Chicken Little Jane on the Big John

Lily Munsell Ritchie

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• Publié par: anki
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 41
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

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The Project Gutenberg eBook, Chicken Little Jane on the Big John, by Lily Munsell Ritchie This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Chicken Little Jane on the Big John Author: Lily Munsell Ritchie Release Date: December 8, 2009 [eBook #30629] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHICKEN LITTLE JANE ON THE BIG JOHN*** E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) CHICKEN LITTLE JANE ON THE BIG JOHN Came half way across and held out his hand. Chicken Little Jane By LILY MUNSELL RITCHIE NEW YORK BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC. Made in U. S. A. All rights reserved. I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX With Huz and Baby Jill in the Pasture Harking Back To Centerville Chicken Little Pays a Visit A Cherry Penance The Guests Arrive A Hunting Party Pigs A Party and a Picnic Bread and Polliwogs Supper at the Captain’s Calico and Company Dick and Alice Go On Alone Chicken Little and Ernest Off to Annapolis School The Prairie Fire The Lost Oyster Supper An April Fool Frolic Sherm Hears Bad News The Captain Finds His Own 11 27 43 62 81 100 123 141 161 179 195 215 238 255 273 295 315 338 355 373 11 “Chicken Little–Chicken Little!” Mrs. Morton’s face was flushed with the heat. She was frying doughnuts over a hot stove and had been calling Chicken Little at intervals for the past ten minutes. Providence did not seem to have designed Mrs. Morton for frying doughnuts. She was very sensitive to heat and had little taste for cooking. She had laid aside her silks and laces on coming to the ranch, but the poise and dignity that come from years of gentle living were still hers. Her formal manner always seemed a trifle out of place in the old farm kitchen. On this particular morning she was both annoyed and indignant. “She is the most provoking child!” she exclaimed in exasperation as Dr. Morton stepped into the kitchen. “Provoking–who?–Chicken Little? What’s the matter now?” “That child is a perfect fly-away. I can no more lay my hands on her when I need her than I could on a flea. She is off to the pasture, or out watching the men plow, or trotting away, no one knows where, with the two pups. And the worst of it is you encourage her in it, Father. You forget she is thirteen years old–almost a woman in size! She is too old to be such a tomboy. She should be spending her time on her music and sewing, or learning to cook–now that school’s out for the summer.” Dr. Morton laughed. “Oh, let up on the music for a year or two, Mother. Chicken Little’s developing finely. She’s a first rate little cook already. You couldn’t have prepared a better breakfast yourself than she gave us that morning you were sick. You don’t realize how much she does help you, and as to running about the farm, that will be the making of her. She is growing tall and strong and rosy. You don’t want to make her into an old woman.” “It is all very well to talk, Father, but I intend to have my only daughter an accomplished lady, and I think you ought to help me. She is too old to be wasting her time this way. But have you any idea where she is? I want to send her over to Benton’s after eggs. I have used all mine up for settings, and I can’t make the custard pies you are so fond of, till I get some.” Dr. Morton laughed again. “Yes, I have an exact idea where she is. Set your kettle back on the stove a moment and come and see.” Mrs. Morton followed him, leaving her doughnuts rather reluctantly. Ranch life had proved full of hardships to her. The hardships had been intensified because it was almost impossible to secure competent servants, or, indeed, servants of any kind. The farmer’s daughters were proud–too proud to work in a neighbor’s kitchen even if they went shabby or, as often happened among the poorer ones, barefoot, for lack of the money they might easily have earned. Mrs. Morton was not a strong woman and the unaccustomed drudgery was telling on her health and spirits. Dr. Morton, on the other hand, enjoyed the open-air life and the freedom from conventional dress and other hampering niceties. Mrs. Morton followed her husband through the long dining room and little hall to the square parlor beyond. He stopped in the doorway and motioned her to come quietly. Jane sat curled up in a big chair with two fat, limp collie pups fast asleep in her lap. She was so lost in a book that she scarcely seemed to breathe in the minute or two they stood and watched her. “Well, I declare, why didn’t she answer me when I called?” “Chicken Little,” Dr. Morton called softly. Chicken Little read placidly on. “Chicken Little,”–a little louder. Still no response. “Chicken Little,” her father raised his voice. Chicken Little never batted an eyelash. One of the dogs looked up with an inquiring expression, but apparently satisfying himself that he was not to be disturbed, dozed off again. “Chicken Little–Chick-en Lit-tle!” “Ye-es,” the girl came to life enough to reply absently. Dr. Morton turned to his wife with a triumphant grin. “Now, do you see why she didn’t answer? She is several thousand miles and some hundreds of years away, and she can’t get back in a hurry–blest be the concentration of childhood!” “What is it she’s reading?” “Kennilworth. Amy Robsart is probably waiting for Leicester at this identical moment. Why return to prosaic errands and eggs when you can revel in a world of romance so easily?” “Father, you will ruin that child with your indulgence!” Mrs. Morton walked deliberately across the room and removed the book from her daughter’s hands. Jane came to herself with a start. “Why, Mother!” “How many times have I told you, little daughter, that there is to be no novel-reading until your work and your practising are both done? Here I have been calling you for several minutes and you don’t heed any 12 13 14 15 more than if you were miles away. I shall put this book away till evening. Come, I want you to go over to Benton’s and get me four dozen eggs.” Jane got up inwardly protesting, and in so doing, tumbled the two surprised and grumbling pups upon the floor. She didn’t mind doing the errand. She was unusually willing to be helpful though often very heedless about noticing that help was needed. “Can I go by the pasture, Father? It’s a lot shorter than round by the road.” “Yes, I think it’s perfectly safe. There are only about thirty head of steers there now, and they won’t pay any attention to you. Well, I must be off. Do you want anything from town, Mother?” “Yes, I have a list.” “Get it ready, will you, while I go across and see what Marian’s commissions are.” “Across” meant across the road to the white cottage where Frank and Marian and their beloved baby daughter, Jill, lived. Little Jill was two and a half years old and everybody’s pet, from Jim Bart, the hired man, to “Anjen,” which was Jilly’s rendering of Auntie Jane. Even Huz and Buz, the two collie pups, followed her about adoringly, licking her hands and face when opportunity offered, to her great indignation. “Do way, Huz, do way, Buz,” was frequently heard, followed by a wail if their attentions persisted. The family watched Dr. Morton drive away in the spring wagon down the long tree-bordered lane. When he was out of sight, Jane picked up the egg basket and started off toward the pasture gate. “Where are you going, Chicken Little?” Marian called after her. “To Benton’s for eggs.” “To Benton’s? Let me see, that’s less than a quarter of a mile, isn’t it? I wonder if you’d mind taking Jilly along. She could walk that far if you’d go slow, and it’s such a lovely day, I’d like to have her out in the sunshine–and I’m horribly busy this morning.” “Of course, I’ll take her. Come on, Jilly, you lump of sweetness, we’ll pick some pretty flowers. You aren’t in a great hurry for the eggs, are you, Mother?” “Oh, if you get back by eleven it will be all right. I have to finish the doughnuts and do several other things before I will be ready for the pies.” “That’s a whole hour–we can get back easy in an hour–can’t we, Jilly-Dilly?” Marian in spite of her busy morning watched them till they entered the pasture, the sturdy little baby figure pattering along importantly beside the tall slim girl. “How fast they’re both growing,” she thought. “Jane’s always so sweet with Jilly–I feel safe when she’s with her.” “O Jane,” she called a moment later, “I wouldn’t take the pups along if you are going through the pasture. The cattle don’t like small dogs.” Huz and Buz, after lazily watching the children walk off, had apparently decided to join them, and were bringing up the rear a few yards behind. They were fat, rollicking pups, too young and clumsy to be very firm on their legs as yet. Jane turned round and ordered the rascals home. Marian called them back also, and after deliberating a moment uncertainly, they obeyed. They were encouraged to make a choice by a small stick Chicken Little hurled at them. “Go on,” said Marian, “I’ll see that they don’t follow you.” She coaxed the dogs round to the back of the house and saw them greedily lapping a saucer of milk before she went back to her work. Buz settled down contentedly in the sunshine after the repast was over, but Huz, who was more adventurous, hadn’t forgotten that his beloved Jane and Jilly were starting off some place without him. He gave the saucer a parting lick around its outer edge to make sure he wasn’t missing anything, then watched the kitchen door for some fifty seconds with ears perked up, to see whether any further refreshments or commands might be expected from that quarter. Marian was singi