

The soap man was going home. He felt good-natured and comfortable, for he had had a prosperous day. It was only four o'clock, but his little cart was well loaded, and his last call had been made. And that was the reason he did not stop at any of the houses in the village. If he had, somebody would have recognized Flora. And they pa.s.sed a very few persons on the road, but not one who knew that the little girl in the blue dress did not belong to the man in the blue frock. When he thought Flora had rode far enough, he stopped the cart and told her to "hop down." But she was not ready to hop down; she was just beginning to enjoy the ride.

"You won't know the way back," he said, warningly.

"I shall," said Flora.

"And if you ride any farther, I may not let you go home at all. You don't know where you are now."

"I do. Going to take a ride."

"It will be dark by-and-by."

"Not dark now."

"And it is going to rain."

"Make the horse jump."

The old horse started off once more, and this time a little faster. He seemed to know that he was heading towards home. The driver was really troubled about Flora, for he knew the little girl had rode far enough.

He was willing to indulge her by carrying her a little way but he wanted her to get down when he said the word. He tried to frighten her by saying he should not stop the horse again.

"Don't want to stop," she answered, taking the musk from her pocket and holding it to his nose. "Smell?"

He started back and made a wry face.

"What is that?" he asked.

"My 'fumery."

"Your fumery."

"It is. Bertie caught it in a trap."

"_That's_ what I have been smelling all along."

"Yes," said Flora.

"I thought there was a musquash somewhere near."

"It is only me."

She took a prolonged sniff, and restored the precious perfume to her pocket.

"Mamma don't like it, and Grandma don't. I do. And Dinah does. And you do."

"Not much, I don't."

"Smells good?"

"Good and strong, yes. Now little musquash, farewell."

"No," said Flora.

"Look here, miss. Won't you catch it for running away?"

"Why, Mr. Podge! What a funny man! Ain't running away. Taking a ride.

Runned away once. To Deacon Brown. Had dinner and a nap."

"Didn't you tell me you was one of the Sunday children?"

"I did."

"Don't believe it."

Flora's eyes flashed. Not believe that she was one of the Sunday children!

"I don't," he repeated solemnly. "They know how to behave. Sunday children don't run away, they don't, and good girls mind their mother."

"I do."

"A tough one to mind you are."

"Do, too, Mr. Podge. Want to go home now."