Excerpt: …talked to everybody about Jamie. She assumed that everybody would be as interested as she herself was. On most occasions she was not disappointed in the interest shown; but one day she met with a surprise. It came through Jimmy Pendleton. Say, look a-here, he demanded one afternoon, irritably. Wasn’t there ANYBODY else down to Boston but just that everlasting ‘Jamie’?
Why, Jimmy Bean, what do you mean? cried Pollyanna. The boy lifted his chin a little. I’m not Jimmy Bean. I’m Jimmy Pendleton. And I mean that I should think, from your talk, that there wasn’t ANYBODY down to Boston but just that loony boy who calls them birds and squirrels ‘Lady Lancelot, ’ and all that tommyrot.
Why, Jimmy Be-Pendleton! gasped Pollyanna. Then, with some spirit: Jamie isn’t loony! He is a very nice boy. And he knows a lot-books and stories! Why, he can MAKE stories right out of his own head! Besides, it isn’t ‘Lady Lancelot, ’-it’s ‘Sir Lancelot.’ If you knew half as much as he does you’d know that, too! she finished, with flashing eyes. Jimmy Pendleton flushed miserably and looked utterly wretched. Growing more and more jealous moment by moment, still doggedly he held his ground. Well, anyhow, he scoffed, I don’t think much of his name. ‘Jamie’! Humph!-sounds sissy! And I know somebody else that said so, too.
Who was it? There was no answer. WHO WAS IT? demanded Pollyanna, more peremptorily. Dad. The boy’s voice was sullen. Your-dad? repeated Pollyanna, in amazement. Why, how could he know Jamie?
He didn’t. ‘Twasn’t about that Jamie. 'Twas about me. The boy still spoke sullenly, with his eyes turned away. Yet there was a curious softness in his voice that was always noticeable whenever he spoke of his father. YOU!
Yes. 'Twas just a little while before he died. We stopped 'most a week with a farmer. Dad helped about the hayin’-and I did, too, some. The farmer’s wife was awful good to me, and pretty quick she was callin’ me…
