Five Little Peppers and How They Grew

The little old kitchen had settled down after the midday bustle and confusion; and now, with its afternoon manners on, it looked like a holiday, which was only fitting for the main room of the little brown house. It was right on the edge of twilight, and the little Peppers, all except Ben, the oldest of the flock, were enjoying a “breathing spell,” as their mother called it, which meant some quiet work suited to the hour. It was all the “breathing spell” they got, poor things; times were always hard with them these days, and since the father died, when Phronsie was a baby, Mrs. Pepper had worked hard to scrape together enough money to put bread in her children's mouths and pay the rent of the little brown house.

But she had met life too bravely to be beaten down now. So with a stout heart and a cheery face, she worked away day after day at making coats, and tailoring and mending of all kinds; and she watched, with pride she couldn’t hide, her noisy, happy brood growing up around her, filling her heart with comfort, and making the little brown house ring with jollity and fun.

“Poor things!” she would say to herself, “they haven't had any bringing up; they've just scrambled up!” And then she would set her lips together tightly and fly at her work faster than ever. “I must get schooling for them somehow, but I don't see how!”

Once or twice she had thought, “Now the time is coming!” but it never did; winter shut in very cold, and it took so much more to feed and warm them that the money went faster than ever. And then, when the way seemed clear again, the store changed hands, and for a long time she failed to get her usual supply of sacks and coats to make; and that made sad havoc in the quarters and half-dollars laid up as her nest egg. But—“Well, it'll come some time,” she would say to herself; “because it must!” And then she’d fly at it again, brisker than ever.