Anthony Trollope - "The House of Heine Brothers, in Munich"

Charles James Fox - "A History of the Early Part of the Reign of James the Second"

Anton Chekhov - "Letters of Anton Chekhov"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Rise of the Dutch Republic, Introduction II."

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Pollyanna Grows Up

E >> Eleanor H. Porter >> Pollyanna Grows Up




"Oh, it's you--it IS you!" she exclaimed joyously to a girl who was
putting into the show case a tray of pink bows. "I'm so glad to see
you!"

The girl behind the counter lifted her head and stared at Pollyanna in
amazement. But almost immediately her dark, somber face lighted with a
smile of glad recognition.

"Well, well, if it isn't my little Public Garden kiddie!" she
ejaculated.

"Yes. I'm so glad you remembered," beamed Pollyanna. "But you never
came again. I looked for you lots of times."

"I couldn't. I had to work. That was our last half-holiday, and--Fifty
cents, madam," she broke off, in answer to a sweet-faced old lady's
question as to the price of a black-and-white bow on the counter.

"Fifty cents? Hm-m!" The old lady fingered the bow, hesitated, then
laid it down with a sigh. "Hm, yes; well, it's very pretty, I'm sure,
my dear," she said, as she passed on.

Immediately behind her came two bright-faced girls who, with much
giggling and bantering, picked out a jeweled creation of scarlet
velvet, and a fairy-like structure of tulle and pink buds. As the
girls turned chattering away Pollyanna drew an ecstatic sigh.

"Is this what you do all day? My, how glad you must be you chose
this!"

"GLAD!"

"Yes. It must be such fun--such lots of folks, you know, and all
different! And you can talk to 'em. You HAVE to talk to 'em--it's your
business. I should love that. I think I'll do this when I grow up. It
must be such fun to see what they all buy!"

"Fun! Glad!" bristled the girl behind the counter. "Well, child, I
guess if you knew half--That's a dollar, madam," she interrupted
herself hastily, in answer to a young woman's sharp question as to the
price of a flaring yellow bow of beaded velvet in the show case.

"Well, I should think 'twas time you told me," snapped the young
woman. "I had to ask you twice."

The girl behind the counter bit her lip.

"I didn't hear you, madam."

"I can't help that. It is your business TO hear. You are paid for it,
aren't you? How much is that black one?"

"Fifty cents."

"And that blue one?"

"One dollar."

"No impudence, miss! You needn't be so short about it, or I shall
report you. Let me see that tray of pink ones."

The salesgirl's lips opened, then closed in a thin, straight line.
Obediently she reached into the show case and took out the tray of
pink bows; but her eyes flashed, and her hands shook visibly as she
set the tray down on the counter. The young woman whom she was serving
picked up five bows, asked the price of four of them, then turned away
with a brief:

"I see nothing I care for."

"Well," said the girl behind the counter, in a shaking voice, to the
wide-eyed Pollyanna, "what do you think of my business now? Anything
to be glad about there?"

Pollyanna giggled a little hysterically.

"My, wasn't she cross? But she was kind of funny, too--don't you
think? Anyhow, you can be glad that--that they aren't ALL like HER,
can't you?"

"I suppose so," said the girl, with a faint smile, "But I can tell you
right now, kiddie, that glad game of yours you was tellin' me about
that day in the Garden may be all very well for you; but--" Once more
she stopped with a tired: "Fifty cents, madam," in answer to a
question from the other side of the counter.

"Are you as lonesome as ever?" asked Pollyanna wistfully, when the
salesgirl was at liberty again.

"Well, I can't say I've given more'n five parties, nor been to more'n
seven, since I saw you," replied the girl so bitterly that Pollyanna
detected the sarcasm.

"Oh, but you did something nice Christmas, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes. I stayed in bed all day with my feet done up in rags and
read four newspapers and one magazine. Then at night I hobbled out to
a restaurant where I had to blow in thirty-five cents for chicken pie
instead of a quarter."

"But what ailed your feet?"

"Blistered. Standin' on 'em--Christmas rush."

"Oh!" shuddered Pollyanna, sympathetically. "And you didn't have any
tree, or party, or anything?" she cried, distressed and shocked.

"Well, hardly!"

"O dear! How I wish you could have seen mine!" sighed the little girl.
"It was just lovely, and--But, oh, say!" she exclaimed joyously. "You
can see it, after all. It isn't gone yet. Now, can't you come out
to-night, or to-morrow night, and--"

"PollyANNA!" interrupted Mrs. Carew in her chilliest accents. "What in
the world does this mean? Where have you been? I have looked
everywhere for you. I even went 'way back to the suit department."

Pollyanna turned with a happy little cry.

"Oh, Mrs. Carew, I'm so glad you've come," she rejoiced. "This
is--well, I don't know her name yet, but I know HER, so it's all
right. I met her in the Public Garden ever so long ago. And she's
lonesome, and doesn't know anybody. And her father was a minister like
mine, only he's alive. And she didn't have any Christmas tree only
blistered feet and chicken pie; and I want her to see mine, you
know--the tree, I mean," plunged on Pollyanna, breathlessly. "I've
asked her to come out to-night, or to-morrow night. And you'll let me
have it all lighted up again, won't you?"

[Illustration: "'I don't know her name yet, but I know HER, so it's
all right'"]

"Well, really, Pollyanna," began Mrs. Carew, in cold disapproval. But
the girl behind the counter interrupted with a voice quite as cold,
and even more disapproving.

"Don't worry, madam. I've no notion of goin'."

"Oh, but PLEASE," begged Pollyanna. "You don't know how I want you,
and--"

"I notice the lady ain't doin' any askin'," interrupted the salesgirl,
a little maliciously.

Mrs. Carew flushed an angry red, and turned as if to go; but Pollyanna
caught her arm and held it, talking meanwhile almost frenziedly to the
girl behind the counter, who happened, at the moment, to be free from
customers.

"Oh, but she will, she will," Pollyanna was saying. "She wants you to
come--I know she does. Why, you don't know how good she is, and how
much money she gives to--to charitable 'sociations and everything."

"PollyANNA!" remonstrated Mrs. Carew, sharply. Once more she would
have gone, but this time she was held spellbound by the ringing scorn
in the low, tense voice of the salesgirl.

"Oh, yes, I know! There's lots of 'em that'll give to RESCUE work.
There's always plenty of helpin' hands stretched out to them that has
gone wrong. And that's all right. I ain't findin' no fault with that.
Only sometimes I wonder there don't some of 'em think of helpin' the
girls BEFORE they go wrong. Why don't they give GOOD girls pretty
homes with books and pictures and soft carpets and music, and somebody
'round 'em to care? Maybe then there wouldn't be so many--Good
heavens, what am I sayin'?" she broke off, under her breath. Then,
with the old weariness, she turned to a young woman who had stopped
before her and picked up a blue bow.

"That's fifty cents, madam," Mrs. Carew heard, as she hurried
Pollyanna away.




CHAPTER XIII

A WAITING AND A WINNING


It was a delightful plan. Pollyanna had it entirely formulated in
about five minutes; then she told Mrs. Carew. Mrs. Carew did not think
it was a delightful plan, and she said so very distinctly.

"Oh, but I'm sure THEY'LL think it is," argued Pollyanna, in reply to
Mrs. Carew's objections. "And just think how easy we can do it! The
tree is just as it was--except for the presents, and we can get more
of those. It won't be so very long till just New Year's Eve; and only
think how glad she'll be to come! Wouldn't YOU be, if you hadn't had
anything for Christmas only blistered feet and chicken pie?"

"Dear, dear, what an impossible child you are!" frowned Mrs. Carew.
"Even yet it doesn't seem to occur to you that we don't know this
young person's name."

"So we don't! And isn't it funny, when I feel that I know HER so
well?" smiled Pollyanna. "You see, we had such a good talk in the
Garden that day, and she told me all about how lonesome she was, and
that she thought the lonesomest place in the world was in a crowd in a
big city, because folks didn't think nor notice. Oh, there was one
that noticed; but he noticed too much, she said, and he hadn't ought
to notice her any--which is kind of funny, isn't it, when you come to
think of it. But anyhow, he came for her there in the Garden to go
somewhere with him, and she wouldn't go, and he was a real handsome
gentleman, too--until he began to look so cross, just at the last.
Folks aren't so pretty when they're cross, are they? Now there was a
lady to-day looking at bows, and she said--well, lots of things that
weren't nice, you know. And SHE didn't look pretty, either,
after--after she began to talk. But you will let me have the tree New
Year's Eve, won't you, Mrs. Carew?--and invite this girl who sells
bows, and Jamie? He's better, you know, now, and he COULD come. Of
course Jerry would have to wheel him--but then, we'd want Jerry,
anyway."

"Oh, of course, JERRY!" exclaimed Mrs. Carew in ironic scorn. "But why
stop with Jerry? I'm sure Jerry has hosts of friends who would love to
come. And--"

"Oh, Mrs. Carew, MAY I?" broke in Pollyanna, in uncontrollable
delight. "Oh, how good, GOOD, GOOD you are! I've so wanted--" But Mrs.
Carew fairly gasped aloud in surprise and dismay.

"No, no, Pollyanna, I--" she began, protestingly. But Pollyanna,
entirely mistaking the meaning of her interruption, plunged in again
in stout championship.

"Indeed you ARE good--just the bestest ever; and I sha'n't let you say
you aren't. Now I reckon I'll have a party all right! There's Tommy
Dolan and his sister Jennie, and the two Macdonald children, and three
girls whose names I don't know that live under the Murphys, and a
whole lot more, if we have room for 'em. And only think how glad
they'll be when I tell 'em! Why, Mrs. Carew, seems to me as if I never
knew anything so perfectly lovely in all my life--and it's all your
doings! Now mayn't I begin right away to invite 'em--so they'll KNOW
what's coming to 'em?"

And Mrs. Carew, who would not have believed such a thing possible,
heard herself murmuring a faint "yes," which, she knew, bound her to
the giving of a Christmas-tree party on New Year's Eve to a dozen
children from Murphy's Alley and a young salesgirl whose name she did
not know.

Perhaps in Mrs. Carew's memory was still lingering a young girl's
"Sometimes I wonder there don't some of 'em think of helpin' the girls
BEFORE they go wrong." Perhaps in her ears was still ringing
Pollyanna's story of that same girl who had found a crowd in a big
city the loneliest place in the world, yet who had refused to go with
the handsome man that had "noticed too much." Perhaps in Mrs. Carew's
heart was the undefined hope that somewhere in it all lay the peace
she had so longed for. Perhaps it was a little of all three combined
with utter helplessness in the face of Pollyanna's amazing twisting of
her irritated sarcasm into the wide-sweeping hospitality of a willing
hostess. Whatever it was, the thing was done; and at once Mrs. Carew
found herself caught into a veritable whirl of plans and plottings,
the center of which was always Pollyanna and the party.

To her sister, Mrs. Carew wrote distractedly of the whole affair,
closing with:

"What I'm going to do I don't know; but I suppose I shall have to keep
right on doing as I am doing. There is no other way. Of course, if
Pollyanna once begins to preach--but she hasn't yet; so I can't, with
a clear conscience, send her back to you."

Della, reading this letter at the Sanatorium, laughed aloud at the
conclusion.

"'Hasn't preached yet,' indeed!" she chuckled to herself. "Bless her
dear heart! And yet you, Ruth Carew, own up to giving two
Christmas-tree parties within a week, and, as I happen to know, your
home, which used to be shrouded in death-like gloom, is aflame with
scarlet and green from top to toe. But she hasn't preached yet--oh,
no, she hasn't preached yet!"

The party was a great success. Even Mrs. Carew admitted that. Jamie,
in his wheel chair, Jerry with his startling, but expressive
vocabulary, and the girl (whose name proved to be Sadie Dean), vied
with each other in amusing the more diffident guests. Sadie Dean, much
to the others' surprise--and perhaps to her own--disclosed an intimate
knowledge of the most fascinating games; and these games, with Jamie's
stories and Jerry's good-natured banter, kept every one in gales of
laughter until supper and the generous distribution of presents from
the laden tree sent the happy guests home with tired sighs of content.

If Jamie (who with Jerry was the last to leave) looked about him a bit
wistfully, no one apparently noticed it. Yet Mrs. Carew, when she bade
him good-night, said low in his ear, half impatiently, half
embarrassedly:

"Well, Jamie, have you changed your mind--about coming?"

The boy hesitated. A faint color stole into his cheeks. He turned and
looked into her eyes wistfully, searchingly. Then very slowly he shook
his head.

"If it could always be--like to-night, I--could," he sighed. "But it
wouldn't. There'd be to-morrow, and next week, and next month, and
next year comin'; and I'd know before next week that I hadn't oughter
come."


If Mrs. Carew had thought that the New Year's Eve party was to end the
matter of Pollyanna's efforts in behalf of Sadie Dean, she was soon
undeceived; for the very next morning Pollyanna began to talk of her.

"And I'm so glad I found her again," she prattled contentedly. "Even
if I haven't been able to find the real Jamie for you, I've found
somebody else for you to love--and of course you'll love to love her,
'cause it's just another way of loving Jamie."

Mrs. Carew drew in her breath and gave a little gasp of exasperation.
This unfailing faith in her goodness of heart, and unhesitating belief
in her desire to "help everybody" was most disconcerting, and
sometimes most annoying. At the same time it was a most difficult
thing to disclaim--under the circumstances, especially with
Pollyanna's happy, confident eyes full on her face.

"But, Pollyanna," she objected impotently, at last, feeling very much
as if she were struggling against invisible silken cords,
"I--you--this girl really isn't Jamie, at all, you know."

"I know she isn't," sympathized Pollyanna quickly. "And of course I'm
just as sorry she ISN'T Jamie as can be. But she's somebody's
Jamie--that is, I mean she hasn't got anybody down here to love her
and--and notice, you know; and so whenever you remember Jamie I should
think you couldn't be glad enough there was SOMEBODY you could help,
just as you'd want folks to help Jamie, wherever HE is."

Mrs. Carew shivered and gave a little moan.

"But I want MY Jamie," she grieved.

Pollyanna nodded with understanding eyes.

"I know--the 'child's presence.' Mr. Pendleton told me about it--only
you've GOT the 'woman's hand.'"

"'Woman's hand'?"

"Yes--to make a home, you know. He said that it took a woman's hand or
a child's presence to make a home. That was when he wanted me, and I
found him Jimmy, and he adopted him instead."

"JIMMY?" Mrs. Carew looked up with the startled something in her eyes
that always came into them at the mention of any variant of that name.

"Yes; Jimmy Bean."

"Oh--BEAN," said Mrs. Carew, relaxing.

"Yes. He was from an Orphan's Home, and he ran away. I found him. He
said he wanted another kind of a home with a mother in it instead of a
Matron. I couldn't find him the mother-part, but I found him Mr.
Pendleton, and he adopted him. His name is Jimmy Pendleton now."

"But it was--Bean?"

"Yes, it was Bean."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Carew, this time with a long sigh.

Mrs. Carew saw a good deal of Sadie Dean during the days that followed
the New Year's Eve party. She saw a good deal of Jamie, too. In one
way and another Pollyanna contrived to have them frequently at the
house; and this, Mrs. Carew, much to her surprise and vexation, could
not seem to prevent. Her consent and even her delight were taken by
Pollyanna as so much a matter of course that she found herself
helpless to convince the child that neither approval nor satisfaction
entered into the matter at all, as far as she was concerned.

But Mrs. Carew, whether she herself realized it or not, was learning
many things--things she never could have learned in the old days, shut
up in her rooms, with orders to Mary to admit no one. She was learning
something of what it means to be a lonely young girl in a big city,
with one's living to earn, and with no one to care--except one who
cares too much, and too little.

"But what did you mean?" she nervously asked Sadie Dean one evening;
"what did you mean that first day in the store--what you said--about
helping the girls?"

Sadie Dean colored distressfully.

"I'm afraid I was rude," she apologized.

"Never mind that. Tell me what you meant. I've thought of it so many
times since."

For a moment the girl was silent; then, a little bitterly she said:

"'Twas because I knew a girl once, and I was thinkin' of her. She came
from my town, and she was pretty and good, but she wa'n't over strong.
For a year we pulled together, sharin' the same room, boiling our eggs
over the same gas-jet, and eatin' our hash and fish balls for supper
at the same cheap restaurant. There was never anything to do evenin's
but to walk in the Common, or go to the movies, if we had the dime to
blow in, or just stay in our room. Well, our room wasn't very
pleasant. It was hot in summer, and cold in winter, and the gas-jet
was so measly and so flickery that we couldn't sew or read, even if we
hadn't been too fagged out to do either--which we 'most generally was.
Besides, over our heads was a squeaky board that some one was always
rockin' on, and under us was a feller that was learnin' to play the
cornet. Did you ever hear any one learn to play the cornet?"

"N-no, I don't think so," murmured Mrs. Carew.

"Well, you've missed a lot," said the girl, dryly. Then, after a
moment, she resumed her story.

"Sometimes, 'specially at Christmas and holidays, we used to walk up
here on the Avenue, and other streets, huntin' for windows where the
curtains were up, and we could look in. You see, we were pretty
lonesome, them days 'specially, and we said it did us good to see
homes with folks, and lamps on the center-tables, and children playin'
games; but we both of us knew that really it only made us feel worse
than ever, because we were so hopelessly out of it all. 'Twas even
harder to see the automobiles, and the gay young folks in them,
laughing and chatting. You see, we were young, and I suspect we wanted
to laugh and chatter. We wanted a good time, too; and, by and by--my
chum began to have it--this good time.

"Well, to make a long story short, we broke partnership one day, and
she went her way, and I mine. I didn't like the company she was
keepin', and I said so. She wouldn't give 'em up, so we quit. I didn't
see her again for 'most two years, then I got a note from her, and I
went. This was just last month. She was in one of them rescue homes.
It was a lovely place; soft rugs, fine pictures, plants, flowers, and
books, a piano, a beautiful room, and everything possible done for
her. Rich women came in their automobiles and carriages to take her
driving, and she was taken to concerts and matinees. She was learnin'
stenography, and they were going to help her to a position just as
soon as she could take it. Everybody was wonderfully good to her, she
said, and showed they wanted to help her in every way. But she said
something else, too. She said:

"'Sadie, if they'd taken one half the pains to show me they cared and
wanted to help long ago when I was an honest, self-respectin',
hard-workin' homesick girl--I wouldn't have been here for them to help
now.' And--well, I never forgot it. That's all. It ain't that I'm
objectin' to the rescue work--it's a fine thing, and they ought to do
it. Only I'm thinkin' there wouldn't be quite so much of it for them
to do--if they'd just show a little of their interest earlier in the
game."

"But I thought--there were working-girls' homes, and--and
settlement-houses that--that did that sort of thing," faltered Mrs.
Carew in a voice that few of her friends would have recognized.

"There are. Did you ever see the inside of one of them?"

"Why, n-no; though I--I have given money to them." This time Mrs.
Carew's voice was almost apologetically pleading in tone.

Sadie Dean smiled curiously.

"Yes, I know. There are lots of good women that have given money to
them--and have never seen the inside of one of them. Please don't
understand that I'm sayin' anythin' against the homes. I'm not.
They're good things. They're almost the only thing that's doing
anything to help; but they're only a drop in the bucket to what is
really needed. I tried one once; but there was an air about
it--somehow I felt-- But there, what's the use? Probably they aren't
all like that one, and maybe the fault was with me. If I should try to
tell you, you wouldn't understand. You'd have to live in it--and you
haven't even seen the inside of one. But I can't help wonderin'
sometimes why so many of those good women never seem to put the real
HEART and INTEREST into the preventin' that they do into the rescuin'.
But there! I didn't mean to talk such a lot. But--you asked me."

"Yes, I asked you," said Mrs. Carew in a half-stifled voice, as she
turned away.

Not only from Sadie Dean, however, was Mrs. Carew learning things
never learned before, but from Jamie, also.

Jamie was there a great deal. Pollyanna liked to have him there, and
he liked to be there. At first, to be sure, he had hesitated; but very
soon he had quieted his doubts and yielded to his longings by telling
himself (and Pollyanna) that, after all, visiting was not "staying for
keeps."

Mrs. Carew often found the boy and Pollyanna contentedly settled on
the library window-seat, with the empty wheel chair close by.
Sometimes they were poring over a book. (She heard Jamie tell
Pollyanna one day that he didn't think he'd mind so very much being
lame if he had so many books as Mrs. Carew, and that he guessed he'd
be so happy he'd fly clean away if he had both books and legs.)
Sometimes the boy was telling stories, and Pollyanna was listening,
wide-eyed and absorbed.

Mrs. Carew wondered at Pollyanna's interest--until one day she herself
stopped and listened. After that she wondered no longer--but she
listened a good deal longer. Crude and incorrect as was much of the
boy's language, it was always wonderfully vivid and picturesque, so
that Mrs. Carew found herself, hand in hand with Pollyanna, trailing
down the Golden Ages at the beck of a glowing-eyed boy.

Dimly Mrs. Carew was beginning to realize, too, something of what it
must mean, to be in spirit and ambition the center of brave deeds and
wonderful adventures, while in reality one was only a crippled boy in
a wheel chair. But what Mrs. Carew did not realize was the part this
crippled boy was beginning to play in her own life. She did not
realize how much a matter of course his presence was becoming, nor how
interested she now was in finding something new "for Jamie to see."
Neither did she realize how day by day he was coming to seem to her
more and more the lost Jamie, her dead sister's child.

As February, March, and April passed, however, and May came, bringing
with it the near approach of the date set for Pollyanna's home-going,
Mrs. Carew did suddenly awake to the knowledge of what that home-going
was to mean to her.

She was amazed and appalled. Up to now she had, in belief, looked
forward with pleasure to the departure of Pollyanna. She had said that
then once again the house would be quiet, with the glaring sun shut
out. Once again she would be at peace, and able to hide herself away
from the annoying, tiresome world. Once again she would be free to
summon to her aching consciousness all those dear memories of the lost
little lad who had so long ago stepped into that vast unknown and
closed the door behind him. All this she had believed would be the
case when Pollyanna should go home.

But now that Pollyanna was really going home, the picture was far
different. The "quiet house with the sun shut out" had become one that
promised to be "gloomy and unbearable." The longed-for "peace" would
be "wretched loneliness"; and as for her being able to "hide herself
away from the annoying, tiresome world," and "free to summon to her
aching consciousness all those dear memories of that lost little
lad"--just as if anything could blot out those other aching memories
of the new Jamie (who yet might be the old Jamie) with his pitiful,
pleading eyes!

Full well now Mrs. Carew knew that without Pollyanna the house would
be empty; but that without the lad, Jamie, it would be worse than
that. To her pride this knowledge was not pleasing. To her heart it
was torture--since the boy had twice said that he would not come. For
a time, during those last few days of Pollyanna's stay, the struggle
was a bitter one, though pride always kept the ascendancy. Then, on
what Mrs. Carew knew would be Jamie's last visit, her heart triumphed,
and once more she asked Jamie to come and be to her the Jamie that was
lost.