The Children's Book of Thanksgiving Stories
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Title: The Children's Book of Thanksgiving Stories
Editor: Asa Don Dickinson
Release date: March 11, 2014 [eBook #45114]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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THE CHILDREN'S BOOK OF THANKSGIVING STORIES
[Illustration: "But it was _my_ wishbone," persisted the gobbler, "and
I think I ought to know something about it." (See p. 108)]
THE CHILDREN'S BOOK OF THANKSGIVING STORIES
Edited by
ASA DON DICKINSON
(Editor of "The Children's Book of Christmas Stories," etc.)
[Illustration]
Frontispiece
Garden City New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1915
Copyright, 1915, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
All rights reserved, including that of translation into
foreign languages, including the Scandinavian
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
The Publishers desire to acknowledge the kindness of the Century
Company, Ginn & Co., the J. L. Hammett Company, Harper & Brothers, the
Houghton, Mifflin Company, the J. B. Lippincott Company, the Lothrop,
Lee & Shepard Company, the Outlook Company, the Perry Mason Company,
Charles Scribner's Sons, and others, who have granted permission to
reproduce herein selections from works bearing their copyright.
PREFACE
The success of "The Children's Book of Christmas Stories" has
encouraged the Editor to hope that a similar collection of stories
about Thanksgiving would prove useful to parents, librarians, and
teachers, and enjoyable to children.
Like the former book, this one is exactly what the title would
indicate--a select collection of children's stories closely connected
with our American festival.
The short descriptive note placed before each story will be of use in
choosing a tale suited to one's audience in reading aloud.
May the present volume make as many friends as did its older brother!
A. D. D.
CONTENTS
(_Note._--The stories marked with a star (*) will be most enjoyed by
younger children; those marked with a dagger (+) are better suited to
older children.)
PAGE
*The Kingdom of the Greedy. _By P. J. Stahl_ 3
Thankful. _By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman_ 26
Beetle Ring's Thanksgiving Mascot. _By Sheldon C. Stoddard_ 41
+Mistress Esteem Elliott's Molasses Cake. _By Kate Upson Clark_ 57
The First Thanksgiving. _By Albert F. Blaisdell and Francis
K. Ball_ 67
+Thanksgiving at Todd's Asylum. _By Winthrop Packard_ 72
How We Kept Thanksgiving at Oldtown. _By Harriet Beecher Stowe_ 86
*Wishbone Valley. _By R. K. Munkittrick_ 106
Patem's Salmagundi. _By E. S. Brooks_ 115
Miss November's Dinner Party. _By Agnes Carr_ 129
*The Visit. _By Maud Lindsay_ 137
The Story of Ruth and Naomi. _Adapted from the Bible_ 143
Bert's Thanksgiving. _By J. T. Trowbridge_ 146
*A Thanksgiving Story. _By Miss L. B. Pingree_ 157
+John Inglefield's Thanksgiving. _By Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 159
How Obadiah Brought About a Thanksgiving. _By Emily Hewitt
Leland_ 167
The White Turkey's Wing. _By Sophie Swett_ 181
*The Thanksgiving Goose. _By Fannie Wilder Brown_ 198
+An English Dinner of Thanksgiving. _By George Eliot_ 203
A Novel Postman. _By Alice Wheildon_ 209
+Ezra's Thanksgivin' Out West. _By Eugene Field_ 220
*Chip's Thanksgiving. _By Annie Hamilton Donnell_ 232
+The Master of the Harvest. _By Mrs. Alfred Gatty_ 235
*A Thanksgiving Dinner. _By Edna Payson Brett_ 248
Two Old Boys. _By Pauline Shackleford Colyar_ 254
A Thanksgiving Dinner That Flew Away. _By Hezekiah Butterworth_ 265
+Mon-daw-min. _By H. R. Schoolcraft_ 276
A Mystery in the Kitchen. _By Olive Thorne Miller_ 282
*Who Ate the Dolly's Dinner? _By Isabel Gordon Curtis_ 296
+An Old-fashioned Thanksgiving. _By Rose Terry Cooke_ 299
1800 and Froze to Death. _By C. A. Stephens_ 328
THE CHILDREN'S BOOK OF THANKSGIVING STORIES
THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY
BY P. J. STAHL.
TRANSLATED BY LAURA W. JOHNSON.
This fairy tale of a gormandizing people contains no
mention of Thanksgiving Day. Yet its connection with
our American festival is obvious. Every one who likes
fairy tales will enjoy reading it.
THE country of the Greedy, well known in history, was ruled by a king
who had much trouble. His subjects were well behaved, but they had one
sad fault: they were too fond of pies and tarts. It was as disagreeable
to them to swallow a spoonful of soup as if it were so much sea
water, and it would take a policeman to make them open their mouths
for a bit of meat, either boiled or roasted. This deplorable taste
made the fortunes of the pastry cooks, but also of the apothecaries.
Families ruined themselves in pills and powders; camomile, rhubarb, and
peppermint trebled in price, as well as other disagreeable remedies,
such as castor----which I will not name.
The King of the Greedy sought long for the means of correcting this
fatal passion for sweets, but even the faculty were puzzled.
"Your Majesty," said the great court doctor, Olibriers, at his last
audience, "your people look like putty! They are incurable; their
senseless love for good eating will bring them all to the grave."
This view of things did not suit the King. He was wise, and saw very
plainly that a monarch without subjects would be but a sorry king.
Happily, after this utter failure of the doctors, there came into the
mind of His Majesty a first-class idea: he telegraphed for Mother
Mitchel, the most celebrated of all pastry cooks. Mother Mitchel
soon arrived, with her black cat, Fanfreluche, who accompanied her
everywhere. He was an incomparable cat. He had not his equal as an
adviser and a taster of tarts.
Mother Mitchel having respectfully inquired what she and her cat could
do for His Majesty, the King demanded of the astonished pastry cook a
tart as big as the capitol--bigger even, if possible, but no smaller!
When the King uttered this astounding order, deep emotion was shown by
the chamberlains, the pages, and lackeys. Nothing but the respect due
to his presence prevented them from crying "Long live Your Majesty!" in
his very ears. But the King had seen enough of the enthusiasm of the
populace, and did not allow such sounds in the recesses of his palace.
The King gave Mother Mitchel one month to carry out his gigantic
project. "It is enough," she proudly replied, brandishing her crutch.
Then, taking leave of the King, she and her cat set out for their home.
On the way Mother Mitchel arranged in her head the plan of the monument
which was to immortalize her, and considered the means of executing
it. As to its form and size, it was to be as exact a copy of the
capitol as possible, since the King had willed it; but its outside
crust should have a beauty all its own. The dome must be adorned with
sugarplums of all colours, and surmounted by a splendid crown of
macaroons, spun sugar, chocolate, and candied fruits. It was no small
affair.
Mother Mitchel did not like to lose her time. Her plan of battle once
formed, she recruited on her way all the little pastry cooks of the
country, as well as all the tiny six-year-olds who had a sincere love
for the noble callings of scullion and apprentice. There were plenty of
these, as you may suppose, in the country of the Greedy; Mother Mitchel
had her pick of them.
Mother Mitchel, with the help of her crutch and of Fanfreluche, who
miaowed loud enough to be heard twenty miles off, called upon all the
millers of the land, and commanded them to bring together at a certain
time as many sacks of fine flour as they could grind in a week. There
were only windmills in that country; you may easily believe how they
all began to go. B-r-r-r-r-r! What a noise they made! The clatter was
so great that all the birds flew away to other climes, and even the
clouds fled from the sky.
At the call of Mother Mitchel all the farmers' wives were set to work;
they rushed to the hencoops to collect the seven thousand fresh eggs
that Mother Mitchel wanted for her great edifice. Deep was the emotion
of the fowls. The hens were inconsolable, and the unhappy creatures
mourned upon the palings for the loss of all their hopes.
The milkmaids were busy from morning till night in milking the cows.
Mother Mitchel must have twenty thousand pails of milk. All the little
calves were put on half rations. This great work was nothing to them,
and they complained pitifully to their mothers. Many of the cows
protested with energy against this unreasonable tax, which made their
young families so uncomfortable. There were pails upset, and even some
milkmaids went head over heels. But these little accidents did not
chill the enthusiasm of the labourers.
And now Mother Mitchel called for a thousand pounds of the best butter.
All the churns for twenty miles around began to work in the most lively
manner. Their dashers dashed without ceasing, keeping perfect time. The
butter was tasted, rolled into pats, wrapped up, and put into baskets.
Such energy had never been known before.
Mother Mitchel passed for a sorceress. It was all because of her cat,
Fanfreluche, with whom she had mysterious doings and pantomimes,
and with whom she talked in her inspired moments, as if he were a
real person. Certainly, since the famous "Puss in Boots," there had
never been an animal so extraordinary; and credulous folks suspected
him of being a magician. Some curious people had the courage to ask
Fanfreluche if this were true; but he had replied by bristling, and
showing his teeth and claws so fiercely, that the conversation had
ended there. Sorceress or not, Mother Mitchel was always obeyed. No one
else was ever served so punctually.
On the appointed day all the millers arrived with their asses trotting
in single file, each laden with a great sack of flour. Mother Mitchel,
after having examined the quality of the flour, had every sack
accurately weighed. This was head work and hard work, and took time;
but Mother Mitchel was untiring, and her cat, also, for while the
operation lasted he sat on the roof watching. It is only just to say
that the millers of the Greedy Kingdom brought flour not only faultless
but of full weight. They knew that Mother Mitchel was not joking when
she said that others must be as exact with her as she was with them.
Perhaps also they were a little afraid of the cat, whose great green
eyes were always shining upon them like two round lamps, and never lost
sight of them for one moment.
All the farmers' wives arrived in turn, with baskets of eggs upon their
heads. They did not load their donkeys with them, for fear that in
jogging along they would become omelettes on the way. Mother Mitchel
received them with her usual gravity. She had the patience to look
through every egg to see if it were fresh.
She did not wish to run the risk of having young chickens in a tart
that was destined for those who could not bear the taste of any meat
however tender and delicate. The number of eggs was complete, and
again Mother Mitchel and her cat had nothing to complain of. This
Greedy nation, though carried away by love of good eating, was strictly
honest. It must be said that where nations are patriotic, desire for
the common good makes them unselfish. Mother Mitchel's tart was to be
the glory of the country, and each one was proud to contribute to such
a great work.
And now the milkmaids with their pots and pails of milk, and the
buttermakers with their baskets filled with the rich yellow pats of
butter, filed in long procession to the right and left of the cabin
of Mother Mitchel. There was no need for her to examine so carefully
the butter and the milk. She had such a delicate nose that if there
had been a single pat of ancient butter or a pail of sour milk she
would have pounced upon it instantly. But all was perfectly fresh. In
that golden age they did not understand the art, now so well known, of
making milk out of flour and water. Real milk was necessary to make
cheesecakes and ice cream and other delicious confections much adored
in the Greedy Kingdom. If any one had made such a despicable discovery,
he would have been chased from the country as a public nuisance.
Then came the grocers, with their aprons of coffee bags, and with the
jolly, mischievous faces the rogues always have. Each one clasped
to his heart a sugar loaf nearly as large as himself, whose summit,
without its paper cap, looked like new-fallen snow upon a pyramid.
Mother Mitchel, with her crutch for a baton, saw them all placed in her
storerooms upon shelves put up for the purpose. She had to be very
strict, for some of the little fellows could hardly part from their
merchandise, and many were indiscreet, with their tongues behind their
great mountains of sugar. If they had been let alone, they would never
have stopped till the sugar was all gone. But they had not thought
of the implacable eye of old Fanfreluche, who, posted upon a water
spout, took note of all their misdeeds. From another quarter came a
whole army of country people, rolling wheelbarrows and carrying huge
baskets, all filled with cherries, plums, peaches, apples, and pears.
All these fruits were so fresh, in such perfect condition, with their
fair shining skins, that they looked like wax or painted marble, but
their delicious perfume proved that they were real. Some little people,
hidden in the corners, took pains to find this out. Between ourselves,
Mother Mitchel made believe not to see them, and took the precaution of
holding Fanfreluche in her arms so that he could not spring upon them.
The fruits were all put into bins, each kind by itself. And now the
preparations were finished. There was no time to lose before setting to
work.
The spot which Mother Mitchel had chosen for her great edifice was
a pretty hill on which a plateau formed a splendid site. This hill
commanded the capital city, built upon the slope of another hill close
by. After having beaten down the earth till it was as smooth as a
floor, they spread over it loads of bread crumbs, brought from the
baker's, and levelled it with rake and spade, as we do gravel in our
garden walks. Little birds, as greedy as themselves, came in flocks to
the feast, but they might eat as they liked, it would never be missed,
so thick was the carpet. It was a great chance for the bold little
things.
All the ingredients for the tart were now ready. Upon order of Mother
Mitchel they began to peel the apples and pears and to take out the
pips. The weather was so pleasant that the girls sat out of doors, upon
the ground, in long rows. The sun looked down upon them with a merry
face. Each of the little workers had a big earthen pan, and peeled
incessantly the apples which the boys brought them. When the pans were
full, they were carried away and others were brought. They had also
to carry away the peels, or the girls would have been buried in them.
Never was there such a peeling before.
Not far away, the children were stoning the plums, cherries, and
peaches. This work, being the easiest, was given to the youngest and
most inexperienced hands, which were all first carefully washed, for
Mother Mitchel, though not very particular about her own toilet, was
very neat in her cooking. The schoolhouse, long unused (for in the
country of the Greedy they had forgotten everything), was arranged
for this second class of workers, and the cat was their inspector. He
walked round and round, growling if he saw the fruit popping into any
of the little mouths. If they had dared, how they would have pelted
him with plum stones! But no one risked it. Fanfreluche was not to be
trifled with.
In those days powdered sugar had not been invented, and to grate it all
was no small affair. It was the work that the grocers used to dislike
the most; both lungs and arms were soon tired. But Mother Mitchel
was there to sustain them with her unequalled energy. She chose the
labourers from the most robust of the boys. With mallet and knife she
broke the cones into round pieces, and they grated them till they were
too small to hold. The bits were put into baskets to be pounded. One
would never have expected to find all the thousand pounds of sugar
again. But a new miracle was wrought by Mother Mitchel. It was all
there!
It was then the turn of the ambitious scullions to enter the lists and
break the seven thousand eggs for Mother Mitchel. It was not hard to
break them--any fool could do that; but to separate adroitly the yolks
and the whites demands some talent, and, above all, great care. We dare
not say that there were no accidents here, no eggs too well scrambled,
no baskets upset. But the experience of Mother Mitchel had counted
upon such things, and it may truly be said that there were never so
many eggs broken at once, or ever could be again. To make an omelette
of them would have taken a saucepan as large as a skating pond, and
the fattest cook that ever lived could not hold the handle of such a
saucepan.
But this was not all. Now that the yolks and whites were once divided,
they must each be beaten separately in wooden bowls, to give them
the necessary lightness. The egg beaters were marshalled into two
brigades, the yellow and the white. Every one preferred the white, for
it was much more amusing to make those snowy masses that rose up so
high than to beat the yolks, which knew no better than to mix together
like so much sauce. Mother Mitchel, with her usual wisdom, had avoided
this difficulty by casting lots. Thus, those who were not on the white
side had no reason to complain of oppression. And truly, when all was
done, the whites and the yellows were equally tired. All had cramps in
their hands.
Now began the real labour of Mother Mitchel. Till now she had been the
commander-in-chief--the head only; now she put her own finger in the
pie. First, she had to make sweetmeats and jam out of all the immense
quantity of fruit she had stored. For this, as she could only do one
kind at a time, she had ten kettles, each as big as a dinner table.
During forty-eight hours the cooking went on; a dozen scullions blew
the fire and put on the fuel. Mother Mitchel, with a spoon that four
modern cooks could hardly lift, never ceased stirring and trying the
boiling fruit. Three expert tasters, chosen from the most dainty, had
orders to report progress every half hour.
It is unnecessary to state that all the sweetmeats were perfectly
successful, or that they were of exquisite consistency, colour, and
perfume. With Mother Mitchel there was no such word as _fail_. When
each kind of sweetmeat was finished, she skimmed it, and put it away
to cool in enormous bowls before potting. She did not use for this the
usual little glass or earthen jars, but great stone ones, like those
in the "Forty Thieves." Not only did these take less time to fill,
but they were safe from the children. The scum and the scrapings were
something, to be sure. But there was little Toto, who thought this was
not enough. He would have jumped into one of the bowls if they had not
held him.
Mother Mitchel, who thought of everything, had ordered two hundred
great kneading troughs, wishing that all the utensils of this great
work should be perfectly new. These two hundred troughs, like her other
materials, were all delivered punctually and in good order. The pastry
cooks rolled up their sleeves and began to knead the dough with cries
of "Hi! Hi!" that could be heard for miles. It was odd to see this army
of bakers in serried ranks, all making the same gestures at once, like
well-disciplined soldiers, stooping and rising together in time, so
that a foreign ambassador wrote to his court that he wished his people
could load and fire as well as these could knead. Such praise a people
never forgets.
When each troughful of paste was approved it was moulded with care into
the form of bricks, and with the aid of the engineer-in-chief, a young
genius who had gained the first prize in the school of architecture,
the majestic edifice was begun. Mother Mitchel herself drew the plan;
in following her directions, the young engineer showed himself modest
beyond all praise. He had the good sense to understand that the
architecture of tarts and pies had rules of its own, and that therefore
the experience of Mother Mitchel was worth all the scientific theories
in the world.
The inside of the monument was divided into as many compartments as
there were kinds of fruits. The walls were no less than four feet
thick. When they were finished, twenty-four ladders were set up,
and twenty-four experienced cooks ascended them. These first-class
artists were each of them armed with an enormous cooking spoon. Behind
them, on the lower rounds of the ladders, followed the kitchen boys,
carrying on their heads pots and pans filled to the brim with jam and
sweetmeats, each sort ready to be poured into its destined compartment.
This colossal labour was accomplished in one day, and with wonderful
exactness.
When the sweetmeats were used to the last drop, when the great spoons
had done all their work, the twenty-four cooks descended to earth
again. The intrepid Mother Mitchel, who had never quitted the spot, now
ascended, followed by the noble Fanfreluche, and dipped her finger into
each of the compartments, to assure herself that everything was right.
This part of her duty was not disagreeable, and many of the scullions
would have liked to perform it. But they might have lingered too long
over the enchanting task. As for Mother Mitchel, she had been too well
used to sweets to be excited now. She only wished to do her duty and to
insure success.
All went on well. Mother Mitchel had given her approbation. Nothing was
needed now but to crown the sublime and delicious edifice by placing
upon it the crust--that is, the roof, or dome. This delicate operation
was confided to the engineer-in-chief who now showed his superior
genius. The dome, made beforehand of a single piece, was raised in the
air by means of twelve balloons, whose force of ascension had been
carefully calculated. First it was directed, by ropes, exactly over the
top of the tart; then at the word of command it gently descended upon
the right spot. It was not a quarter of an inch out of place. This was
a great triumph for Mother Mitchel and her able assistant.
But all was not over. How should this colossal tart be cooked? That was
the question that agitated all the people of the Greedy country, who
came in crowds--lords and commons--to gaze at the wonderful spectacle.
Some of the envious or ill-tempered declared it would be impossible to
cook the edifice which Mother Mitchel had built; and the doctors were,
no one knows why, the saddest of all. Mother Mitchel, smiling at the
general bewilderment, mounted the summit of the tart; she waved her
crutch in the air, and while her cat miaowed in his sweetest voice,
suddenly there issued from the woods a vast number of masons, drawing
wagons of well-baked bricks, which they had prepared in secret. This
sight silenced the ill-wishers and filled the hearts of the Greedy with
hope.
In two days an enormous furnace was built around and above the colossal
tart, which found itself shut up in an immense earthen pot. Thirty
huge mouths, which were connected with thousands of winding pipes for
conducting heat all over the building, were soon choked with fuel,
by the help of two hundred charcoal burners, who, obeying a private
signal, came forth in long array from the forest, each carrying his
sack of coal. Behind them stood Mother Mitchel with a box of matches,
ready to fire each oven as it was filled. Of course the kindlings had
not been forgotten, and was all soon in a blaze.
When the fire was lighted in the thirty ovens, when they saw the clouds
of smoke rolling above the dome, that announced that the cooking had
begun, the joy of the people was boundless. Poets improvised odes,
and musicians sung verses without end, in honour of the superb prince
who had been inspired to feed his people in so dainty a manner, when
other rulers could not give them enough even of dry bread. The names of
Mother Mitchel and of the illustrious engineer were not forgotten in
this great glorification. Next to His Majesty, they were certainly the
first of mankind, and their names were worthy of going down with his to
the remotest posterity.
All the envious ones were thunderstruck. They tried to console
themselves by saying that the work was not yet finished, and that an
accident might happen at the last moment. But they did not really
believe a word of this. Notwithstanding all their efforts to look
cheerful, it had to be acknowledged that the cooking was possible.
Their last resource was to declare the tart a bad one, but that would
be biting off their own noses. As for declining to eat it, envy could
never go so far as that in the country of the Greedy.
After two days, the unerring nose of Mother Mitchel discovered that the
tart was cooked to perfection. The whole country was perfumed with its
delicious aroma. Nothing more remained but to take down the furnaces.
Mother Mitchel made her official announcement to His Majesty, who was
delighted, and complimented her upon her punctuality. One day was still
wanting to complete the month. During this time the people gave their
eager help to the engineer in the demolition, wishing to have a hand
in the great national work and to hasten the blessed moment. In the
twinkling of an eye the thing was done. The bricks were taken down one
by one, counted carefully, and carried into the forest again, to serve
for another occasion.
The TART, unveiled, appeared at last in all its majesty and splendour.
The dome was gilded, and reflected the rays of the sun in the most
dazzling manner. The wildest excitement and rapture ran through
the land of the Greedy. Each one sniffed with open nostrils the
appetizing perfume. Their mouths watered, their eyes filled with
tears, they embraced, pressed each other's hands, and indulged in
touching pantomimes. Then the people of town and country, united by one
rapturous feeling, joined hands, and danced in a ring around the grand
confection.
No one dared to touch the tart before the arrival of His Majesty.
Meanwhile, something must be done to allay the universal impatience,
and they resolved to show Mother Mitchel the gratitude with which all
hearts were filled. She was crowned with the laurel of _conquerors_,
which is also the laurel of _sauce_, thus serving a double purpose.
Then they placed her, with her crutch and her cat, upon a sort of
throne, and carried her all round her vast work. Before her marched all
the musicians of the town, dancing, drumming, fifing, and tooting upon
all instruments, while behind her pressed an enthusiastic crowd, who
rent the air with their plaudits and filled it with a shower of caps.
Her fame was complete, and a noble pride shone on her countenance.
The royal procession arrived. A grand stairway had been built, so that
the King and his ministers could mount to the summit of this monumental
tart. Thence the King, amid a deep silence, thus addressed his people:
"My children," said he, "you adore tarts. You despise all other food.
If you could, you would even eat tarts in your sleep. Very well. Eat
as much as you like. Here is one big enough to satisfy you. But know
this, that while there remains a single crumb of this august tart, from
the height of which I am proud to look down on you, all other food is
forbidden you on pain of death. While you are here, I have ordered all
the pantries to be emptied and, all the butchers, bakers, pork milk
dealers, and fishmongers to shut up their shops. Why leave them open?
Why indeed? Have you not here at discretion what you love best, and
enough to last you ever, _ever_ so long? Devote yourselves to it with
all your hearts. I do not wish you to be bored with the sight of any
other food.
"Greedy ones! behold your TART!"
What enthusiastic applause. What frantic hurrahs rent the air, in
answer to this eloquent speech from the throne!
"Long live the King, Mother Mitchel, and her cat! Long live the tart!
Down with soup! Down with bread! To the bottom of the sea with all
beefsteaks, mutton chops, and roasts!"
Such cries came from every lip. Old men gently stroked their chops,
children patted their little stomachs, and the crowd licked its
thousand lips with eager joy. Even the babies danced in their nurses'
arms, so precocious was the passion for tarts in this singular country.
Grave professors, skipping like kids, declaimed Latin verses in honour
of His Majesty and Mother Mitchel, and the shyest young girls opened
their mouths like the beaks of little birds. As for the doctors, they
felt a joy beyond expression. They had reflected. They understood.
But--my friends!----
At last the signal was given. A detachment of the engineer corps
arrived, armed with pick and cutlass, and marched in good order to the
assault. A breach was soon opened, and the distribution began. The
King smiled at the opening in the tart; though vast, it hardly showed
more than a mouse hole in the monstrous wall.
The King stroked his beard grandly. "All goes well," said he, "for him
who knows how to wait."
Who can tell how long the feast would have lasted if the King had not
given his command that it should cease? Once more they expressed their
gratitude with cries so stifled that they resembled grunts, and then
rushed to the river. Never had a nation been so besmeared. Some were
daubed to the eyes, others had their ears and hair all sticky. As for
the little ones, they were marmalade from head to foot. When they
had finished their toilets, the river ran all red and yellow and was
sweetened for several hours, to the great surprise of all the fishes.
Before returning home, the people presented themselves before the King
to receive his commands.
"Children!" said he, "the feast will begin again exactly at six
o'clock. Give time to wash the dishes and change the tablecloths, and
you may once more give yourselves over to pleasure. You shall feast
twice a day as long as the tart lasts. Do not forget. Yes! if there is
not enough in this one, I will even order ANOTHER from Mother Mitchel;
for you know that great woman is indefatigable. Your happiness is my
only aim." (Marks of universal joy and emotion.) "You understand? Noon,
and six o'clock! There is no need for me to say be punctual! Go, then,
my children--be happy!"
The second feast was as gay as the first, and as long. A pleasant
walk in the suburbs--first exercise--then a nap, had refreshed their
appetites and unlimbered their jaws. But the King fancied that the
breach made in the tart was a little smaller than that of the morning.
"'Tis well!" said he, "'tis well! Wait till to-morrow, my friends; yes,
till day after to-morrow, and _next week_!"
The next day the feast still went on gayly; yet at the evening meal the
King noticed some empty seats.
"Why is this?" said he, with pretended indifference, to the court
physician.
"Your Majesty," said the great Olibriers, "a few weak stomachs; that is
all."
On the next day there were larger empty spaces. The enthusiasm visibly
abated. The eighth day the crowd had diminished one half; the ninth,
three quarters; the tenth day, of the thousand who came at first, only
two hundred remained; on the eleventh day only one hundred; and on the
twelfth--alas! who would have thought it?--a single one answered to
the call. Truly he was big enough. His body resembled a hogshead, his
mouth an oven, and his lips--we dare not say what. He was known in the
town by the name of Patapouf. They dug out a fresh lump for him from
the middle of the tart. It quickly vanished in his vast interior, and
he retired with great dignity, proud to maintain the honour of his name
and the glory of the Greedy Kingdom.
But the next day, even he, the very last, appeared no more. The
unfortunate Patapouf had succumbed, and, like all the other
inhabitants of the country, was in a very bad way. In short, it was
soon known that the whole town had suffered agonies that night from
too much tart. Let us draw a veil over those hours of torture. Mother
Mitchel was in despair. Those ministers who had not guessed the secret
dared not open their lips. All the city was one vast hospital. No one
was seen in the streets but doctors and apothecaries' boys, running
from house to house in frantic haste. It was dreadful! Doctor Olibriers
was nearly knocked out. As for the King, he held his tongue and shut
himself up in his palace, but a secret joy shone in his eyes, to the
wonder of every one. He waited three days without a word.
The third day, the King said to his ministers:
"Let us go now and see how my poor people are doing, and feel their
pulse a little."
The good King went to every house, without forgetting a single one. He
visited small and great, rich and poor.
"Oh, oh! Your Majesty," said all, "the tart was good, but may we never
see it again! Plague on that tart! Better were dry bread. Your Majesty,
for mercy's sake, a little dry bread! Oh, a morsel of dry bread, how
good it would be!"
"No, indeed," replied the King. "_There is more of that tart!_"
"What! Your Majesty, _must_ we eat it all?"
"You _must_!" sternly replied the King; "you _MUST_! By the immortal
beefsteaks! not one of you shall have a slice of bread, and not a loaf
shall be baked in the kingdom while there remains a crumb of that
excellent tart!"
"What misery!" thought these poor people. "That tart forever!"
The sufferers were in despair. There was only one cry through all the
town: "Ow! ow! ow!" For even the strongest and most courageous were in
horrible agonies. They twisted, they writhed, they lay down, they got
up. Always the inexorable colic. The dogs were not happier than their
masters; even they had too much tart.
The spiteful tart looked in at all the windows. Built upon a height, it
commanded the town. The mere sight of it made everybody ill, and its
former admirers had nothing but curses for it now. Unhappily, nothing
they could say or do made it any smaller; still formidable, it was a
frightful joke for those miserable mortals. Most of them buried their
heads in their pillows, drew their nightcaps over their eyes, and lay
in bed all day to shut out the sight of it. But this would not do; they
knew, they felt it was there. It was a nightmare, a horrible burden, a
torturing anxiety.
In the midst of this terrible consternation the King remained
inexorable during eight days. His heart bled for his people, but the
lesson must sink deep if it were to bear fruit in future. When their
pains were cured, little by little, through fasting alone, and his
subjects pronounced these trembling words, "We are hungry!" the King
sent them trays laden with--the inevitable tart.
"Ah!" cried they, with anguish, "the tart again! Always the tart, and
nothing but the tart! Better were death!"
A few, who were almost famished, shut their eyes, and tried to eat
a bit of the detested food; but it was all in vain--they could not
swallow a mouthful.
At length came the happy day when the King, thinking their punishment
had been severe enough and could never be forgotten, believed them at
length cured of their greediness. That day he ordered Mother Mitchel to
make in one of her colossal pots a super-excellent soup of which a bowl
was sent to every family. They received it with as much rapture as the
Hebrews did the manna in the desert. They would gladly have had twice
as much, but after their long fast it would not have been prudent.
It was a proof that they had learned something already, that they
understood this.
The next day, more soup. This time the King allowed slices of bread in
it. How this good soup comforted all the town! The next day there was a
little more bread in it and a little soup meat. Then for a few days the
kind Prince gave them roast beef and vegetables. The cure was complete.
The joy over this new diet was as great as ever had been felt for the
tart. It promised to last longer. They were sure to sleep soundly,
and to wake refreshed. It was pleasant to see in every house tables
surrounded with happy, rosy faces, and laden with good nourishing food.
The Greedy people never fell back into their old ways. Their once
puffed-out, sallow faces shone with health; they became, not fat, but
muscular, ruddy, and solid. The butchers and bakers reopened their
shops; the pastry cooks and confectioners shut theirs. The country of
the Greedy was turned upside down, and if it kept its name, it was
only from habit. As for the tart, it was forgotten. To-day, in that
marvellous country, there cannot be found a paper of sugarplums or a
basket of cakes. It is charming to see the red lips and the beautiful
teeth of the people. If they have still a king, he may well be proud to
be their ruler.
Does this story teach that tarts and pies should never be eaten? No;
but there is reason in all things.
The doctors alone did not profit by this great revolution. They could
not afford to drink wine any longer in a land where indigestion had
become unknown. The apothecaries were no less unhappy, spiders spun
webs over their windows, and their horrible remedies were no longer of
use.
Ask no more about Mother Mitchel. She was ridiculed without measure by
those who had adored her. To complete her misfortune, she lost her cat.
Alas for Mother Mitchel!
The King received the reward of his wisdom. His grateful people called
him neither Charles the Bold, nor Peter the Terrible, nor Louis the
Great, but always by the noble name of Prosper I, the Reasonable.
THANKFUL[1]
BY MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN.
This tale is evidence that Mrs. Freeman understands
the children of New England as well as she knows their
parents. There is a doll in the story, but boys will
not mind this as there are also two turkey-gobblers and
a pewter dish full of Revolutionary bullets.
SUBMIT THOMPSON sat on the stone wall; Sarah Adams, an erect, prim
little figure, ankle-deep in dry grass, stood beside it, holding
Thankful. Thankful was about ten inches long, made of the finest linen,
with little rosy cheeks, and a fine little wig of flax. She wore a
blue wool frock and a red cloak. Sarah held her close. She even drew
a fold of her own blue homespun blanket around her to shield her from
the November wind. The sky was low and gray; the wind blew from the
northeast, and had the breath of snow in it. Submit on the wall drew
her quilted petticoats close down over her feet, and huddled herself
into a small space, but her face gleamed keen and resolute out of the
depths of a great red hood that belonged to her mother. Her eyes were
fixed upon a turkey-gobbler ruffling and bobbing around the back door
of the Adams house. The two gambrel-roofed Thompson and Adams houses
were built as close together as if the little village of Bridgewater
were a city. Acres of land stretched behind them and at the other
sides, but they stood close to the road, and close to each other.
The narrow space between them was divided by a stone wall which was
Submit's and Sarah's trysting-place. They met there every day and
exchanged confidences. They loved each other like sisters--neither of
them had an own sister--but to-day a spirit of rivalry had arisen.
The tough dry blackberry vines on the wall twisted around Submit; she
looked, with her circle of red petticoat, like some strange late flower
blooming out on the wall. "I know he don't, Sarah Adams," said she.
"Father said he'd weigh twenty pounds," returned Sarah, in a small,
weak voice, which still had persistency in it.
"I don't believe he will. Our Thanksgiving turkey is twice as big. You
know he is, Sarah Adams."
"No, I don't, Submit Thompson."
"Yes, you do."
Sarah lowered her chin, and shook her head with a decision that was
beyond words. She was a thin, delicate-looking little girl, her small
blue-clad figure bent before the wind, but there was resolution in her
high forehead and her sharp chin.
Submit nodded violently.
Sarah shook her head again. She hugged Thankful, and shook her head,
with her eyes still staring defiantly into Submit's hood.
Submit's black eyes in the depths of it were like two sparks. She
nodded vehemently; the gesture was not enough for her; she nodded and
spoke together. "Sarah Adams," said she, "what will you give me if our
turkey is bigger than your turkey?"
"It ain't."
"What will you give me if it is?"
Sarah stared at Submit. "I don't know what you mean, Submit Thompson,"
said she, with a stately and puzzled air.
"Well, I'll tell you. If your turkey weighs more than ours I'll give
you--I'll give you my little work-box with the picture on the top, and
if our turkey weighs more than yours you give me---- What will you give
me, Sarah Adams?"
Sarah hung her flaxen head with a troubled air. "I don't know," said
she. "I don't believe I've got anything mother would be willing to have
me give away."
"There's Thankful. Your mother wouldn't care if you gave her away."
Sarah started, and hugged Thankful closer. "Yes, my mother would care,
too," said she. "Don't you know my Aunt Rose from Boston made her and
gave her to me?"
Sarah's beautiful young Aunt Rose from Boston was the special
admiration of both the little girls. Submit was ordinarily impressed by
her name, but now she took it coolly.
"What if she did?" she returned. "She can make another. It's just made
out of a piece of old linen, anyhow. My work-box is real handsome; but
you can do just as you are a mind to."
"Do you mean I can have the work-box to keep?" inquired Sarah.
"Course I do, if your turkey's bigger."
Sarah hesitated. "Our turkey is bigger anyhow," she murmured. "Don't
you think I ought to ask mother, Submit?" she inquired suddenly.
"No! What for? I don't see anything to ask your mother for. She won't
care anything about that rag doll."
"Ain't you going to ask your mother about the work-box?"
"No," replied Submit stoutly. "It's mine; my grandmother gave it to me."
Sarah reflected. "I _know_ our turkey is the biggest," she said,
looking lovingly at Thankful, as if to justify herself to her. "Well, I
don't care," she added, finally.
"Will you?"
"Yes."
"When's yours going to be killed?"
"This afternoon."
"So's ours. Then we'll find out."
Sarah tucked Thankful closer under her shawl. "I know our turkey is
biggest," said she. She looked very sober, although her voice was
defiant. Just then the great turkey came swinging through the yard. He
held up his head proudly and gobbled. His every feather stood out in
the wind. He seemed enormous--a perfect giant among turkeys. "_Look_ at
him!" said Sarah, edging a little closer to the wall; she was rather
afraid of him.
"He ain't half so big as ours," returned Submit, stoutly; but her heart
sank. The Thompson turkey did look very large.
"Submit! Submit!" called a voice from the Thompson house.
Submit slowly got down from the wall. "His feathers are a good deal
thicker than ours," she said, defiantly, to Sarah.
"Submit," called the voice, "come right home! I want you to pare apples
for the pies. Be quick!"
"Yes, marm," Submit answered back, in a shrill voice; "I'm coming!"
Then she went across the yard and into the kitchen door of the Thompson
house, like a red robin into a nest. Submit had been taught to obey her
mother promptly. Mrs. Thompson was a decided woman.
Sarah looked after Submit, then she gathered Thankful closer, and
also went into the house. Her mother, as well as Mrs. Thompson, was
preparing for Thanksgiving. The great kitchen was all of a pleasant
litter with pie plates and cake pans and mixing bowls, and full of
warm, spicy odours. The oven in the chimney was all heated and ready
for a batch of apple and pumpkin pies. Mrs. Adams was busy sliding them
in, but she stopped to look at Sarah and Thankful. Sarah was her only
child.
"Why, what makes you look so sober?" said she.
"Nothing," replied Sarah. She had taken off her blanket, and sat in one
of the straight-backed kitchen chairs, holding Thankful.
"You look dreadful sober," said her mother. "Are you tired?"
"No, marm."
"I'm afraid you've got cold standing out there in the wind. Do you feel
chilly?"
"No, marm. Mother, how much do you suppose our turkey weighs?"
"I believe father said he'd weigh about twenty pounds. You are sure you
don't feel chilly?"
"No, marm. Mother, do you suppose our turkey weighs more than Submit's?"
"How do you suppose I can tell? I ain't set eyes on their turkey
lately. If you feel well, you'd better sit up to the table and stone
that bowl of raisins. Put your dolly away, and get your apron."
But Sarah stoned raisins with Thankful in her lap, hidden under her
apron. She was so full of anxiety that she could not bear to put her
away. Suppose the Thompson turkey should be larger, and she should lose
Thankful--Thankful that her beautiful Aunt Rose had made for her?
Submit, over in the Thompson house, had sat down at once to her apple
paring. She had not gone into the best room to look at the work-box
whose possession she had hazarded. It stood in there on the table,
made of yellow satiny wood, with a sliding lid ornamented with a
beautiful little picture. Submit had a certain pride in it, but her
fear of losing it was not equal to her hope of possessing Thankful.
Submit had never had a doll, except a few plebeian ones, manufactured
secretly out of corncobs, whom it took more imagination than she
possessed to admire.
Gradually all emulation over the turkeys was lost in the naughty
covetousness of her little friend and neighbour's doll. Submit felt
shocked and guilty, but she sat there paring the Baldwin apples, and
thinking to herself: "If our turkey is only bigger, if it only is,
then--I shall have Thankful." Her mouth was pursed up and her eyes
snapped. She did not talk at all, but pared very fast.
Her mother looked at her. "If you don't take care, you'll cut your
fingers," said she. "You are in too much of a hurry. I suppose you want
to get out and gossip with Sarah again at the wall, but I can't let you
waste any more time to-day. There, I told you you would!"
Submit had cut her thumb quite severely. She choked a little when her
mother tied it up, and put on some balm of Gilead, which made it smart
worse.
"Don't cry!" said her mother. "You'll have to bear more than a cut
thumb if you live."
[Illustration: "How much do you suppose our turkey weighs?"]
And Submit did not let the tears fall. She came from a brave race.
Her great-grandfather had fought in the Revolution; his sword and
regimentals were packed in the fine carved chest in the best
room. Over the kitchen shelf hung an old musket with which her
great-grandmother, guarding her home and children, had shot an Indian.
In a little closet beside the chimney was an old pewter dish full of
homemade Revolutionary bullets, which Submit and her brothers had for
playthings. A little girl who played with Revolutionary bullets ought
not to cry over a cut thumb.
Submit finished paring the apples after her thumb was tied up, although
she was rather awkward about it. Then she pounded spices in the mortar,
and picked over cranberries. Her mother kept her busy every minute
until dinnertime. When Submit's father and her two brothers, Thomas and
Jonas, had come in, she began on the subject nearest her heart.
"Father," said she, "how much do you think our Thanksgiving turkey will
weigh?"
Mr. Thompson was a deliberate man. He looked at her a minute before
replying. "Seventeen or eighteen pounds," replied he.
"Oh, Father! don't you think he will weigh twenty?" Mr. Thompson shook
his head.
"He don't begin to weigh so much as the Adams' turkey," said Jonas.
"Their turkey weighs twenty pounds."
"Oh, Thomas! do you think their turkey weighs more than ours?" cried
Submit.
Thomas was her elder brother; he had a sober, judicial air like his
father. "Their turkey weighs considerable more than ours," said he.
Submit's face fell.
"You are not showing a right spirit," said her mother, severely. "Why
should you care if the Adams' turkey does weigh more? I am ashamed of
you!"
Submit said no more. She ate her dinner soberly. Afterward she wiped
dishes while her mother washed. All the time she was listening. Her
father and brothers had gone out; presently she started. "Oh, Mother,
they're killing the turkey!" said she.
"Well, don't stop while the dishes are hot, if they are," returned her
mother.
Submit wiped obediently, but as soon as the dishes were set away, she
stole out in the barn where her father and brothers were picking the
turkey.
"Father, when are you going to weigh him?" she asked timidly.
"Not till to-night," said her father.
"Submit!" called her mother.
Submit went in and swept the kitchen floor. It was an hour after
that, when her mother was in the south room, getting it ready for her
grandparents, who were coming home to Thanksgiving--they had been on a
visit to their youngest son--that Submit crept slyly into the pantry.
The turkey lay there on the broad shelf before the window. Submit
looked at him. She thought he was small. "He was 'most all feathers,"
she whispered, ruefully. She stood looking disconsolately at the
turkey. Suddenly her eyes flashed and a red flush came over her face.
It was as if Satan, coming into that godly new England home three days
before Thanksgiving, had whispered in her ear.
Presently Submit stole softly back into the kitchen, set a chair before
the chimney cupboard, climbed up, and got the pewter dish full of
Revolutionary bullets. Then she stole back to the pantry and emptied
the bullets into the turkey's crop. Then she got a needle and thread
from her mother's basket, sewed up the crop carefully, and set the
empty dish back in the cupboard. She had just stepped down out of the
chair when her brother Jonas came in.
"Submit," said he, "let's have one game of odd or even with the
bullets."
"I am too busy," said Submit. "I've got to spin my stint."
"Just one game. Mother won't care."
"No; I can't."
Submit flew to her spinning wheel in the corner. Jonas, still
remonstrating, strolled into the pantry.
"I don't believe mother wants you in there," Submit said anxiously.
"See here, Submit," Jonas called out in an eager voice, "I'll get
the steelyards, and we'll weigh the turkey. We can do it as well as
anybody."
Submit left her spinning wheel. She was quite pale with trepidation
when Jonas and she adjusted the turkey in the steelyards. What if those
bullets should rattle out? But they did not.
"He weighs twenty pounds and a quarter," announced Jonas, with a gasp,
after peering anxiously at the figures. "He's the biggest turkey that
was ever raised in these parts."
Jonas exulted a great deal, but Submit did not say much. As soon as
Jonas had laid the turkey back on the shelf and gone out, she watched
her chance and removed the bullets, replacing them in the pewter dish.
When Mr. Thompson and Thomas came home at twilight there was a deal of
talk over the turkey.
"The Adams' turkey doesn't weigh but nineteen pounds," Jonas announced.
"Sarah was out there when they weighed him, and she 'most cried."
"I think Sarah and Submit and all of you are very foolish about it,"
said Mrs. Thompson severely. "What difference does it make if one
weighs a pound or two more than the other, if there is enough to go
round?"
"Submit looks as if she was sorry ours weighed the most now," said
Jonas.
"My thumb aches," said Submit.
"Go and get the balm of Gilead bottle, and put some more on," ordered
her mother.
That night when she went to bed she could not say her prayers. When she
woke in the morning it was with a strange, terrified feeling, as if she
had climbed a wall into some unknown dreadful land. She wondered if
Sarah would bring Thankful over; she dreaded to see her coming, but she
did not come. Submit herself did not stir out of the house all that day
or the next, and Sarah did not bring Thankful until next morning.
They were all out in the kitchen about an hour before dinner.
Grandfather Thompson sat in his old armchair at one corner of the
fireplace, Grandmother Thompson was knitting, and Jonas and Submit were
cracking butternuts. Submit was a little happier this morning. She
thought Sarah would never bring Thankful, and so she had not done so
much harm by cheating in the weight of the turkey.
There was a tug at the latch of the kitchen door; it was pushed open
slowly and painfully, and Sarah entered with Thankful in her arms.
She said not a word to anybody, but her little face was full of woe.
She went straight to Submit, and laid Thankful in her lap; then she
turned and fled with a great sob. The door slammed after her. All the
Thompsons stopped and looked at Submit.
"Submit, what does this mean?" her father asked.
Submit looked at him, trembling.
"Speak," said he.
"Submit, mind your father," said Mrs. Thompson.
"What did she bring you the doll baby for?" asked Grandmother Thompson.
"Sarah---was going to give me Thankful if---our turkey weighed most,
and I was going to---give her my---work-box if hers weighed most," said
Submit jerkily. Her lips felt stiff.
Her father looked very sober and stern. He turned to his father. When
Grandfather Thompson was at home, every one deferred to him. Even at
eighty he was the recognized head of the house. He was a wonderful
old man, tall and soldierly, and full of a grave dignity. He looked at
Submit, and she shrank.
"Do you know," said he, "that you have been conducting yourself like
unto the brawlers in the taverns and ale-houses?"
"Yes, sir," murmured Submit, although she did not know what he meant.
"No godly maid who heeds her elders will take part in any such foolish
and sinful wager," her grandfather continued.
Submit arose, hugging Thankful convulsively. She glanced wildly at her
great-grandmother's musket over the shelf. The same spirit that had
aimed it at the Indian possessed her, and she spoke out quite clearly:
"Our turkey didn't weigh the most," said she. "I put the Revolutionary
bullets in his crop."
There was silence. Submit's heart beat so hard that Thankful quivered.
"Go upstairs to your chamber, Submit," said her mother, "and you need
not come down to dinner. Jonas, take that doll and carry it over to the
Adams' house."
Submit crept miserably out of the room, and Jonas carried Thankful
across the yard to Sarah.
Submit crouched beside her little square window set with tiny panes of
glass, and watched him. She did not cry. She was very miserable, but
confession had awakened a salutary smart in her soul, like the balm of
Gilead on her cut thumb. She was not so unhappy as she had been. She
wondered if her father would whip her, and she made up her mind not to
cry if he did.
After Jonas came back she still crouched at the window. Exactly
opposite in the Adams' house was another little square window, and that
lighted Sarah's chamber. All of a sudden Sarah's face appeared there.
The two little girls stared pitifully at each other. Presently Sarah
raised her window, and put a stick under it; then Submit did the same.
They put their faces out, and looked at each other a minute before
speaking. Sarah's face was streaming with tears.
"What you crying for?" called Submit softly.
"Father sent me up here 'cause it is sinful to--make bets, and Aunt
Rose has come, and I can't have any--Thanksgiving dinner," wailed Sarah.
"I'm wickeder than you," said Submit. "I put the Revolutionary bullets
in the turkey to make it weigh more than yours. Yours weighed the most.
If mother thinks it's right, I'll give you the work-box."
"I don't--want it," sobbed Sarah. "I'm dreadful sorry you've got to
stay up there, and can't have any dinner, Submit."
Answering tears sprang to Submit's eyes. "I'm dreadful sorry you've got
to stay up there, and can't have any dinner," she sobbed back.
There was a touch on her shoulder. She looked around and there stood
the grandmother. She was trying to look severe, but she was beaming
kindly on her. Her fat, fair old face was as gentle as the mercy that
tempers justice; her horn spectacles and her knitting needles and the
gold beads on her neck all shone in the sunlight.
"You had better come downstairs, child," said she. "Dinner's 'most
ready, and mebbe you can help your mother. Your father isn't going
to whip you this time, because you told the truth about it, but you
mustn't ever do such a dreadful wicked thing again."
"No, I won't," sobbed Submit. She looked across, and there beside
Sarah's face in the window was another beautiful smiling one. It had
pink cheeks and sweet black eyes and black curls, among which stood a
high tortoise-shell comb.
"Oh, Submit!" Sarah called out, joyfully, "Aunt Rose says I can go down
to dinner!"
"Grandmother says I can!" called back Submit.
The beautiful smiling face opposite leaned close to Sarah's for a
minute.
"Oh, Submit!" cried Sarah, "Aunt Rose says she will make you a doll
baby like Thankful, if your mother's willing!"
"I guess she'll be willing if she's a good girl," called Grandmother
Thompson.
Submit looked across a second in speechless radiance. Then the faces
vanished from the two little windows, and Submit and Sarah went down to
their Thanksgiving dinners.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] From _Harper's Young People_, November 25, 1890.
BEETLE RING'S THANKSGIVING MASCOT[2]
BY SHELDON C. STODDARD.
Beetle Ring had the reputation of being the toughest
lumber camp on the river. The boys were certainly
rough, and rather hard drinkers, but their hearts were
in the right place, after all.
SIX months of idleness following a long run of fever, a lost position,
and consequent discouragement had brought poverty and wretchedness to
Joe Bennett.
The lumber camp on the Featherstone, where he had been at work, had
broken up and gone, and an old shack, deserted by some hunter, and now
standing alone in the great woods, was the only home he could provide
for his little family. It had answered its purpose as a makeshift in
the warm weather, but now, in late November, and with the terrible
northern winter coming swiftly on, it was small wonder the young
lumberman had been discouraged as he tried to forecast the future.
His strength had returned, however, and lately something of his old
courage, for he had found work. It was fifteen miles away, to be sure,
and in "Beetle Ring" lumber camp, the camp that bore the reputation
of being the roughest on the Featherstone, but it was work. He was
earning something, and might hope soon to move his family into a
habitable house and civilization.
But his position at Beetle Ring was not an enviable one. The men
took scant pains to conceal their dislike for the young fellow who
steadfastly refused to "chip in" when the camp jug was sent to the
Skylark, the nearest saloon, some miles down the river, and who
invariably declined to join in the camp's numerous sprees. But Bennett
worked on quietly.
And in the meantime to the old shack in the woods the baby had come--in
the bleak November weather.
Night was settling down over the woods. An old half-breed woman was
tending the fire in the one room of the shack, and on the wretched bed
lay a fair-faced woman, the young wife and mother, who looked wistfully
out at the bleak woods, white with the first snow, then turned her wan,
pale face toward the tiny bundle at her side.
"Your pappy will come to-night, baby," she said, softly. "It's
Saturday, and your pappy will come to-night, sure." She drew the covers
more closely, and tucked them carefully about the small figure.
"Mend the fire, Lisette, please. It's cold. And, Lisette, please watch
out down the road. Sometimes Joe comes early Saturdays."
The old woman shook her head and muttered over the little pile of wood,
but she fed the fire, and then turned and looked down the long white
trail.
"No Joe yet," she said, with a sympathetic glance toward the bed. She
looked at the thick gray clouds, and added, "Heap snow soon."
But the night came down and the evening passed, while the women
waited anxiously. It was near midnight when the wife's face lighted
up suddenly at a sound outside, and directly there was a pounding,
uncertain step on the threshold. The door opened and Bennett came in
clumsily.
The woman's little glad cry of welcome was changed to one of
apprehension at her husband's appearance. The resolute swing and
bearing of the lumberman--that had returned as he regained his
strength--were gone. He clumped across the room unsteadily on a pair
of rude crutches, his left foot swathed in bandages--a big, ungainly
bundle.
"What is it, Joe?" the wife asked anxiously.
"Just more of my precious luck, that's all, Nannie." He threw off the
old box coat and heavy cap, brushed the melting snow from his hair
and beard, and without waiting to warm his chilled hands at the fire,
hobbled to the bed and bent over the woman and the tiny bundle.
"Are you all right, Nan?" he asked anxiously.
"All right, Joe; but I've been so worried!"
"And the baby, Nan?"
The wife gently pushed back the covers and proudly brought to view a
tiny pink and puckered face. "Fine, Joe. She's just as fine, isn't she?"
A proud, happy light flickered for a moment in the man's eyes as
he stooped to kiss the tiny face; then he shut his teeth hard and
swallowed suddenly.
"What is it, Joe?" his wife asked, looking at the rudely bandaged foot.
"Cut it--nigh half off, and hurt the bone. It'll be weeks before I can
do a stroke of work again. It means--I don't know what, and I daren't
think what, Nannie. The cook sewed it up." He glowered at the injured
member savagely.
His wife's face grew paler still, but she only asked tenderly, "How did
you ever get here, Joe?"
"Rode one of Pose Breem's hosses--his red roan."
"Fifteen miles on horseback with that foot? I should have thought it
would have killed you, Joe."
"I had to come, Nan," said the lumberman. "I didn't know how you were
getting on, and I had to come."
"I didn't suppose they'd let you have a horse, any of 'em, now
sleighing's come."
"They wouldn't--if I'd asked 'em. They don't seem to like me very well,
and I didn't ask."
His wife's big, wistful eyes were turned upon him in quick alarm. "I'm
scared, Joe, if you took a horse without asking. What'll they think?
Where is it, Joe?"
"Don't ye worry, Nan. I've sent the horse back by Pikepole Pete. He'll
have him back before morning--Pose won't miss him till then--and I
wrote a note explaining. Pose will be mad some, but he'll get over it."
The young lumberman listened uneasily to the storm, which was
increasing, looked at his wife's pale face a moment, and added:
"I had to come, Nan. I just had to."
But the woman was only half reassured. "If anything should happen," she
said, "if he shouldn't get it back, they'd think you--you stole it,
and----"
"There, there, Nan!" broke in her husband, "don't be crossing bridges.
Pete'll take the horse back. I've done the fellow lots of favours, and
he won't go back on me. Don't worry, girl!"
He moved the bandaged foot and winced, but not from the pain of the
wound. The hard look grew deeper on his face. "I'm down on my luck,
Nan," he said, hopelessly. "There's no use trying. Everything's against
me, everything--following me like grim death. And grim death," he
jerked the words out harshly, "is like to be the end of it, here in
this old shack that's not fit to winter hogs in, let alone humans.
There's not wood enough cut to last a week. You'll freeze, Nan, you and
the baby, and I'm--just nothing."
He took two silver dollars from his pocket, and said, almost savagely,
"There's what we've got to winter on, and me crippled."
But his wife put her hand on his softly. "Don't you give up so, Joe,"
she said. And presently she added: "Next Thursday's Thanksgiving. We've
seen hard times, and we may see harder, but I never knew Thanksgiving
to come yet without something to be thankful for--never."
Outside the storm continued, fine snow sifting down rapidly. "Pikepole
Pete" found stiff work facing it, and bent low over the red roan's neck.
"Blue blazes!" he muttered. "Bennett's a good fellow all right, and
he's hurt; but if he hadn't nigh saved my life twice he could get this
critter back himself fer all of me!" He glanced at the dark woods and
drew up suddenly. "The road forks here, and Turner's is yonder--less
than a mile. I'll hitch in his barn a spell and go on later," and he
took the Turner fork.
But at Turner's Pete found two or three congenial spirits--and a jug;
and a few hours later the easy-going fellow was deep in a tipsy sleep
that would last for hours.
The following Sunday morning came bright and clear upon freshly fallen
snow that softened all the ruder outlines of town and field and woods.
Beetle Ring camp lay wrapped in fleecy whiteness.
The camp was late astir, for Sunday was Beetle Ring's day--not of rest,
but of carousal. Two men had started out rather early--the camp's jug
delegation to the Skylark. Presently the men began to straggle out to
the snug row of sheds where the horses were kept. Posey Breem yawned
lazily as he threw open the door of his particular stall, then suddenly
brought himself together with a jerk and stared fixedly.
"What ails you now, Pose? Seen a ghost?"
"Skid" Thomson stopped with the big measure of feed which he was
carrying.
"No, I've seen no ghost," said Breem slowly, still staring. "Look
here, Skid!" Thomson looked into the stall, and nearly dropped the
measure.
"By George, Pose!" he said. "By--George!"
The news flew over the camp like wildfire. Posey Breem's red roan,
the best horse in the camp, had been stolen! The burly lumbermen came
hurrying from all directions. There was no doubt about it--the horse
was gone, and the snow had covered every trace. There was absolutely no
clue to follow. Silently and sullenly the men filed in to breakfast. In
a lumberman's eyes hardly a crime could exceed that of horse stealing.
"What I want to know is," said Breem, as he glanced sharply round
the long room of the camp, "what's become of that yellow-haired
jay--Bennett?"
"By George!" said Skid Thomson, "that's right! Where is the critter?"
"Skipped!" said Bill Bates, sententiously, after a quick search had
been made. "It's all plain enough now. I never liked the close-fisted
critter."
"Nor I, either!" growled Skid. "Never chipped in with the boys, but was
laying low just the same."
"You won't catch him, either," said Bates. "They're sharp--that kind.
The critter knew 'twould snow and hide his tracks."
"And I'd just sewed up his blamed foot!" muttered the cook in disgust.
"Maybe we'll catch him. Up to Fat Pine two years ago," began Breem,
reminiscently, "Big Donovan had a horse stole. They caught the fellow."
"Yes, I remember," said Skid Thomson. "I was there. We caught him up
north." The men nodded understandingly and approvingly.
"Wuth a hundred and fifty dollars, the roan was," said Breem.
Beetle Ring camp passed an uneasy day, the "jug" for once receiving
scant attention. Late in the afternoon "Trapper John," an old
half-breed who hunted and trapped about the woods, stopped at the camp
to get warm.
"Didn't see anybody with a horse last night or this morning, eh, John?"
asked Posey Breem.
"Um, yes," responded the old trapper, quickly. "Saw um horse las'
night--man ride--big foot--so." Old John held out his arms in
exaggerated illustration.
Beetle Ring rose to its feet as one man. "What colour was the horse,
John?" asked Breem softly.
"Huh! Can't see good after dark, but think um roan." Breem looked
slowly round the silent camp, and Beetle Ring grimly made ready for
business.
It was evening when the men stopped a few rods below the shack. A light
shone out from a window, lighting up a little space in the sombre woods.
"The fellow's got pals prob'bly," said Posey Breem. "You wait here
while I do a little scouting."
Breem crept cautiously into the circle of light, and glancing through
the uncurtained window, saw his man--with his "pals." He saw upon the
miserable bed a woman with a thin, pale face and sad, wistful eyes,
eyes that yet lighted up with a beautiful pride as they rested upon the
man, who sat close by, holding a tiny bundle in his arms.
The man shifted his position a little, so that the light fell upon the
bundle, and then the watcher outside saw the sleeping face of a baby.
There was a rumour in the camp that Posey Breem had not always been the
man that he was--that a woman had once blessed his life. But since they
had carried the young mother away, with her dead baby on her breast, to
place the two in one deep grave together, he had gone steadily downward.
With hungry eyes Breem gazed at the scene in the poor little house,
his thoughts flying backward over the years. A sudden sharp, impatient
whistle roused him, and he strode hastily back to the waiting men.
"Well, Pose?" interrogated Skid impatiently.
"He's there, all right," said Breem, in a peculiar tone. "I ain't
overmuch given to advising prowling round folks' houses, but you
fellows just look in yonder." He jerked his head toward the shack. And
a line of big, rough-looking men filed into the little illumined space,
to come back presently silent and subdued.
"Now let's go home," said Breem, turning his horse toward camp.
"And your horse, Pose?" questioned Bates.
"Burn the horse!" said Breem quickly. "D'ye think the like of yonder's
a horse thief? I ain't worrying 'bout the horse." And the men rode
back to camp silently.
The next morning, when Breem swung open the door of the stall, he was
not surprised to find the red roan standing quietly by the side of his
mate. A bit of crumpled paper was pinned to the blanket. Breem read:
I rode your horse. I had to. I'll surely make it right.
BENNETT.
"Course he had to!" growled the lumberman, and he passed the paper
round.
"Oncommon peart baby," said Skid, at last.
"Dreadful cold shack, though!" muttered Bates, conveying a quarter of a
griddlecake to his mouth.
"That's just it," said Pose, scowling. "Just let a stiff nip of winter
come, and the woman yonder and the little critter, they'd freeze,
that's what they'd do, in that old rattletrap."
The men looked at one another in solemn assent. "And I've been
thinking," continued Breem, "since Bennett there belonged to the camp,
and since we kind of misused the fellow for being stingy--for which we
ought to have been smashed with logs--that we have a kind of a claim on
'em, as 'twere, and they on us. And we must get 'em out of that yonder
before they freeze plumb solid." He stopped inquiringly.
"Right as right," assented several.
"And I've been thinking," said Bates suddenly, "about that storeroom
of ours. It's snug and warm, and there's a lot of room in it, and we
can put a stove into it and----" But the rest of Bates's suggestion was
drowned in a round of applause.
"And _I've_ been thinking, just a little," put in Skid Thomson, "and
if I've figured correct, next Thursday's Thanksgiving--don't know as
I've thought of it in ten years--and if we stir round sharp we can
get things ready by then, and--well, 'twouldn't hurt Beetle Ring to
celebrate for once----" But Skid was also interrupted by a cheer.
"And it's my firm belief," reflected Bates with an air of profound
conviction, "that that baby of Bennett's was designed special and, as
you might say, providential, for to be Beetle Ring's mascot. Fat Pine
and Horseshoe have 'em--mascots--to bring luck, and I've noticed Beetle
Ring ain't had the luck lately it should have."
Bates paused, and the camp meditated in silent delight.
Thanksgiving morning was a cold one, but clear. More snow had fallen,
and the deep, feathery whiteness stretched away until lost in the dark
background of the pines and spruces. A wavering line of smoke rose over
the roof of the little old shack in the woods.
Bennett was winding rags round the armpieces of the rough crutches.
He had dragged in some short limbs the day before for fuel, but in so
doing had broken open the wound, which gave him excruciating pain.
"Joe," said his wife, suddenly, "where are you going?"
"I'm going to try for help, Nan. We're out of nigh everything, and my
foot no better."
"You can't do it, Joe. You--you'll die, if you try, Joe, alone in the
woods. Oh, Joe!"
The look of hope that had never wholly left the woman's eyes was slowly
fading out.
"We'll all die if I don't try, Nannie. I'm----"
"Huh!" suddenly exclaimed the old woman, peering out of the little
window. "Heap men, heap horses! Look, see 'em come!"
Bennett turned hastily, and saw a long line of stalwart men and sturdy
horses threshing resolutely through the deep snow and heading directly
for the shack. He looked keenly at the men, and his face paled a
little, but he said steadily, "It's the Beetle Ring men, Nan."
His wife gave a sharp cry. "It's the horse, Joe! It's the horse!
They're after you, Joe, sure!" She caught her husband's arm.
The men were now filling up the little space before the shack. Directly
there came a sounding knock. Bennett opened the door to admit the burly
frame of Posey Breem. He said quietly:
"I'm here all right, Pose, and I took your horse, but----"
"Burn the hoss!" said Breem explosively. "That's all right. Shake,
pard!" He held out a brawny hand. Bennett "shook" wonderingly.
"Wife, pard?" asked Breem, gently, nodding toward the bed. Bennett
hastily introduced him.
"Kid, pard?" Breem pointed a stubby finger at the little bundle.
Bennett nodded.
The lumberman grinned delightedly, then coughed a little, and began
awkwardly:
"Pard, th' boys over at Beetle Ring heard--as you might say,
accidental"--Breem coughed into his big hand--"about your folks over
here, your wife _and_--the baby. They were powerful interested,
specially about the baby. Why, pard, some of the boys hain't seen a
baby in ten years, and we thought as you belonged to the camp, maybe
you and your wife would allow that the camp had a sort of claim on the
little critter yonder." He eyed the tiny bundle wistfully.
"And another thing that hit the boys, pard," he went on. "Up at Fat
Pine they got what they call a mascot, bein' a tame b'ar; an' up
at Horseshoe they got a mascot, bein' a goat. Lots of camps have
'em--fetches luck. And the boys are sure that this baby of yours was
designed special to be Beetle Ring's mascot. Now, pard, Beetle Ring, as
you know, ain't what you'd call a Sunday-school, but the boys they'll
behave. They fixed up that storeroom to beat all, nice bed, big stove,
and lots of wood, and so on, and we've got a cow for the woman and
baby. Say, we want you powerful. Got a sleigh fixed, hemlock boughs
and a cover of robes and blankets, and Skid'll drive careful. He's
a master at drivin', Skid is. You'll come, won't you? The boys are
waitin'."
Big tears were in the woman's eyes as she turned toward her husband.
"Oh, Joe," she said, and choked suddenly; but she pressed the baby
tightly to her breast. "I knew 'twould come Thanksgiving."
"There, pard," said Breem, after blowing his nose explosively, "you
just see to wrappin' up the woman and the kid, and me and Skid, being
as you're hurt, you know, 'll tote 'em out to the sleigh."
The young mother was soon placed carefully in the sleigh, the old woman
following. But when Skid Thomson appeared in the door of the old shack,
bearing a tiny form muffled up with wondrous care, the whole of Beetle
Ring shouted.
Breem led up a spare horse for Bennett's use. The latter stopped short,
with a curious expression on his face. The horse was the red roan.
But Breem only said, his keen eyes twinkling:
"Under such circumstances as these, pard, you're welcome to all the
hosses in Beetle Ring."
With steady, practiced hand Skid Thomson guided his powerful team
through the deep snow, over the rough forest road; and sometimes brawny
arms carried the sleigh bodily over the roughest places.
* * * * *
At the close of the day an anxious consultation took place in the big
main room of Beetle Ring, and presently two men appeared outside.
They walked slowly toward what had been the camp's storeroom, but
halted before the door hesitatingly.
"You go in ahead, Skid, and ask 'em," said Breem, earnestly, to his
companion.
"No, go ahead yourself, Pose. I'd be sure to calk a hoss or split a
runner, or somethin'. Go on!"
Breem knocked, and both went in.
"All right, pard?"
"Right as right, Pose," said Joe Bennett.
"Wife all right?" Breem turned toward the bed, and Mrs. Bennett smiled
up at him with happy eyes, and with a bit of colour already showing in
her pale face. Breem smiled back broadly. Then he asked, "_And_, pard,
the baby?"
"Peart as peart, Pose."
Breem waited a little, twirling his cap, but receiving a sharp thump
from Thomson, went on:
"The boys, pard, are anxious about the little critter. They're kind
of hankering, pard, and, mum, if you are willin', and ain't 'fraid to
trust her with us, why, we'd be mighty glad to tote her--just for a
few minutes--over to camp. The boys are stiddy, all of 'em, stiddy as
churches. They hain't soaked a mite to-day, mum, and they ain't goin'
to; they've hove the jug into a snowdrift, and they'd take it kind,
mum--if you are willin'."
The woman, still smiling happily, was already wrapping up the baby.
Breem held up a warning finger when he returned a little later, and
again smiled delightedly.
"Went to sleep a-totin'--if you'll believe it, the burned little
critter!" he said, softly. "And," he added, "the boys, pard, are mighty
pleased; and, mum, they thank you kindly. They say, the boys do, there
ain't such a mascot as theirs in five hundred miles; they see luck
comin', chunks of it, pard, already." And the big fellow went out and
closed the door gently.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] From the _Youth's Companion_, November 30, 1905.
MISTRESS ESTEEM ELLIOTT'S MOLASSES CAKE[3]
THE STORY OF A POSTPONED THANKSGIVING[4]
BY KATE UPSON CLARK.
Older boys and girls who are familiar with "The
Courtship of Miles Standish" will enjoy the colonial
flavour of this tale of 1705.
"OBED!" called Mistress Achsah Ely from her front porch, "step thee
over to Squire Belding's, quick! Here's a teacup! Ask Mistress Belding
for the loan of some molasses. Nothing but molasses and hot water helps
the baby when he is having such a turn of colic. Beseems me he will
have a fit! Make haste, Obed!"
At that very moment Squire Belding's little daughter Hitty was
travelling toward Mistress Ely's for the purpose of borrowing molasses
wherewith to sweeten a ginger cake. Hitty and Obed, who were of an
age, met, compared notes, and then returned to their respective homes.
Shortly afterward both of them darted forth again, bound on the same
errands as before, only in different directions.
Mr. Chapin, the storekeeper, hadn't "set eyes on any molasses for a
week. The river's frozen over so mean and solid," he said, "there's no
knowing when there'll be any molasses in town."
There had been very peculiar weather in Colchester during this month
of October, 1705. First, on the 13th (Old Style), an unprecedently
early date, had come a "terrible cold snap," lasting three days. This
was followed by two days of phenomenal mildness. The river had frozen
over during the "cold snap," and the ice had melted during the warm
days, until, on the 19th, it was breaking up and preparing to go out
to sea. In the night of the 19th had descended a frigid blast, colder
than the original one. This had arrested the broken ice, piled it up in
all sorts of fantastic forms, and congealed it till it looked like a
rough Alaskan glacier. After the cold wind had come a heavy snowstorm.
All Colchester lay under three feet of snow. Footpaths and roads were
broken out somewhat in the immediate village, but no farther. It was
most unusual to have the river closed so early in the season, and
consequently the winter supplies, which were secured from New London
and Norwich, had not been laid in. Even Mr. Chapin, the storekeeper,
was but poorly supplied with staples of which he ordinarily kept an
abundance on hand.
Therefore when Obed and Hitty had made the tour of the neighbourhood
they found but one family, that of Deacon Esteem Elliott, the richest
man in the place, which had any molasses. Mistress Elliott, in spite
of her wealth, was said to be "none too free with her stuff," and
she was not minded to lend any molasses under the circumstances, for
"a trifling foolish" cake. Obed's representation of the distress of
the Ely baby, however, appealed even to her, and she lent him a large
spoonful of the precious liquid.
That afternoon there was as much visiting about among the Colchester
housewives as the drifts permitted. Such a state of things had never
been known since the town was settled. No molasses! And Thanksgiving
appointed for the first Thursday in November! Pray what would
Thanksgiving amount to, they inquired, with no pumpkin pies, no baked
beans, no molasses cake, no proper sweetening for the rum so freely
used in those days?
Mistress Esteem Elliott was even more troubled than the rest of
Colchester, for was not her buxom daughter, and only child, Prudence
Ann, to be married on Thanksgiving Day to the son of a great magnate in
the neighbouring town of Hebron? And was it not the intention to invite
all of the aristocracy of both towns to be present at the marriage
feast?
Mistress Elliott accordingly pursued her way upon this Tuesday
afternoon, October 19, 1705, over to Mistress Achsah Ely's. There she
found Mistress Belding, who, remembering Mistress Elliott's refusal to
lend her molasses, was naturally somewhat chill in her manner.
Mistress Elliott had scarcely pulled off her homespun leggings (made
with stout and ample feet) and pulled out her knitting work, when
Mistress Camberly, the parson's wife, a lady of robust habit and
voluble tongue, came in.
"And what are we going to do, Mistress Ely?" she burst out, as soon as
the door was opened at her knock. "Not a drop of molasses to be had for
love nor money, and Thanksgiving Day set for the 4th of November!"
"Mistress Elliott has a-plenty of molasses," affirmed Mistress Belding,
with a haughty look at her unaccommodating neighbour.
"I'd have you to know, Mistress Betty Belding," retorted Mistress
Elliott, "that I have a bare quart or so in my jug, and, so far as I
can learn, that is all that the whole town of Colchester has got to
depend upon till the roads or the river can be broken to Norwich."
Mistress Ely well understood this little passage-at-arms, for Obed had
told her the whole story; but as her baby had been cured by Mistress
Elliott's molasses, she did not think it proper to interfere in the
matter. Neither did the good parson's wife, although she could not
comprehend the rights of the case. She simply repeated her first
question: "What are we going to do about it, I should like to know?"
"I wonder if Thanksgiving Day could not be put off a week," suggested
Mistress Belding, who had a good head, and was even reported to give
such advice to her husband that he always thought best to heed it.
"Such a thing was never heard of!" cried Mistress Elliott.
"But there's no law against it," insisted Mistress Belding boldly. "By
a week from the set day there will surely be some means of getting
about the country, and then we can have a Thanksgiving that's worth the
setting down to."
After a long talk the good women separated in some doubt, but as Squire
Belding and Mr. Ely were two of the three selectmen, they were soon
acquainted with the drift of the afternoon's discussion. The result of
it all is thus chronicled in the town records of Colchester:
"At a legal town-meeting held in Colchester, October
29, 1705, it was voted that _WHEREAS_ there was a
Thanksgiving appointed to be held on the first Thursday
in November, and our present circumstances being
such that it cannot with convenience be attended on
that day, it is therefore voted and agreed by the
inhabitants as aforesaid (concluding the thing will
not be otherwise than well resented) that the second
Thursday of November aforesaid shall be set aside for
that service."
This proceeding was, on the whole, as the selectmen had hoped that it
would be, "well resented" among the Colchester people, but there was
one household in which there was rebellion at the mandate. In the great
sanded kitchen of Deacon Esteem Elliott pretty, spoilt Prudence Ann was
fairly raging over it.
"I had set my heart on being married on Thanksgiving Day," she sobbed.
"And here it won't be Thanksgiving Day at all! And as for putting off
a wedding, everybody knows there is no surer way of bringing ill luck
down than that! I say I won't have it put off! But we can't have any
party with no molasses in town! Oh, dear! I might as well be married in
the back kitchen with a linsey gown on, as if I were the daughter of
old Betty, the pie woman! There!"
Then the proud girl would break into fresh sobs, and vow vengeance upon
the selectmen of Colchester. She even sent her father to expostulate
with them, but it was of no use. They had known all along that
the Elliotts did not want the festival day put off, but nobody in
Colchester minded very much if the Elliotts were a little crossed.
Prudence Ann would not face the reality till after the Sabbath was
past. On that day the expectant bridegroom managed to break his way
through the drifts from Hebron, and he was truly grieved, as he should
have been, at the very unhappy state of mind of his betrothed. He
avowed himself, however, in a way which augured well for the young
people's future, ready to do just what Prudence Ann and her family
decided was best.
On Monday morning Mistress Elliott sat down with her unreasonable
daughter and had a serious talk with her.
"Now, Prudence Ann," she began, "you must give up crying and fretting.
If you are going to be married on Thursday, we have got a great deal of
work to do between now and then. If you are going to wait till next
week, I want to know it. Of course you can't have a large party, if
you choose to be married on the 4th, but we will ask John's folks and
Aunt Susanna and Uncle Martin and Parson Camberley and his wife. We
can bake enough for them with what's in the house. If you wait another
week, you can probably have a better party--and now you have it all in
a nutshell."
Prudence Ann was hysterical even yet, but at last her terror of a
postponed wedding overcame every other consideration. The day was set
for the 4th, and the few guests were bidden accordingly.
On the morning of the wedding, on a neat shelf in the back kitchen of
the Elliott residence, various delicacies were resting, which had been
baked for the banquet. Mistress Elliott's molasses had sufficed to make
a vast cake and several pumpkin pies. These, hot from the oven, had
been placed in the coolness of the back kitchen until they should be
ready for eating.
It so happened that Miss Hitty Belding's sharp eyes, as she passed
Mistress Elliott's back door, bound on an errand to the house of the
neighbour living just beyond, fell upon the rich golden brown of this
wonderful cake. As such toothsome dainties were rare in Colchester at
just this time, it is not strange that her childish soul coveted it,
for Hitty was but ten years old. As she walked on she met Obed Ely.
"I tell you what, Obed," said Miss Hitty, "you ought to see the great
molasses cake which Mistress Elliott has made for Prudence Ann's
wedding. It is in her back kitchen. I saw it right by the door. Mean
old thing! She wouldn't lend my mother any molasses to make _us_ a
cake. I wish I had hers!"
"So do I!" rejoined Obed, with watering lips. "I'm going to peek in and
see it."
Obed went and "peeked," while Hitty sauntered slowly on. The
contemplation of the cake under the circumstances was too much for
even so well-brought-up a boy as Obed. Without stopping to really
think what he was doing, he unwound from his neck his great woollen
"comforter," wrapped it hastily around the cake, and was walking with
it beside Hitty in the lonely, drifted country road five minutes
later. The hearts of the two little conspirators--for they felt guilty
enough--beat very hard, but they could not help thinking how good that
cake would taste. A certain Goodsir Canty's cornhouse stood near them
in a clump of trees beside the road, and as the door was open they
crept in, gulped down great "chunks" of cake, distributed vast slices
of what was left about their persons, Obed taking by far the lion's
share, and then they parted, vowing eternal secrecy. Nobody had seen
them, and something which happened just after they had left Mistress
Eliott's back kitchen directed suspicion to an entirely different
quarter.
Not two minutes after Obed's "comforter" had been thrown around the
great cake a beautiful calf, the pride of Mistress Elliott's heart, and
which was usually kept tied in the barn just beyond the back kitchen,
somehow unfastened her rope and came strolling along past the open back
door. The odour of the pumpkin pies naturally interested her, and she
proceeded to lick up the delicious creamy filling of one after another
with great zest.
Just as she was finishing the very last one of the four or five which
had stood there, Mistress Elliott appeared upon the scene, to find
her precious dainties faded like the baseless fabric of a vision,
leaving behind them only a few broken bits of pie crust. A series of
"short, sharp shocks" (as described in "The Mikado") then rent the
air, summoning Prudence Ann and Delcy, the maid, to the scene of the
calamity. Let us draw a veil over the succeeding ten minutes.
At the end of that time Prudence Ann lay upon the sitting-room lounge
(or "settle," as they called it then) passing from one fainting fit
into another, and Delcy was out in search of the doctor and such family
friends as were likely to be of service in this unexpected dilemma. It
was, of course, supposed that the calf had devoured the whole of the
mighty cake as well as the pies. It was lucky for Obed and Hitty that
the poor beast could not speak. As it was, nobody so much as thought of
accusing them of the theft, though there were plenty of crumbs in their
pockets, while the death of the innocent heifer was loudly demanded
by the angry Prudence Ann. It was only by artifice and diplomacy that
Mistress Elliott was able to preserve the life of her favourite,
which, if it had really eaten the cake, must surely have perished.
The wedding finally came off on the 4th, though there was a pouting
bride, and nuts, apples, and cider were said to be the chief
refreshments. Prudence Ann, however, probably secured the "good luck"
for which she was so anxious, for there is no record nor tradition to
the contrary in all Colchester.
Nothing would probably ever have been known of the real fate of the
famous cake if the tale had not been told by Mistress Hitty in her old
age to her grandchildren, with appropriate warnings to them never to
commit similar misdemeanours themselves.
Little Obed Ely, the active agent in the theft, died not long after
it. His tombstone, very black and crumbled, stands in one of the old
burying grounds of the town, but nothing is carved upon it as to the
cause of his early death.
The story of the Colchester molasses famine, and the consequent
postponement of their Thanksgiving, naturally spread throughout all
the surrounding towns. It was said that in one of these a party of
roguish boys loaded an old cannon with molasses and fired it in the
direction of Colchester. How they did this has not been stated, and
some irreverent disbelievers in the more uncommon of our grandfathers'
stories have profanely declared it a myth.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] From _Wideawake_, November, 1891, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company.
[4] The main facts in this story are strictly historical.
THE FIRST THANKSGIVING[5]
BY ALBERT F. BLAISDELL AND FRANCIS K. BALL.
A story of the time long ago when the Pilgrims of
Plymouth invited the Indian chief Massasoit and his
followers to share their feast.
ALL through the first summer and the early part of autumn the Pilgrims
were busy and happy. They had planted and cared for their first fields
of corn. They had found wild strawberries in the meadows, raspberries
on the hillsides, and wild grapes in the woods.
In the forest just back of the village wild turkeys and deer were
easily shot. In the shallow waters of the bay there was plenty of fish,
clams, and lobsters.
The summer had been warm, with a good deal of rain and much sunshine;
and so when the autumn came there was a fine crop of corn.
"Let us gather the fruits of our first labours and rejoice together,"
said Governor Bradford.
"Yes," said Elder Brewster, "let us take a day upon which we may thank
God for all our blessings, and invite to it our Indian friends who have
been so kind to us."
The Pilgrims said that one day was not enough; so they planned to have
a celebration for a whole week. This took place most likely in October.
The great Indian chief, Massasoit, came with ninety of his bravest
warriors, all gayly dressed in deerskins, feathers, and foxtails, with
their faces smeared with red, white, and yellow paint.
As a sign of rank, Massasoit wore round his neck a string of bones and
a bag of tobacco. In his belt he carried a long knife. His face was
painted red, and his hair was so daubed with oil that Governor Bradford
said he "looked greasily."
Now there were only eleven buildings in the whole of Plymouth village,
four log storehouses and seven little log dwelling-houses; so the
Indian guests ate and slept out of doors. This was no matter, for it
was one of those warm weeks in the season we call Indian summer.
To supply meat for the occasion four men had already been sent out to
hunt wild turkeys. They killed enough in one day to last the whole
company almost a week.
Massasoit helped the feast along by sending some of his best hunters
into the woods. They killed five deer, which they gave to their
paleface friends, that all might have enough to eat.
Under the trees were built long, rude tables on which were piled baked
clams, broiled fish, roast turkey, and deer meat.
The young Pilgrim women helped serve the food to the hungry redskins.
Let us remember two of the fair girls who waited on the tables. One
was Mary Chilton, who leaped from the boat at Plymouth Rock; the other
was Mary Allerton. She lived for seventy-eight years after this first
Thanksgiving, and of those who came over in the _Mayflower_ she was the
last to die.
What a merry time everybody had during that week! It may be they joked
Governor Bradford about stepping into a deer trap set by the Indians
and being jerked up by the leg.
How the women must have laughed as they told about the first Monday
morning at Cape Cod, when they all went ashore to wash their clothes!
It must have been a big washing, for there had been no chance to do it
at sea, so stormy had been the long voyage of sixty-three days. They
little thought that Monday would afterward be kept as washday.
Then there was young John Howland, who in mid-ocean fell overboard but
was quick enough to catch hold of a trailing rope. Perhaps after dinner
he invited Elizabeth Tilley, whom he afterward married, to sail over to
Clarke's Island and return by moonlight.
With them, it may be, went John Alden and Priscilla Mullins, whose love
story is so sweetly told by Longfellow.
One proud mother, we may be sure, showed her bright-eyed boy, Peregrine
White.
And so the fun went on. In the daytime the young men ran races, played
games, and had a shooting match. Every night the Indians sang and
danced for their friends; and to make things still more lively they
gave every now and then a shrill war whoop that made the woods echo in
the still night air.
The Indians had already learned to love and fear Captain Miles
Standish. Some of them called him "Boiling Water" because he was easily
made angry. Others called him "Captain Shrimp," on account of his small
size.
Every morning the shrewd captain put on his armour and paraded his
little company of a dozen or more soldiers; and when he fired off the
cannon on Burial Hill the Indians must have felt that the English were
men of might thus to harness up thunder and lightning.
During this week of fun and frolic it was a wonder if young Jack
Billington did not play some prank on the Indians. He was the boy who
fired off his father's gun one day, close to a keg of gunpowder, in the
crowded cabin of the _Mayflower_.
The third day came. Massasoit had been well treated, and no doubt would
have liked to stay longer, but he had said he could stay only three
days. So the pipe of peace was silently passed around.
Then, taking their presents of glass beads and trinkets, the Indian
king and his warriors said farewell to their English friends and began
their long tramp through the woods to their wigwams on Mount Hope Bay.
On the last day of this Thanksgiving party the Pilgrims had a service
of prayer and praise. Elder Brewster preached the first Thanksgiving
sermon. After thanking God for all his goodness, he did not forget the
many loved ones sleeping on the hillside.
He spoke of noble John Carver, the first governor, who had died of
worry and overwork.
Nor was Rose Standish forgotten, the lovely young wife of Captain Miles
Standish, whose death was caused by cold and lack of good food.
And then there was gentle Dorothy, wife of Governor Bradford, who had
fallen overboard from the _Mayflower_ in Provincetown harbour while her
husband was coasting along the bleak shore in search of a place for a
home.
The first Thanksgiving took place nearly three hundred years ago. Since
that time, almost without interruption, Thanksgiving has been kept by
the people of New England as the great family festival of the year. At
this time children and grandchildren return to the old home, the long
table is spread, and brothers and sisters, separated often by many
miles, again sit side by side.
To-day Thanksgiving is observed in nearly all the states of the Union,
a season of sweet and blessed memories.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] From "Short Stories from American History," Ginn & Co.
THANKSGIVING AT TODD'S ASYLUM[6]
BY WINTHROP PACKARD.
Many a chuckle lies in wait for the reader in the pages
of this story. And the humour is of the sweet, mellow
sort that sometimes brings moisture to the eyes as well
as laughter to the lips.
PEOPLE said that if it had not been for that annuity Eph Todd would
have been at the poor farm himself instead of setting up a rival to
it; but there _was_ the annuity, and that was the beginning of Todd's
asylum.
No matter who or what you were, if you were in hard luck, Todd's asylum
was open to you. The No. 4 district schoolhouse clock was a sample. For
thirty years it had smiled from the wall upon successive generations
of scholars, until, one day, bowed with years and infirmities, it had
ceased to tick. It had been taken gently down, laid out on a desk in
state for a day or two, and finally was in funeral procession to the
rubbish heap when Eph Todd appeared.
"You're not going to throw that good old clock away?" Eph had asked of
the committeeman who acted as bearer.
"Guess I'll have to," replied the other. "I've wound it up tight, put
'most a pint of kerosene in it, and shook it till I'm dizzy, and it
won't tick a bit. Guess the old clock's done for."
"Now see here," said Eph; "you just let me have a try at it. Let me
take it home a spell."
"Oh, for that matter I'll give it to you," the committeeman replied.
"We've bought another for the schoolhouse."
A day or two after the old clock ticked away as soberly as ever on the
wall of the Todd kitchen.
"Took it home and boiled it in potash," Eph used to say; "and there it
is, just as good as it was thirty years ago."
This was true, with restrictions, for enough enamel was gone from the
face to make the exact location of the hour an uncertain thing; and
there were days, when the wind was in the east, when the hour hand
needed periodical assistance.
"It wasn't much of a job," as Eph said, "to reach up once an hour and
send the hand along one space, and Aunt Tildy had to have something to
look forward to."
Aunt Tildy was the first inmate at Todd's, and if Eph had possessed no
other recommendation to eternal beatitude, surely Aunt Tildy's prayers
had been sufficient. She passed his house on her way to the poor farm
on the very day that news of the legacy arrived, and Eph had stopped
the carriage and begged the overseer to leave her with him.
"Are you sure you can take care of her?" asked the overseer, doubtfully.
"Sure?" echoed Eph with delight. "Of course I'm sure. Ain't I got four
hundred dollars a year for the rest of my natural born days?"
"He's a good fellow, Eph Todd," mused the overseer as he drove away,
"but I never heard of his having any money."
Next day the news of the legacy was common property, and Aunt Tildy had
been an inmate at Todd's ever since. Her gratitude knew no bounds, and
she really managed to keep the house after a fashion, her chief care
being the clock.
Then there was the heaven-born inventor. He had dissipated his
substance in inventing an incubator that worked with wonderful success
till the day the chickens were to come out, when it took fire and
burned up, taking with it chickens, barn, house, and furniture, leaving
the heaven-born inventor standing in the field, thinly clad, and with
nothing left in the world but another incubator.
With this he had shown up promptly at Todd's, and there he had dwelt
thenceforth, using a pretty fair portion of the annuity in further
incubator experiments.
With excellent sagacity, for him, Eph had obliged the heaven-born
inventor to keep his machine in a little shed behind the barn, so that
when this one burned up there was time to get the horse and cow out
before the barn burned, and the village fire department managed to
save the house. Repairing this loss made quite a hole in the annuity,
and all the heaven-born inventor had to show for it was Miltiades. He
had put a single turkey's egg in with a previous hatch, and though he
had raised nary chicken, and it was contrary to all rhyme and reason,
the turkey's egg had hatched and the chick had grown up to be Miltiades.
Miltiades was a big gobbler now, and had a right to be named Ishmael,
for his hand was against all men. He took care of himself, was never
shut up nor handled, and led a wild, nomadic life.
Last of all came Fisherman Jones. He was old now and couldn't see very
well, unable to go to the brook or pond to fish, but he still started
out daily with the fine new rod and reel which the annuity had bought
for him, and would sit out in the sun, joint his rod together, and fish
in the dry pasture with perfect contentment.
You would not think Fisherman Jones of much use, but it was he who
caught Miltiades and made the Thanksgiving dinner possible.
The new barn had exhausted the revenues completely, and there would
be no more income until January 1st; but one must have a turkey for
Thanksgiving, and there was Miltiades. To catch Miltiades became the
household problem, and the heaven-born inventor set wonderful traps for
him, which caught almost everything but Miltiades, who easily avoided
them. Eph used to go out daily before breakfast and chase Miltiades,
but he might as well have chased a government position. The turkey
scorned him, and grew only wilder and tougher, till he had a lean and
hungry look that would have shamed Cassius.
The day before Thanksgiving it looked as if there would be no turkey
dinner at Todd's, but here Fisherman Jones stepped into the breach. It
was a beautiful Indian-summer day, and he hobbled out into the field
for an afternoon's fishing. Here he sat on a log, and began to make
casts in the open. Nearby, under a savin bush, lurked Miltiades, and
viewed these actions with the scorn of long familiarity. By and by
Fisherman Jones kicked up a loose bit of bark, and disclosed beneath
it a fine fat white grub, of the sort which blossoms into June beetles
with the coming of spring. He was not so blind but that he saw this,
and with a chuckle at the thoughts it called up, he baited his hook
with it.
A moment after, Eph Todd, coming out of the new barn, heard the click
of a reel, and was astonished to see Fisherman Jones standing almost
erect, his eyes blazing with the old-time fire, his rod bent, his reel
buzzing, while at the end of a good forty feet of line was Miltiades
rushing in frantic strides for the woods.
"Good land!" said Eph; "it's the turkey! Snub him," he yelled. "Don't
let him get all the line on you! He's hooked! Snub him! snub him!"
The whir of the reel deadened now, and the stride of Miltiades was
perceptibly lessened and then became but a vigorous up-and-down hop,
while the tense line sang in the gentle autumn breeze.
"Eph Todd!" gasped Fisherman Jones, "this is the whoppingest old bass
I ever hooked onto yet. Beeswax, how he does pull!" And with the words
Fisherman Jones went backward over the log, waving the pole and a pair
of stiff legs in air. The turkey had suddenly slackened the line.
"Give him the butt! Give him the butt!" roared Eph, rushing up. Even
where he lay the fisherman blood in Fisherman Jones responded to this
stirring appeal, and as the rod bent in a tense half circle a race
began such as no elderly fisherman was ever the centre of before.
Round and round went Miltiades, with the white grub in his crop, and
the line above it gripped tightly in his strong beak; and round and
round went Eph Todd, his outstretched arms waving like the turkey's
wings, and his big boots denting the soft pasture turf with the vigour
of his gallop. In the centre Fisherman Jones, too nearsighted to see
what he had hooked, had risen on one knee, and revolved with the
coursing bird, his soul wrapped in one idea: to keep the butt of his
rod aimed at the whirling game.
"Hang to him! Reel him in! We'll get him!" shouted Eph; and, with the
word, he caught his toe and vanished into the prickly depths of the
savin bush, just as the heaven-born inventor came over the hill. It
would be interesting to know just what scheme the heaven-born inventor
would have put in motion for the capture of Miltiades, but just then he
stepped into one of his own extraordinary traps, set for the turkey
of course, and, with one foot held fast, began to flounder about with
cries of rage and dismay.
This brought Eph's head above the fringe of savin bush again, and now
he beheld a wonderful sight. Fisherman Jones was again on his feet,
staring in wild surprise at Miltiades, whom he sighted for the first
time, within ten feet of him. There was no pressure on the reel, and
Miltiades was swallowing the line in big gulps, evidently determined to
have not only the white grub, but all that went with it.
Fisherman Jones's cry of dismay was almost as bitter as that of the
heaven-born inventor, who still writhed in his own trap.
"Oh, Eph! Eph!" he whimpered, "he's eating up my tackle! He's eating up
my tackle!"
"Never mind!" shouted Eph. "Don't be afraid! I reckon he'll stop when
he gets to the pole!"
Those of us who knew Miltiades at his best have doubts as to this, but,
fortunately, it was not put to the test. Eph scrambled out of his bush,
and, taking up the chase once more, soon brought it to an end, for
Fisherman Jones, his nerve completely gone, could only stand and mumble
sadly to himself, "He's eating up my tackle! He's eating up my tackle!"
and the line, wrapping about his motionless form, led Eph and the
turkey in a brief spiral which ended in the conjunction of the three.
It was not until the turkey was decapitated that Eph remembered the
heaven-born inventor and hastened to his rescue. He was still in the
trap, but he was quite content, for he was figuring out a plan for
an automatic release from the same, something which should hold the
captive so long and then let him go in the interests of humanity. He
found the trap from the captive's point of view very interesting and
instructive.
The tenacity of Miltiades's make-up was further shown by the difficulty
Eph and Fisherman Jones had in separating him from his feathers that
evening; and Aunt Tildy was so interested in the project of the
heaven-born inventor to raise featherless turkeys that she forgot the
yeast cake she had put to soak until it had been boiling merrily for
some time. Everything seemed to go wrong-end-to, and they all sat up
so late that Mrs. Simpkins, across the way, was led to observe that
"Either some one was dead over at Todd's or else they were having a
family party"; and in a certain sense she was right both ways.
The crowning misadventure came next morning. Eph started for the
village with his mind full of commissions from Aunt Tildy, some of
which he was sure to forget, and in a great hurry lest he forget them
all. He threw the harness hastily upon Dobbin, hitched him into the
wagon which had stood out on the soft ground overnight, and with an
eager "Get up, there!" gave him a slap with the reins.
Next moment there was a ripping sound, and the heaven-born inventor
came to the door just in time to see the horse going out of the yard
on a run, with Eph following, still clinging to the reins, and taking
strides much like those of Baron Munchausen's courier.
"Here, here!" called the inventor, "you've forgot the wagon. Come back,
Eph! You've forgot the wagon!"
"Jeddediah Jodkins!" said Eph, as he swung an eccentric curve about the
gatepost; "do you--whoa!--suppose I'm such a--whoa! whoa!--fool that I
don't know that I'm not riding--whoa! in a--whoa! whoa!--wagon?" And
with this Eph vanished up street in the wake of the galloping horse,
still clinging valiantly to the reins.
"I believe he did forget that wagon," said the heaven-born inventor;
"he's perfectly capable of it." But when he reached the barn he saw
the trouble. The ground had frozen hard overnight, and the wagon
wheels sunken in it were held as in a vise. Eph had started the horse
suddenly, and the obedient animal had walked right out of the shafts,
harness and all.
A half hour later Eph was back with Dobbin, unharmed but a trifle
weary. It took an hour more and all Aunt Tildy's hot water to thaw out
the wheels, and when it was done Eph was so confused that he drove to
the village and back and forgot every one of his commissions. And in
the midst of all this the clock stopped. That settled the matter for
Aunt Tildy. She neglected the pudding, she forgot the pies, and she let
the turkey bake and bake in the overheated oven while she fretted about
that clock; and when it was finally set going, after long and careful
investigation by Eph, and frantic but successful attempts on the part
of Aunt Tildy to keep the heaven-born inventor from ruining it forever,
it was the dinner hour.
Poor Aunt Tildy! That dinner was the crowning sorrow of her life. The
vegetables were cooked to rags, the pies were charcoal shells, and
the pudding had not been made. As for Miltiades, he was ten times
tougher than in life, and Eph's carving knife slipped from his form
without making a dent. Aunt Tildy wept at this, and Fisherman Jones
and the inventor looked blank enough, but there was no sorrow in the
countenance of Eph. He cheered Aunt Tildy, and he cracked jokes that
made even Fisherman Jones laugh.
"Why, bless you!" he said, "ever since I was a boy I've been looking
for a chance to make a Thanksgiving dinner out of bread and milk. And
now I've got it. Why, I wouldn't have missed this for anything!" And
there came a knock at the door.
Even Eph looked a trifle blank at this. If it should be company! "Come
in!" he called.
The door was pushed aside and a big, steaming platter entered. It was
upheld by a small boy, who stammered diffidently, "My moth-moth-mother
thaid she wanted you to try thum of her nith turkey."
"Well, well!" said Eph; "Aunt Tildy has cooked a turkey for us to-day,
and she's a main good cook"--Eph did not appear to see the signs the
heaven-born inventor was making to him--"but I've heard that your
mother does things pretty well, too. We're greatly obliged." And Eph
put the steaming platter on the table.
"She thays you c-c-can thend the platter home to-morrow," stammered the
boy, and stammering himself out, he ran into another. The other held
high a big dish of plum pudding, from which a spicy aroma filled the
room. Again the heaven-born inventor made signs to Eph.
"Our folks told me to ask if you wouldn't try this plum pudding," said
the newcomer. "They made an extra one, and the cousins we expected
didn't come, so we can spare it just as well as not."
It seemed as if Eph hesitated a moment, and the inventor's face became
a panorama. Then he took the boy by the hand, and there was an odd
shake in his voice as he said:
"I'm greatly obliged to you. We all are. Something happened to our plum
pudding, and we didn't have any. Tell your ma we send our thanks."
There was a sound of voices greeting in the hallway, and two young
girls entered, each laden with a basket.
"Oh, Mr. Todd," they both said at once, "we couldn't wait to knock. We
want you to try some of our Thanksgiving. It was mother's birthday, and
we cooked extra for that, and we've got so much. We can't get all ours
onto the table. She'll feel real hurt if you don't."
Somehow Eph couldn't say a word, but there was nothing the matter with
the heaven-born inventor. His speech of delighted acceptance was such
a good one that before he was half done the girls had loaded the table
with good things, and, with smiles and nods and "good-byes," slipped
out as rapidly and as gayly as they had come in. It was like a gust of
wind from a summer garden.
The table, but now so bare, fairly sagged and steamed with offerings of
Thanksgiving. Somehow the steam got into Eph's eyes and made them wet,
till all he could do was to say whimsically:
"There goes my last chance at a bread-and-milk Thanksgiving."
But now Aunt Tildy had the floor, with her faded face all alight.
"Eph Todd," she said, "you needn't look so flustrated. It's nothing
more than you deserve and not half so much either. Ain't you the
kindest man yourself that ever lived? Ain't you always doing something
for everybody, and helping every one of these neighbours in all sorts
of ways? I'd like to know what the whole place would do without you!
And now, just because they remember you on Thanksgiving Day, you look
like----"
The steam had got into Aunt Tildy's eyes now, and she sat down again
just as there came another knock at the door, a timid sort of knock
this time.
The heaven-born inventor's face widened in beatified smiles of
expectation at this, but Eph looked him sternly in the eye.
"Jeddediah Jodkins!" he said; "if that is any more people bringing
things to eat to this house, they'll have to go away. We can't have it.
We've got enough here now to feed a--a boarding school."
The heaven-born inventor sprang eagerly to his feet. "Don't you do it,
Eph," he said, "don't you do it. I've just thought of a way to can it."
A thinly clad man and woman stood at the door which Eph opened. Both
looked pale and tired, and the woman shivered.
"Can you tell me where I can get work," asked the man, doggedly, "so
that I can earn a little something to eat? We are not beggars"--he
flushed a little through his pallor--"but I have had no work lately,
and we have eaten nothing since yesterday. We are looking----"
The man stopped, and well he might, for Eph was dancing wildly about
the two, and hustling them into the house.
"Come in!" he shouted. "Come in! Come in! You're the folks we are
waiting for! Eat? Why, goodness gra-cious! We've got so much to eat we
don't know what to do with it."
He had them in chairs in a moment and was piling steaming roast turkey
on their plates. "There!" he said, "don't you say another word till you
have filled up on that. Folks"--and he returned to the others--"here's
two friends that have come to stay a week with us and help eat turkey.
Fall to! This is going to be the pleasantest Thanksgiving we've had
yet."
And thus two new inmates were added to Todd's asylum.
FOOTNOTE:
[6] From the _Outlook_, November 19, 1898.
HOW WE KEPT THANKSGIVING AT OLDTOWN[7]
BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
The old-time New England Thanksgiving has been
described many times, but never better then by the
author of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" in her less successful
but more artistic novel, "Oldtown Folks," from which
book the following narrative has been adapted.
WHEN the apples were all gathered and the cider was all made, and the
yellow pumpkins were rolled in from many a hill in billows of gold,
and the corn was husked, and the labours of the season were done, and
the warm, late days of Indian summer came in, dreamy and calm and
still, with just frost enough to crisp the ground of a morning, but
with warm trances of benignant, sunny hours at noon, there came over
the community a sort of genial repose of spirit--a sense of something
accomplished, and of a new golden mark made in advance on the calendar
of life--and the deacon began to say to the minister, of a Sunday, "I
suppose it's about time for the Thanksgiving proclamation."
Conversation at this time began to turn on high and solemn culinary
mysteries and receipts of wondrous power and virtue. New modes of
elaborating squash pies and quince tarts were now ofttimes carefully
discussed at the evening firesides by Aunt Lois and Aunt Keziah, and
notes seriously compared with the experiences of certain other aunties
of high repute in such matters. I noticed that on these occasions
their voices often fell into mysterious whispers, and that receipts
of especial power and sanctity were communicated in tones so low
as entirely to escape the vulgar ear. I still remember the solemn
shake of the head with which my Aunt Lois conveyed to Miss Mehitable
Rossiter the critical properties of _mace_, in relation to its powers
of producing in corn fritters a suggestive resemblance to oysters. As
ours was an oyster-getting district, and as that charming bivalve was
perfectly easy to come at, the interest of such an imitation can be
accounted for only by the fondness of the human mind for works of art.
For as much as a week beforehand, "we children" were employed in
chopping mince for pies to a most wearisome fineness, and in pounding
cinnamon, allspice, and cloves in a great lignum-vitæ mortar; and the
sound of this pounding and chopping reëchoed through all the rafters of
the old house with a hearty and vigorous cheer most refreshing to our
spirits.
In those days there were none of the thousand ameliorations of the
labours of housekeeping which have since arisen--no ground and prepared
spices and sweet herbs; everything came into our hands in the rough,
and in bulk, and the reducing of it into a state for use was deemed one
of the appropriate labours of childhood. Even the very salt that we
used in cooking was rock salt, which we were required to wash and dry
and pound and sift before it became fit for use.
At other times of the year we sometimes murmured at these labours, but
those that were supposed to usher in the great Thanksgiving festival
were always entered into with enthusiasm. There were signs of richness
all around us--stoning of raisins, cutting of citron, slicing of
candied orange peel. Yet all these were only dawnings and intimations
of what was coming during the week of real preparation, after the
Governor's proclamation had been read.
The glories of that proclamation! We knew beforehand the Sunday it was
to be read, and walked to church with alacrity, filled with gorgeous
and vague expectations.
The cheering anticipation sustained us through what seemed to us the
long waste of the sermon and prayers; and when at last the auspicious
moment approached--when the last quaver of the last hymn had died
out--the whole house rippled with a general movement of complacency,
and a satisfied smile of pleased expectation might be seen gleaming on
the faces of all the young people, like a ray of sunshine through a
garden of flowers.
Thanksgiving now was dawning! We children poked one another, and
fairly giggled with unreproved delight as we listened to the crackle
of the slowly unfolding document. That great sheet of paper impressed
us as something supernatural, by reason of its mighty size and by the
broad seal of the State affixed thereto; and when the minister read
therefrom, "By his Excellency, the Governor of the Commonwealth of
Massachusetts, a Proclamation," our mirth was with difficulty repressed
by admonitory glances from our sympathetic elders. Then, after a solemn
enumeration of the benefits which the Commonwealth had that year
received at the hands of Divine Providence, came at last the naming
of the eventful day, and, at the end of all, the imposing heraldic
words, "God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts." And then, as the
congregation broke up and dispersed, all went their several ways with
schemes of mirth and feasting in their heads.
And now came on the week in earnest. In the very watches of the night
preceding Monday morning a preternatural stir below stairs and the
thunder of the pounding barrel announced that the washing was to be got
out of the way before daylight, so as to give "ample scope and room
enough" for the more pleasing duties of the season.
The making of _pies_ at this period assumed vast proportions that
verged upon the sublime. Pies were made by forties and fifties and
hundreds, and made of everything on the earth and under the earth.
The pie is an English institution, which, planted on American soil,
forthwith ran rampant and burst forth into an untold variety of genera
and species. Not merely the old traditional mince pie, but a thousand
strictly American seedlings from that main stock, evinced the power
of American housewives to adapt old institutions to new uses. Pumpkin
pies, cranberry pies, huckleberry pies, cherry pies, green-currant
pies, peach, pear, and plum pies, custard pies, apple pies,
Marlborough-pudding pies--pies with top crusts and pies without--pies
adorned with all sorts of fanciful flutings and architectural strips
laid across and around, and otherwise varied, attested the boundless
fertility of the feminine mind when once let loose in a given direction.
Fancy the heat and vigour of the great pan formation, when Aunt Lois
and Aunt Keziah, and my mother and grandmother, all in ecstasies of
creative inspiration, ran, bustled, and hurried--mixing, rolling,
tasting, consulting--alternately setting us children to work when
anything could be made of us, and then chasing us all out of the
kitchen when our misinformed childhood ventured to take too many
liberties with sacred mysteries. Then out we would all fly at the
kitchen door, like sparks from a blacksmith's window.
On these occasions, as there was a great looseness in the police
department over us children, we usually found a ready refuge at Miss
Mehitable's with Tina,[8] who, confident of the strength of her
position with Polly, invited us into the kitchen, and with the air of a
mistress led us around to view the proceedings there.
A genius for entertaining was one of Tina's principal characteristics;
and she did not fail to make free with raisins, or citrons, or whatever
came to hand, in a spirit of hospitality at which Polly seriously
demurred. That worthy woman occasionally felt the inconvenience of
the state of subjugation to which the little elf had somehow or other
reduced her, and sometimes rattled her chains fiercely, scolding with
a vigour which rather alarmed us, but which Tina minded not a whit.
Confident of her own powers, she would, in the very midst of her wrath,
mimic her to her face with such irresistible drollery as to cause
the torrent of reproof to end in a dissonant laugh, accompanied by a
submissive cry for quarter.
"I declare, Tina Percival," she said to her one day, "you're saucy
enough to physic a horn bug! I never did see the beater of you! If Miss
Mehitable don't keep you in better order, I don't see what's to become
of any of us!"
"Why, what did 'come of you before I came?" was the undismayed reply.
"You know, Polly, you and Aunty both were just as lonesome as you could
be till I came here, and you never had such pleasant times in your life
as you've had since I've been here. You're a couple of old beauties,
both of you, and know just how to get along with me. But come, boys,
let's take our raisins and go up into the garret and play Thanksgiving."
In the corner of the great kitchen, during all these days, the jolly
old oven roared and crackled in great volcanic billows of flame,
snapping and gurgling as if the old fellow entered with joyful sympathy
into the frolic of the hour; and then, his great heart being once
warmed up, he brooded over successive generations of pies and cakes,
which went in raw and came out cooked, till butteries and dressers and
shelves and pantries were literally crowded with a jostling abundance.
A great cold northern chamber, where the sun never shone, and where
in winter the snow sifted in at the window cracks, and ice and frost
reigned with undisputed sway, was fitted up to be the storehouse of
these surplus treasures. There, frozen solid, and thus well preserved
in their icy fetters, they formed a great repository for all the winter
months; and the pies baked at Thanksgiving often came out fresh and
good with the violets of April.
During this eventful preparation week all the female part of my
grandmother's household, as I have before remarked, were at a height
above any ordinary state of mind; they moved about the house rapt in
a species of prophetic frenzy. It seemed to be considered a necessary
feature of such festivals that everybody should be in a hurry,
and everything in the house should be turned bottom upwards with
enthusiasm--so at least we children understood it, and we certainly
did our part to keep the ball rolling.
At this period the constitutional activity of Uncle Fliakim increased
to a degree that might fairly be called preternatural. Thanksgiving
time was the time for errands of mercy and beneficence through the
country; and Uncle Fliakim's immortal old rubber horse and rattling
wagon were on the full jump in tours of investigation into everybody's
affairs in the region around. On returning, he would fly through our
kitchen like the wind, leaving open the doors, upsetting whatever
came in his way--now a pan of milk, and now a basin of mince--talking
rapidly, and forgetting only the point in every case that gave it
significance, or enabled any one to put it to any sort of use. When
Aunt Lois checked his benevolent effusions by putting the test
questions of practical efficiency, Uncle Fliakim always remembered
that he'd "forgotten to inquire about that," and skipping through the
kitchen, and springing into his old wagon, would rattle off again on a
full tilt to correct and amend his investigations.
Moreover, my grandmother's kitchen at this time began to be haunted by
those occasional hangers-on and retainers, of uncertain fortunes, whom
a full experience of her bountiful habits led to expect something at
her hand at this time of the year. All the poor, loafing tribes, Indian
and half-Indian, who at other times wandered, selling baskets and
other light wares, were sure to come back to Oldtown a little before
Thanksgiving time, and report themselves in my grandmother's kitchen.
The great hogshead of cider in the cellar, which my grandfather called
the Indian hogshead, was on tap at all hours of the day; and many
a mugful did I draw and dispense to the tribes that basked in the
sunshine at our door.
Aunt Lois never had a hearty conviction of the propriety of these
arrangements; but my grandmother, who had a prodigious verbal memory,
bore down upon her with such strings of quotations from the Old
Testament that she was utterly routed.
"Now," says my Aunt Lois, "I s'pose we've got to have Betty Poganut
and Sally Wonsamug, and old Obscue and his wife, and the whole tribe
down, roosting around our doors till we give 'em something. That's just
mother's way; she always keeps a whole generation at her heels."
"How many times must I tell you, Lois, to read your Bible?" was my
grandmother's rejoinder; and loud over the sound of pounding and
chopping in the kitchen could be heard the voice of her quotations: "If
there be among you a poor man in any of the gates of the land which the
Lord thy God giveth thee, thou shalt not harden thy heart, nor shut thy
hand, from thy poor brother. Thou shalt surely give him; and thy heart
shall not be grieved when thou givest to him, because that for this
thing the Lord thy God shall bless thee in all thy works; for the poor
shall never cease from out of the land."
These words seemed to resound like a sort of heraldic proclamation to
call around us all that softly shiftless class, who, for some reason or
other, are never to be found with anything in hand at the moment that
it is wanted.
"There, to be sure," said Aunt Lois, one day when our preparations were
in full blast; "there comes Sam Lawson down the hill, limpsy as ever;
now he'll have his doleful story to tell, and mother'll give him one of
the turkeys."
And so, of course, it fell out.
Sam came in with his usual air of plaintive assurance, and seated
himself a contemplative spectator in the chimney corner, regardless of
the looks and signs of unwelcome on the part of Aunt Lois.
"Lordy massy, how prosperous everything does seem here!" he said in
musing tones, over his inevitable mug of cider; "so different from what
'tis t' our house. There's Hepsey, she's all in a stew, an' I've just
been an' got her thirty-seven cents' wuth o' nutmegs, yet she says
she's sure she don't see how she's to keep Thanksgiving, an' she's
down on me about it, just as ef 'twas my fault. Yeh see, last winter
our old gobbler got froze. You know, Mis' Badger, that 'ere cold night
we hed last winter. Wal, I was off with Jake Marshall that night; ye
see, Jake, he had to take old General Dearborn's corpse into Boston,
to the family vault, and Jake, he kind o' hated to go alone; 'twas a
drefful cold time, and he ses to me, 'Sam, you jes' go 'long with me';
so I was sort o' sorry for him, and I kind o' thought I'd go 'long.
Wal, come 'long to Josh Bissel's tahvern, there at the Halfway House,
you know, 'twas so swingeing cold we stopped to take a little suthin'
warmin', an' we sort o' sot an' sot over the fire, till, fust we knew,
we kind o' got asleep; an' when we woke up we found we'd left the old
General hitched up t' th' post pretty much all night. Wal, didn't hurt
him none, poor man; 'twas allers a favourite spot o' his'n. But, takin'
one thing with another, I didn't get home till about noon next day,
an' I tell you, Hepsey she was right down on me. She said the baby
was sick, and there hadn't been no wood split, nor the barn fastened
up, nor nuthin'. Lordy massy, I didn't mean no harm; I thought there
was wood enough, and I thought likely Hepsey'd git out an' fasten up
the barn. But Hepsey, she was in one o' her contrary streaks, an' she
wouldn't do a thing; an' when I went out to look, why, sure 'nuff,
there was our old tom-turkey froze as stiff as a stake--his claws jist
a stickin' right straight up like this." Here Sam struck an expressive
attitude, and looked so much like a frozen turkey as to give a pathetic
reality to the picture.
"Well, now, Sam, why need you be off on things that's none of your
business?" said my grandmother. "I've talked to you plainly about that
a great many times, Sam," she continued, in tones of severe admonition.
"Hepsey is a hard-working woman, but she can't be expected to see to
everything, and you oughter 'ave been at home that night to fasten up
your own barn and look after your own creeturs."
Sam took the rebuke all the more meekly as he perceived the stiff black
legs of a turkey poking out from under my grandmother's apron while she
was delivering it. To be exhorted and told of his shortcomings, and
then furnished with a turkey at Thanksgiving, was a yearly part of his
family program. In time he departed, not only with the turkey, but with
us boys in procession after him, bearing a mince and a pumpkin pie for
Hepsey's children.
"Poor things!" my grandmother remarked; "they ought to have something
good to eat Thanksgiving Day; 'tain't their fault that they've got a
shiftless father."
Sam, in his turn, moralized to us children, as we walked beside him:
"A body'd think that Hepsey'd learn to trust in Providence," he said,
"but she don't. She allers has a Thanksgiving dinner pervided; but that
'ere woman ain't grateful for it, by no manner o' means. Now she'll
be jest as cross as she can be, 'cause this 'ere ain't _our_ turkey,
and these 'ere ain't our pies. Folks doos lose so much that hes sech
dispositions."
A multitude of similar dispensations during the course of the week
materially reduced the great pile of chickens and turkeys which black
Cæsar's efforts in slaughtering, picking, and dressing kept daily
supplied....
* * * * *
Great as the preparations were for the dinner, everything was so
contrived that not a soul in the house should be kept from the morning
service of Thanksgiving in the church, and from listening to the
Thanksgiving sermon, in which the minister was expected to express his
views freely concerning the politics of the country and the state of
things in society generally, in a somewhat more secular vein of thought
than was deemed exactly appropriate to the Lord's day. But it is to be
confessed that, when the good man got carried away by the enthusiasm
of his subject to extend these exercises beyond a certain length,
anxious glances, exchanged between good wives, sometimes indicated a
weakness of the flesh, having a tender reference to the turkeys and
chickens and chicken pies which might possibly be overdoing in the
ovens at home. But your old brick oven was a true Puritan institution,
and backed up the devotional habits of good housewives by the capital
care which he took of whatever was committed to his capacious bosom. A
truly well-bred oven would have been ashamed of himself all his days
and blushed redder than his own fires, if a God-fearing house matron,
away at the temple of the Lord, should come home and find her pie crust
either burned or underdone by his over or under zeal; so the old fellow
generally managed to bring things out exactly right.
When sermons and prayers were all over, we children rushed home to see
the great feast of the year spread.
What chitterings and chatterings there were all over the house, as all
the aunties and uncles and cousins came pouring in, taking off their
things, looking at one another's bonnets and dresses, and mingling
their comments on the morning sermon with various opinions on the new
millinery outfits, and with bits of home news and kindly neighbourhood
gossip.
Uncle Bill, whom the Cambridge college authorities released, as they
did all the other youngsters of the land, for Thanksgiving Day, made a
breezy stir among them all, especially with the young cousins of the
feminine gender.
The best room on this occasion was thrown wide open, and its habitual
coldness had been warmed by the burning down of a great stack of
hickory logs, which had been heaped up unsparingly since morning.
It takes some hours to get a room warm where a family never sits,
and which therefore has not in its walls one particle of the genial
vitality which comes from the indwelling of human beings. But on
Thanksgiving Day, at least, every year this marvel was effected in our
best room.
Although all servile labour and vain recreation on this day were by
law forbidden, according to the terms of the proclamation, it was not
held to be a violation of the precept that all the nice old aunties
should bring their knitting work and sit gently trotting their needles
around the fire; nor that Uncle Bill should start a full-fledged romp
among the girls and children, while the dinner was being set on the
long table in the neighbouring kitchen. Certain of the good elderly
female relatives, of serious and discreet demeanour, assisted at this
operation.
But who shall do justice to the dinner, and describe the turkey, and
chickens, and chicken pies, with all that endless variety of vegetables
which the American soil and climate have contributed to the table,
and which, without regard to the French doctrine of courses, were
all piled together in jovial abundance upon the smoking board? There
was much carving and laughing and talking and eating, and all showed
that cheerful ability to despatch the provisions which was the ruling
spirit of the hour. After the meat came the plum puddings, and then the
endless array of pies, till human nature was actually bewildered and
overpowered by the tempting variety; and even we children turned from
the profusion offered to us, and wondered what was the matter that we
could eat no more.
When all was over, my grandfather rose at the head of the table, and
a fine venerable picture he made as he stood there, his silver hair
flowing in curls down each side of his clear, calm face, while, in
conformity to the old Puritan custom, he called their attention to a
recital of the mercies of God in His dealings with their family.
It was a sort of family history, going over and touching upon the
various events which had happened. He spoke of my father's death, and
gave a tribute to his memory; and closed all with the application of
a time-honoured text, expressing the hope that as years passed by we
might "so number our days as to apply our hearts unto wisdom"; and
then he gave out that psalm which in those days might be called the
national hymn of the Puritans.
"Let children hear the mighty deeds
Which God performed of old,
Which in our younger years we saw,
And which our fathers told.
"He bids us make his glories known,
His works of power and grace.
And we'll convey his wonders down
Through every rising race.
"Our lips shall tell them to our sons,
And they again to theirs;
That generations yet unborn
May teach them to their heirs.
"Thus shall they learn in God alone
Their hope securely stands;
That they may ne'er forget his works,
But practise his commands."
This we all united in singing to the venerable tune of St. Martin's,
an air which, the reader will perceive, by its multiplicity of quavers
and inflections gave the greatest possible scope to the cracked and
trembling voices of the ancients, who united in it with even more zeal
than the younger part of the community.
Uncle Fliakim Sheril, furbished up in a new crisp black suit, and
with his spindleshanks trimly incased in the smoothest of black silk
stockings, looking for all the world just like an alert and spirited
black cricket, outdid himself on this occasion in singing _counter_, in
that high, weird voice that he must have learned from the wintry winds
that usually piped around the corners of the old house. But any one
who looked at him, as he sat with his eyes closed, beating time with
head and hand, and, in short, with every limb of his body, must have
perceived the exquisite satisfaction which he derived from this mode
of expressing himself. I much regret to be obliged to state that my
graceless Uncle Bill, taking advantage of the fact that the eyes of all
his elders were devotionally closed, stationing himself a little in the
rear of my Uncle Fliakim, performed an exact imitation of his _counter_
with such a killing facility that all the younger part of the audience
were nearly dead with suppressed laughter. Aunt Lois, who never shut
her eyes a moment on any occasion, discerned this from a distant part
of the room, and in vain endeavoured to stop it by vigorously shaking
her head at the offender. She might as well have shaken it at a
bobolink tilting on a clover top. In fact, Uncle Bill was Aunt Lois's
weak point, and the corners of her own mouth were observed to twitch in
such a suspicious manner that the whole moral force of her admonition
was destroyed.
And now, the dinner being cleared away, we youngsters, already
excited to a tumult of laughter, tumbled into the best room, under
the supervision of Uncle Bill, to relieve ourselves with a game of
"blindman's bluff," while the elderly women washed up the dishes and
got the house in order, and the men folks went out to the barn to look
at the cattle, and walked over the farm and talked of the crops.
In the evening the house was all open and lighted with the best of
tallow candles, which Aunt Lois herself had made with especial care for
this illumination. It was understood that we were to have a dance, and
black Cæsar, full of turkey and pumpkin pie, and giggling in the very
jollity of his heart, had that afternoon rosined his bow, and tuned his
fiddle, and practised jigs and Virginia reels, in a way that made us
children think him a perfect Orpheus....
You may imagine the astounding wassail among the young people.... My
Uncle Bill related the story of "the Wry-mouth Family," with such
twists and contortions and killing extremes of the ludicrous as
perfectly overcame even the minister; and he was to be seen, at one
period of the evening, with a face purple with laughter and the tears
actually rolling down over his well-formed cheeks, while some of the
more excitable young people almost fell in trances and rolled on the
floor in the extreme of their merriment. In fact, the assemblage was
becoming so tumultuous, that the scrape of Cæsar's violin and the
forming of sets for a dance seemed necessary to restore the peace....
Uncle Bill would insist on leading out Aunt Lois, and the bright
colour rising to her thin cheeks brought back a fluttering image of
what might have been beauty in some fresh, early day. Ellery Davenport
insisted upon leading forth Miss Deborah Kittery, notwithstanding her
oft-repeated refusals and earnest protestations to the contrary. As
to Uncle Fliakim, he jumped and frisked and gyrated among the single
sisters and maiden aunts, whirling them into the dance as if he had
been the little black gentleman himself. With that true spirit of
Christian charity which marked all his actions, he invariably chose out
the homeliest and most neglected, and thus worthy Aunt Keziah, dear old
soul, was for a time made quite prominent by his attentions....
Grandmother's face was radiant with satisfaction, as the wave of
joyousness crept up higher and higher round her, till the elders, who
stood keeping time with their heads and feet, began to tell one another
how they had danced with their sweethearts in good old days gone by,
and the elder women began to blush and bridle, and boast of steps that
they could take in their youth, till the music finally subdued them,
and into the dance they went.
"Well, well!" quoth my grandmother; "they're all at it so hearty I
don't see why I shouldn't try it myself." And into the Virginia reel
she went, amid screams of laughter from all the younger members of the
company.
But I assure you my grandmother was not a woman to be laughed at; for
whatever she once set on foot she "put through" with a sturdy energy
befitting a daughter of the Puritans.
"Why shouldn't I dance?" she said, when she arrived red and resplendent
at the bottom of the set. "Didn't Mr. Despondency and Miss Muchafraid
and Mr. Readytohalt all dance together in the 'Pilgrim's Progress?'"
And the minister in his ample flowing wig, and my lady in her stiff
brocade, gave to my grandmother a solemn twinkle of approbation.
As nine o'clock struck, the whole scene dissolved and melted; for what
well-regulated village would think of carrying festivities beyond that
hour?
And so ended our Thanksgiving at Oldtown.
FOOTNOTE:
[7] Adapted from "Oldtown Folks," Houghton, Mifflin Co.
[8] Tina was Miss Mehitable's adopted child; Polly her faithful old
maid-servant.
WISHBONE VALLEY[9]
BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK.
A Thanksgiving ghost story about a boy who dined not
wisely but too well.
THE Thanksgiving feast had just ended, and only Donald and his little
sister Grace remained at the table, looking drowsily at the plum
pudding that they couldn't finish, but which they disliked to leave on
their plates.
When the plates had been removed, and the plum-pudding taken to the
kitchen and placed beside the well-carved gobbler, Donald and Grace
were too tired to rise from their chairs to have their faces washed.
They seemed lost in a roseate repose, until Grace finally thought of
the wishbone that they intended to break after dinner.
"Come, now, Donald," she said, "let's break the old gobbler's wishbone."
"All right," replied Donald, opening his eyes slowly, and unwrapping
the draperies of his sweet plum-pudding dreams from about him, "let's
do it now." So he held up the wishbone, and Grace took hold of the
other end of it with a merry laugh.
"Here, you must not take hold so far from the end, because I have a
fine wish to make, and want to get the big half if possible."
"So have I a nice wish to make," replied Grace, with a sigh, "and I
also want the big end."
And so they argued for a few minutes, until their mother entered the
room and told them that if they could not stop quarrelling over the
wishbone she would take it from them and throw it into the fire. So
they lost no time in taking it by the ends and snapping it asunder.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed Donald, observing Grace's expression of
disappointment. "I've got it!"
"Well, I've made a wish, too," said Grace.
"But it won't come true," replied Donald, "because you have the little
end."
And then Donald thought he would go out in the air and play, because
his great dinner made him feel very uncomfortable. When he was out
in the barnyard it was just growing dusk, and Donald, through his
half-closed eyes, observed a gobbler strutting about. To his great
surprise the gobbler approached him instead of running away.
"I thought we had you for dinner to-day," said Donald.
"You did," replied the gobbler coldly, "and you had a fine old time,
didn't you?"
"Yes," said Donald, "you made a splendid dinner, and you ought to be
pleased to think you made us all so happy. Your second joints were
very sweet and juicy, and your drumsticks were like sticks of candy."
"And you broke my poor old wishbone with your little sister, didn't
you?"
"I did."
"And what did you wish?" asked the gobbler.
"You mustn't ask me that," replied Donald, "because, you know, if I
tell you the wish I made it would not come true."
"But it was my wishbone," persisted the gobbler, "and I think I ought
to know something about it."
"You have rights, I suppose, and your argument is not without force,"
replied Donald, with calm dignity.
The gobbler was puzzled at so lofty a reply, and not understanding it,
said:
"I am only the ghost, or spirit, of the gobbler you ate to-day, but
still I remember how one day last summer you threw a pan of water on
me, and alluded to my wattles as a red necktie, and called me 'Old
Harvard.' Now, come along!"
"Where?" asked Donald.
"To Wishbone Valley, where you will see the spirits of my ancestors
eaten by your family."
It was now dusk, and Donald didn't like the idea of going to such a
place. He was a brave, courageous boy, on most occasions, but the idea
of going to Wishbone Valley when the stars were appearing filled him
with a dread that he didn't like to acknowledge even to the ghost of a
gobbler.
"I can't go with you now, Mr. Gobbler," he said, "because I have a lot
of lessons to study for next Monday; wait until to-morrow, and I will
gladly go with you."
"Come along," replied the gobbler, with a provoked air, "and let your
lessons go until to-morrow, when you will have plenty of light."
Thereupon the gobbler extended his wing and took Donald by the hand,
and started on a trot.
"Not so fast," protested Donald.
"Why not?" demanded the gobbler in surprise.
"Because," replied Donald, with a groan, "I have just had my dinner,
and I'm too full of you to run."
So the gobbler kindly and considerately slackened his pace to a walk,
and the two proceeded out of the barnyard and across a wide meadow to a
little valley surrounded by a dense thicket. The moon was just rising
and the thicket was silvered by its light, while the dry leaves rustled
weirdly in the cold crisp air.
"This," said the gobbler, "is Wishbone Valley. Look and see."
Donald strained his eyes, and, sure enough, there were wishbones
sticking out of the ground in every direction. He thought they looked
like little croquet hoops, but he made no comments, for fear of
offending the old gobbler. But he felt that he must say something to
make the gobbler think that he was not frightened, so he remarked, in
an offhand way:
"Let's break one and make a wish."
The ghost of the old gobbler frowned, drew himself up, and uttered a
ghostly whistle that seemed to cut the air. As he did so, the ghosts
of the other turkeys long since eaten popped out of the thickets with
a great flapping of wings, and each one perched upon a wishbone and
gazed upon poor Donald, who was so frightened that his collar flew
into a standing position, while he stood upon his toes, with his knees
knocking together at a great rate.
Every turkey fixed its eyes upon the trembling boy, who was beside
himself with fear.
"What shall we do with him, grandpapa?" asked the gobbler of an ancient
bird that could scarcely contain itself and remain on its wishbone.
"I cannot think of anything terrible enough, Willie," replied the
grandparent. "It almost makes my ghostship boil when I think of the way
in which he used to amuse himself by making me a target for his bean
shooter. Often when I was asleep in the button-ball he would fetch me
one on the side of the head that would give me an earache for a week.
But now it is our turn."
Here the other turkeys broke into a wild chorus of approval.
"Take his bean shooter from his pocket," suggested another bird, "and
let's have a shot at him."
Donald was compelled to hand out his bean shooter, and the grandparent
took it, lay on his back, and with the handle of the bean shooter in
one claw and the missile end in the other began to send pebbles at
Donald at a great rate. He could hear them whistling past his ears,
but could not see them to dodge. Fortunately none struck him, and when
the turkeys felt that they had had fun enough of that kind at his
expense the bean shooter was returned to him.
"Now, then," said the gobbler's Aunt Fanny, "he once gave me a string
of yellow beads for corn."
"What shall we do to him for that?" asked the gobbler.
"Make him eat a lot of yellow beads," said the chorus.
"But we have no beads," said the gobbler sadly.
"Then let's poke him with a stick," suggested the gobbler's Granduncle
Sylvester; "he used to do that to us."
So they all took up their wishbones and poked Donald until he was sore.
Sometimes they would hit him in a ticklish spot, and throw him into
such a fit of laughter that they thought he was enjoying it all and
chaffing them. So they stuck their wishbones into the ground, and took
their positions on them once more, to take a needed rest, for the poor
ghosts were greatly exhausted.
There was one quiet turkey who had taken no part in the proceedings.
"Why don't you suggest something?" demanded Uncle Sylvester.
"Because," replied the quiet turkey, "Donald never did anything to me,
and I must treat him accordingly. I was raised and killed a long way
from here, and canned. Donald's father bought me at a store. To be a
ghost in good standing I should be on the farm where I was killed, and
really I don't know why I should be here."
"Then you should be an impartial judge," said Aunt Fanny. "Now what
shall we do with him?"
"Tell them to let me go home," protested Donald, "and I'll agree never
to molest or eat turkey again; I will give them all the angleworms I
can dig every day, and on Thanksgiving Day I'll ask my father to have
roast beef."
"I think," replied the impartial canned ghost, "that as all boys
delight in chasing turkeys with sticks, it would be eminently just and
proper for us, with the exception of myself, to chase this boy and beat
him with our wishbones, to let him learn by experience that which he
could scarcely learn by observation."
"What could I do but eat turkey when it was put on the table?"
protested Donald.
"But you could help chasing us around with sticks," sang the chorus.
They thereupon descended from the wishbones upon which they had been
perching, and flying after him, they darted the wishbones, which they
held in their beaks, into his back and neck as hard as they could.
Donald ran up and down Wishbone Valley, calling upon them to stop,
and declaring that if turkey should ever be put upon the table again
he would eat nothing but the stuffing. When Donald found that the
wishbones were sticking into his neck like so many hornet stings, he
made up his mind that he would run for the house. Finally the wishbone
tattoo stopped, and when he looked around, the gobbler, who was twenty
feet away, said: "When a Thanksgiving turkey dies, his ghost comes
down here to Wishbone Valley to join his ancestors, and it never after
leaves the valley. You will now know why every spring the turkeys steal
down here to hatch their little ones. As you are now over the boundary
line you are safe."
"Thank you," said Donald gratefully.
"Good-bye," sang all the ghosts in chorus.
There was then a great ghostly flapping and whistling, and the turkeys
and wishbones all vanished from sight.
Donald ran home as fast as his trembling legs could carry him, and he
fancied that the surviving turkeys on the place made fun of him as he
passed on his way.
When he reached the house he was very happy, but made no allusion to
his experience in Wishbone Valley, for fear of being laughed at.
"Come, Donald," said his mother, shortly after his arrival, "it is
almost bedtime; you had better eat that drumstick and retire."
"I think I have had turkey enough for to-day," replied Donald, with a
shudder, "and if it is just the same, I would rather have a nice thick
piece of pumpkin pie."
So the girl placed a large piece of pie before him; and while he was
eating with the keen appetite given him by the crisp air of Wishbone
Valley, he heard a great clattering of hoofs coming down the road.
These sounds did not stop until the express wagon drew up in front of
the house, and the driver brought in a large package for Donald.
"Hurrah!" shouted Donald, in boundless glee. "Uncle Arthur has sent me
a nice bicycle! Wasn't it good of him?"
"Didn't you wish for a bicycle to-day, when you got the big end of the
wishbone?" asked his little sister Grace.
"What makes you think so?" asked Donald, with a laugh.
"Oh, I knew it all the time; and my wish came true, too."
"How could your wish come true?" asked Donald, with a puzzled look,
"when you got the little half of the wishbone?"
"I don't know," replied Grace, "but my wish did come true."
"And what did you wish?"
"Why," said Grace, running up and kissing her little brother
affectionately, "I wished your wish would come true, of course."
FOOTNOTE:
[9] From _Harper's Young People_, November 21, 1893.
PATEM'S SALMAGUNDI[10]
BY E. S. BROOKS.
New York boys, especially, will enjoy this tale of
the doings of a group of Dutch schoolboys in old New
Amsterdam.
LITTLE Patem Onderdonk meant mischief. There was a snap in his eyes
and a look on his face that were certain proof of this. I am bound to
say, however, that there was nothing new or strange in this, for little
Patem Onderdonk generally did mean mischief. Whenever any one's cow was
found astray beyond the limits, or any one's bark gutter laid askew
so that the roof-water dripped on the passer's head, or whenever the
dominie's dog ran howling down the Heeren Graaft with a battered pypken
cover tied to his suffering tail, the goode vrouws in the neighbourhood
did not stop to wonder who could have done it; they simply raised both
hands in a sort of injured resignation and exclaimed:
"_Ach so_; what's gone of Patem's Elishamet's Patem?"
So you see little Patem Onderdonk was generally at the bottom of
whatever mischief was afoot in those last Dutch days of New Amsterdam
on the island of Manhattan.
But this time he was conjuring a more serious bit of mischief than
even he usually attempted. This was plain from the appearance of the
startled but deeply interested faces of the half-dozen boys gathered
around him on the bridge.
"But I say, Patem," queried young Teuny Vanderbreets, who was always
ready to second any of Patem's plans, "how can we come it over the
dominie as you would have us?"
"So then, Teuny," cried Patem, in his highest key of contempt, "did
your wits blow away with your hat out of Heer Snediker's nut tree
yesterday? Do not you know that the Heer Governor is at royal odds with
Dominie Curtius because the skinflint old dominie will not pay the
taxes due the town? Why, lad, the Heer Governor will back us up!"
"And why will he not pay the taxes, Patem?" asked Jan Hooglant, the
tanner's son.
"Because he's a skinflint, I tell you," asserted Patem, "though I do
believe he says that he was brought here from Holland as one of the
Company's men, and ought not therefore pay taxes to the Company. That's
what I did hear them say at the Stadt Huys this morning, and Heer
Vanderveer, the schepen, said there, too, that Dominie Curtius was not
worth one of the five hundred guilders which he doth receive for our
teaching. And sure, if the burgomaster and schepens will have none of
the old dominie, why then no more will we who know how stupid are his
lessons, and how his switch doth sting. So, hoy, lads, let's turn him
out."
And with that little Patem Onderdonk gave Teuny Vanderbreets' broad
back a sounding slap with his battered horn book and crying, "Come on,
lads," headed his mutinous companions on a race for the rickety little
schoolhouse near the fort.
It was hard lines for Dominie Curtius all that day at school. The boys
had never been so unruly; the girls never so inattentive. Rebellion
seemed in the air, and the dominie, never a patient or gentle-mannered
man, grew harsher and more exacting as the session advanced. His
reign as master of the Latin School of New Amsterdam had not been
a successful one, and his dispute with the town officers as to his
payment of taxes had so angered him that, as Patem declared, "he seemed
moved to avenge himself upon the town's children."
This being the state of affairs, Dominie Curtius's mood this day was
not a pleasant one, and the school exercises had more to do with the
whipping horse and the birch twigs than with the horn book and the
Latin conjugations.
The boys, I regret to say, were hardened to this, because of much
practice, but when the dominie, enraged at some fresh breach of rigid
discipline, glared savagely over his big spectacles and then swooped
down upon pretty little Antje Adrianse who had done nothing whatever,
the whole school broke into open rebellion. Horn books, and every
possible missile that the boys had at hand, went flying at the master's
head, and the young rebels, led on by Patem and Teuny, charged down
upon the unprepared dominie, rescued trembling little Antje from his
clutch, and then one and all rushed pell-mell from the school with
shouts of triumph and derision.
But when the first flush of their victory was over, the boys realized
that they had done a very daring and risky thing. It was no small
matter in those days of stern authority and strict home government for
girls and boys to resist the commands of their elders; and to run away
from school was one of the greatest of crimes. So they all looked at
Patem in much anxiety.
"Well," cried several of the boys almost in a breath, "and now what
shall we do, Patem? You have us in a pretty fix."
Patem waved his hand like a young Napoleon.
"_Ach!_ ye are all cowards," he cried shrilly. "What will we _do_? Why,
then we will but do as if we were burgomasters and schepens--as we will
be some day. We will to the Heer Governor straight, and lay our demands
before him."
Well, well; this _was_ bold talk! The Heer Governor! Not a boy in all
New Amsterdam but would sooner face a gray wolf in the Sapokanican
woods than the Heer Governor Stuyvesant.
"So then, Patem Onderdonk," they cried, "you may do it yourself, for,
good faith, we will not."
"Why," said Jan Hooglant, "why, Patem, the Heer Governor will have us
rated soundly over the ears for daring such a thing; and we will all
catch more of it when we get home. Demand of the Heer Governor indeed!
Why, boy, you must be crazy!"
But Patem was not crazy. He was simply determined; and at last, by
threats and arguments and coaxing words, he gradually won over a
half-dozen of the boldest spirits to his side and, without more ado,
started with them to interview the Heer Governor.
But, quickly as they acted, the schoolmaster was still more prompt in
action. Defeated and deserted by his scholars, Dominie Curtius had
raged about the schoolroom for a while, spluttering angrily in mingled
Dutch and Polish, and then, clapping his broad black hat upon his head,
marched straight to the fort to lay his grievance before the Heer
Governor.
The Heer Petrus Stuyvesant, Director General for the Dutch West India
Company in their colony of New Netherlands, walked up and down the
Governor's chamber in the fort at New Amsterdam wofully perplexed. The
Heer Governor was not a patient man, and a combination of annoyances
was hedging him about and making his government of his island province
anything but pleasant work.
The "malignant English" of the Massachusetts and Hartford colonies were
pressing their claim to the ownership of the New Netherlands, just as,
to the south, the settlers on Lord De La Ware's patent were also doing;
the "people called Quakers," whom the Heer Governor had publicly
whipped for heresy and sent a-packing, were spreading their "pernicious
doctrine" through Long Island and other outer edges of the colony, and
the Indians around Esopus, the little settlement which the province had
planted midway on the Hudson between New Amsterdam and Beaverwyck (now
Albany), were growing restless and defiant. Thump, thump, thump, across
the floor went the wooden leg with its silver bands, and with every
thump the Heer Governor grew still more puzzled and angered. For the
Heer Governor could not bear to have things go wrong.
Suddenly, with scant ceremony and but the apology of a request for
admittance, there came into the Heer Governor's presence the Dominie
Doctor Alexander Carolus Curtius, master of the Latin School.
"Here is a pretty pass, Heer Governor!" he cried excitedly. "My pupils
of the Latin School have turned upon me in revolt and have deserted me
in a body."
"_Ach_; then you are rightly served for a craven and a miser, sir!"
burst out the angry Governor, turning savagely upon the surprised
schoolmaster.
This was a most unexpected reception for Doctor and Dominie Curtius.
But, as it happened, the Heer Governor Stuyvesant was just now
particularly vexed with the objectionable Dominie. At much trouble and
after much solicitation on his part the Heer Governor had prevailed
upon his superiors and the proprietors of the province, the Dutch West
India Company, to send from Holland a schoolmaster or "rector" for the
children of their town of New Amsterdam, and the Company had sent over
Dominie Curtius.
The Heer Governor had entertained great hopes of what the new
schoolmaster was to do, and now to find him a subject of complaint from
both the parents of the scholars and the officials of the town made the
hasty Governor doubly dissatisfied. The Dominie's intrusion, therefore,
at just this stage of all his perplexities gave the Heer Governor a
most convenient person on whom to vent his bad feelings.
"Yes, sirrah, a craven and a miser!" continued the angry Governor,
stamping upon the floor with both wooden leg and massive cane. "You,
who can neither govern our children nor pay your just dues to the town,
can be no fit master for our youth. No words, sirrah, no words," he
added, as the poor dominie tried to put in a word in his defence, "no
words, sir; you are discharged from further labour in this province. I
will see that one who can rule wisely and pay his just dues shall be
placed here in your stead."
Protests and appeals, explanations and arguments, were of no avail.
When the Heer Governor Stuyvesant said a thing, he meant it, and it was
useless for any one to hope for a change. The unpopular Dominie Curtius
must go--and go he did.
But, as he left, the delegation of boys, headed by young Patem
Onderdonk, came into the fort and sought to interview the Heer Governor.
The sentry at the door would have sent them off without further ado,
but, hearing their noise, the Heer Governor came to the door.
"So, so, young rapscallions," he cried, "you, too, must needs disturb
the peace and push yourself forward into public quarrels! Get you gone!
I will have none of your words. Is it not enough that I must needs send
the schoolmaster a-packing, without being worried by graceless young
varlets as you?"
"And hath the Dominie Curtius gone indeed, Heer Governor?" Patem dared
to ask.
"Hath he, hath he, boy?" echoed the Governor, turning upon his
audacious young questioner with uplifted cane. "Said I not so, and will
you dare doubt my word, rascal? Begone from the fort, all of you, ere I
do put you all in limbo, or send word to your good folk to give you the
floggings you do no doubt all so richly deserve."
Discretion is the better part of valour, and the boyish delegation
hastily withdrew. But when once they were safely out of hearing of the
Heer Governor, beyond the Land Gate at the Broad Way, they took breath
and indulged in a succession of boyish shouts.
"And that doth mean no school, too!" cried young Patem Onderdonk,
flinging his cap in air. "Huzzoy for that, lads; huzzoy for that!"
And the "huzzoys" came with right good-will from every boy of the group.
Within less than a week the whole complexion of affairs in that
little island city was entirely changed. Both the Massachusetts and
the Maryland claimants ceased, for a time at least, their unfounded
demands. A treaty at Hartford settled the disputed question of
boundary-lines, and the Maryland governor declared "that he had not
intended to meddle with the government of Manhattan." Added to this,
Sewackenamo, chief of the Esopus Indians, came to the fort at New
Amsterdam and "gave the right hand of friendship" to the Heer Governor,
and by the interchange of presents a treaty of peace was ratified. So,
one by one, the troubles of the Heer Governor melted away, his brow
became clear and, "partaking of the universal satisfaction," so says
the historian, "he proclaimed a day of general thanksgiving."
Thanksgiving in the colonies was a matter of almost yearly occurrence.
Since the first Thanksgiving Day on American shores, when, in 1621,
the Massachusetts colony, at the request of Governor Bradford,
rejoiced, "after a special manner after we had gathered the fruit of
our labours," the observance of days of thanksgiving for mercies and
benefits had been frequent. But the day itself dates still further
back. The States of Holland after establishing their freedom from Spain
had, in the year 1609, celebrated their deliverance from tyranny "by
thanksgiving and hearty prayers," and had thus really first instituted
the custom of an official thanksgiving. And the Dutch colonists in
America followed the customs of the Fatherland quite as piously and
fervently as did the English colonists.
So, when the proclamation of the Heer Governor Stuyvesant for a day of
thanksgiving was made known, in this year of mercies, 1659, all the
townfolk of New Amsterdam made ready to keep it.
But young people are often apt to think that the world moves for
them alone. The boys of this little Dutch town at the mouth of the
Hudson were no different from other boys, and cared less for treaties
and Indians and boundary questions than for their own matters.
They, therefore, concluded that the Heer Governor had proclaimed a
thanksgiving because, as young Patem Onderdonk declared, "he had gotten
well rid of Dominie Curtius and would have no more schoolmasters in the
colony."
"And so, lads," cried the exuberant young Knickerbocker, "let us wisely
celebrate the Thanksgiving. I will even ask the mother to make for me a
rare salmagundi which we lads, who were so rated by the Heer Governor,
will ourselves give to him as our Thanksgiving offering, for the Heer
Governor, so folk do say, doth rarely like the salmagundi."
Now the salmagundi was (to some palates) a most appetizing mixture,
compounded of salted mackerel, or sometimes of chopped meat, seasoned
with oil and vinegar, pepper and raw onions--not an altogether
attractive dish to read of, but welcome to and dearly loved by many
an old Knickerbocker even up to a recent date. Its name, too, as most
of you bright boys and girls doubtless know, furnished the title
for one of the works of Washington Irving, best loved of all the
Knickerbockers.
Thanksgiving Day came around, and so did Patem's salmagundi, as highly
seasoned and appetizing a one as the Goode Vrouw Onderdonk could make.
The lengthy prayers and lengthier sermon of good Dominie Megapolensis
in the Fort Church were over and the Thanksgiving dinners were very
nearly ready when up to the Heer Governor's house came a half-dozen
boys, with Patem Onderdonk at their head bearing a neatly covered dish.
Patem had well considered and formed in his mind what he deemed just
the speech of presentation to please the Heer Governor, but when the
time came to face that awful personage his valour and his eloquence
alike began to ooze away.
And, it must be confessed, the Heer Governor Stuyvesant did not
understand boys, nor did he particularly favour them. He was hasty and
overbearing though high-minded, loyal, and brave, but he never could
"get on" with the ways and pranks of boys.
And as for the boys themselves, when once they stood in the presence of
the greatest dignitary in the province, Patem's ready tongue seemed to
cleave to the roof of his mouth, and he hummed and hawed and hesitated
until the worthy Heer Governor lost patience and broke in:
"Well, well, boys; what is the stir? Speak quick if at all, for when a
man's dinner waiteth he hath scant time for stammering boys."
Then Patem spoke up.
"Heer Governor," he said, "the boys hereabout, remembering your
goodness in sending away our most pestilential master, the Dominie
Curtius, and in proclaiming a Thanksgiving for his departure and for
the ending of our schooling----"
"What, what, boy!" cried the Heer Governor, "art crazy then, or would
you seek to make sport of me, your governor? Thanksgiving for the
breaking up of school! Out on you for a set of malapert young knaves!
Do you think the world goeth but for your pleasures alone? Why, this
is ribald talk! I made no Thanksgiving for your convenience, rascals,
but because that the Lord in His grace hath relieved the town from
danger----"
"Of which, Heer Governor," broke in the most impolitic Patem, "we did
think the Dominie Curtius and his school were part. And so we have
brought to you this salmagundi as our Thanksgiving offering to you for
thus freeing us of a pest and a sorrow----"
"How now, how now, sirrah!" again came the interruption from the
scandalized Heer Governor when he could recover from his surprise, "do
you then dare to call your schooling a pest and a sorrow? Why, you
graceless young varlets, I do not seek to free you from schooling. I do
even now seek to bring you speedily the teaching you do so much stand
in need of. Even now, within the week forthcoming, the good Dominie
Luyck, the tutor of mine own household, will see to the training and
teaching of this town, and so I will warrant to the flogging, too, of
all you sad young rapscallions who even now by this your wicked talk do
show your need both of teaching and of flogging."
And then, forgetful of the boys' Thanksgiving offering and in high
displeasure at what he deemed their wilful and deliberate ignorance,
the Heer Governor turned the delegation into the street and hastened
back to his waiting dinner.
"_Ach, so_," cried young Teuny Vanderbreets, as the disgusted and
disconsolate six gathered in the roadway and looked at one another
ruefully. "Here is a fine mix-up--a regular salmagundi, Patem
Onderdonk, and no question. And you did say that this Thanksgiving
was all our work. Out upon you, say I! Here are we to be saddled with
a worse master than before. Hermanus Smeeman did tell me that Nick
Stuyvesant did tell him that Dominie Luyck is a most hard and worryful
master."
There was a universal groan of disappointment and disgust, and then
Patem said philosophically:
"Well, lads, what's done is done and what is to be will be. Let us eat
the salmagundi anyhow and cry, 'Confusion to Dominie Luyck.'"
And they did eat it, then and there, for indigestion had no terror to
those lads of hardy stomachs.
But as for the toast of "Confusion to Dominie Luyck," that came
to naught. For Dominie Aegidius Luyck proved a most efficient and
skilful teacher. Under his rule the Latin School of New Amsterdam
became famous throughout the colonies, so that scholars came to it
for instruction from Beaverwyck and South River and even from distant
Virginia.
So the Thanksgiving of the boys of New Amsterdam became a day of
mourning, and Patem's influence as a leader and an oracle suffered
sadly for a while.
Five years after, on a sad Monday morning in September, 1664, the
little city was lost to the Dutch West India Company and, spite of
the efforts and protests of its sturdy Governor, the red, white, and
blue banner of the Netherlands gave place to the flag of England.
And when that day came the young fellows who then saw the defeat and
disappointment of the Heer Governor Stuyvesant were not so certain
that Patem Onderdonk was wrong when he claimed that it was all a just
and righteous judgment on the Heer Governor for his refusal of the
boys' request for no school, and for his treatment of them on that sad
Thanksgiving Day when he so harshly rebuked their display of gratitude
and lost forever his chance to partake of Patem's Salmagundi.
FOOTNOTE:
[10] From "Storied Holidays," Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company.
MRS. NOVEMBER'S DINNER PARTY[11]
BY AGNES CARR.
An amusing allegorical fantasy. All the most
interesting Days, grandchildren of Mother Year, came to
Mrs. November's dinner party, to honour the birthday of
her daughter, Thanksgiving.
THE widow November was very busy indeed this year. What with elections
and harvest homes, her hands were full to overflowing; for she takes
great interest in politics, besides being a social body, without whom
no apple bee or corn husking is complete.
Still, worn out as she was, when her thirty sons and daughters
clustered round, and begged that they might have their usual family
dinner on Thanksgiving Day, she could not find it in her hospitable
heart to refuse, and immediately invitations were sent to her eleven
brothers and sisters, old Father Time, and Mother Year, to come with
all their families and celebrate the great American holiday.
Then what a busy time ensued! What a slaughter of unhappy barnyard
families--turkeys, ducks, and chickens! What a chopping of apples
and boiling of doughnuts! What a picking of raisins and rolling of
pie crust, until every nook and corner of the immense storeroom was
stocked with "savoury mince and toothsome pumpkin pies," while so great
was the confusion that even the stolid red-hued servant, Indian Summer,
lost his head, and smoked so continually he always appeared surrounded
by a blue mist, as he piled logs upon the great bonfires in the yard,
until they lighted up the whole country for miles around.
But at length all was ready; the happy day had come, and all the little
Novembers, in their best "bib and tucker," were seated in a row,
awaiting the arrival of their uncles, aunts, and cousins, while their
mother, in russet-brown silk trimmed with misty lace, looked them over,
straightening Guy Fawkes's collar, tying Thanksgiving's neck ribbon,
and settling a dispute between two little presidential candidates as to
which should sit at the head of the table.
Soon a merry clashing of bells, blowing of horns, and mingling of
voices were heard outside, sleighs and carriages dashed up to the door,
and in came, "just in season," Grandpa Time, with Grandma Year leaning
on his arm, followed by all their children and grandchildren, and were
warmly welcomed by the hostess and her family.
"Oh, how glad I am we could all come to-day!" said Mr. January, in his
crisp, clear tones, throwing off his great fur coat, and rushing to the
blazing fire. "There is nothing like the happy returns of these days."
"Nothing, indeed," simpered Mrs. February, the poetess. "If I had had
time I should have composed some verses for the occasion; but my son
Valentine has brought a sugar heart, with a sweet sentiment on it, to
his cousin Thanksgiving. I, too, have taken the liberty of bringing a
sort of adopted child of mine, young Leap Year, who makes us a visit
every four years."
"He is very welcome, I am sure," said Mrs. November, patting Leap Year
kindly on the head. "And, Sister March, how have you been since we last
met?"
"Oh! we have had the North, South, East, and West Winds all at our
house, and they have kept things breezy, I assure you. But I really
feared we should not get here to-day; for when we came to dress I found
nearly everything we had was lent; so that must account for our shabby
appearance."
"He! he! he!" tittered little April Fool. "What a sell!" And he shook
until the bells on his cap rang; at which his father ceased for a
moment showering kisses on his nieces and nephews, and boxed his ears
for his rudeness.
"Oh, Aunt May! do tell us a story," clamoured the younger children, and
dragging her into a corner she was soon deep in such a moving tale that
they were all melted to tears, especially the little Aprils, who cry
very easily.
Meanwhile, Mrs. June, assisted by her youngest daughter, a "sweet girl
graduate," just from school, was engaged in decking the apartment with
roses and lilies and other fragrant flowers that she had brought from
her extensive gardens and conservatories, until the room was a perfect
bower of sweetness and beauty; while Mr. July draped the walls with
flags and banners, lighted the candles, and showed off the tricks of
his pet eagle, Yankee Doodle, to the great delight of the little ones.
Madam August, who suffers a great deal with the heat, found a seat on
a comfortable sofa, as far from the fire as possible, and waved a huge
feather fan back and forth, while her thirty-one boys and girls, led by
the two oldest, Holiday and Vacation, ran riot through the long rooms,
picking at their Aunt June's flowers, and playing all sorts of pranks,
regardless of tumbled hair and torn clothes, while they shouted,
"Hurrah for fun!" and behaved like a pack of wild colts let loose in a
green pasture, until their Uncle September called them, together with
his own children, into the library, and persuaded them to read some of
the books with which the shelves were filled, or play quietly with the
game of Authors and the Dissected Maps.
"For," said Mr. September to Mrs. October, "I think Sister August
lets her children romp too much. I always like improving games for
mine, although I have great trouble to make Equinox toe the line as he
should."
"That is because you are a schoolmaster," laughed Mrs. October, shaking
her head, adorned with a wreath of gayly tinted leaves; "but where is
my baby?"
At that moment a cry was heard without, and Indian Summer came running
in to say that little All Hallows had fallen into a tub of water while
trying to catch an apple that was floating on top, and Mrs. October,
rushing off to the kitchen, returned with her youngest in a very wet
and dripping condition, and screaming at the top of his lusty little
lungs, and could only be consoled by a handful of chestnuts, which his
nurse, Miss Frost, cracked open for him.
The little Novembers, meanwhile, were having a charming time with their
favourite cousins, the Decembers, who were always so gay and jolly,
and had such a delightful papa. He came with his pockets stuffed full
of toys and sugarplums, which he drew out from time to time, and gave
to his best-loved child, Merry Christmas, to distribute amongst the
children, who gathered eagerly around their little cousin, saying:
"Christmas comes but once a year,
But when she comes she brings good cheer."
At which Merry laughed gayly, and tossed her golden curls, in which
were twined sprays of holly and clusters of brilliant scarlet berries.
At last the great folding-doors were thrown open. Indian Summer
announced that dinner was served, and a long procession of old and
young being quickly formed, led by Mrs. November and her daughter
Thanksgiving, whose birthday it was, they filed into the spacious
dining-room, where stood the long table groaning beneath its weight of
good things, while four servants ran continually in and out bringing
more substantials and delicacies to grace the board and please the
appetite. Winter staggered beneath great trenchers of meat and
poultry, pies and puddings; Spring brought the earliest and freshest
vegetables; Summer, the richest creams and ices; while Autumn served
the guests with fruit, and poured the sparkling wine.
All were gay and jolly, and many a joke was cracked as the contents of
each plate and dish melted away like snow before the sun; and the great
fires roared in the wide chimneys as though singing a glad Thanksgiving
song.
New Year drank everybody's health, and wished them "many happy returns
of the day," while Twelfth Night ate so much cake he made himself quite
ill, and had to be put to bed.
Valentine sent mottoes to all the little girls, and praised their
bright eyes and glossy curls. "For," said his mother, "he is a sad
flatterer, and not nearly so truthful, I am sorry to say, as his
brother, George Washington, who never told a lie."
At which Grandfather Time gave George a quarter, and said he should
always remember what a good boy he was.
After dinner the fun increased, all trying to do something for the
general amusement. Mrs. March persuaded her son, St. Patrick, to dance
an Irish Jig, which he did to the tune of the "Wearing of the Green,"
which his brothers, Windy and Gusty, blew and whistled on their fingers.
Easter sang a beautiful song, the little Mays "tripped the light
fantastic toe" in a pretty fancy dance, while the Junes sat by so
smiling and sweet it was a pleasure to look at them.
Independence, the fourth child of Mr. July, who is a bold little
fellow, and a fine speaker, gave them an oration he had learned at
school; and the Augusts suggested games of tag and blindman's buff,
which they all enjoyed heartily.
Mr. September tried to read an instructive story aloud, but was
interrupted by Equinox, April Fool, and little All Hallows, who pinned
streamers to his coat tails, covered him with flour, and would not let
him get through a line; at which Mrs. October hugged her tricksy baby,
and laughed until she cried, and Mr. September retired in disgust.
"That is almost too bad," said Mrs. November, as she shook the popper
vigorously in which the corn was popping and snapping merrily; "but,
Thanksgiving, you must not forget to thank your cousins for all they
have done to honour your birthday."
At which the demure little maiden went round to each one, and returned
her thanks in such a charming way it was quite captivating.
Grandmother Year at last began to nod over her teacup in the chimney
corner.
"It is growing late," said Grandpa Time.
"But we must have a Virginia Reel before we go," said Mr. December.
"Oh, yes, yes!" cried all the children.
Merry Christmas played a lively air on the piano, and old and young
took their positions on the polished floor with grandpa and grandma at
the head.
Midsummer danced with Happy New Year, June's Commencement with August's
Holiday, Leap Year with May Day, and all "went merry as a marriage
bell."
The fun was at its height when suddenly the clock in the corner struck
twelve. Grandma Year motioned all to stop, and Grandfather Time, bowing
his head, said softly, "Hark! my children, Thanksgiving Day is ended."
FOOTNOTE:
[11] From _Harper's Young People_, November 23, 1880.
THE VISIT[12]
A STORY OF THE CHILDREN OF THE TOWER
BY MAUD LINDSAY.
The children went back to spend Thanksgiving at
grandfather's farm. They got into some trouble and were
afraid that they would miss their dinner.
EARLY one morning Grandmother Grey got up, opened the windows and doors
of the farmhouse, and soon everybody on the place was stirring. The
cook hurried breakfast, and no sooner was it over than Grandfather Grey
went out to the barn and hitched the two horses to the wagon.
"Get up, Robin and Dobbin!" he said, as he drove through the big gate.
"If you knew who were coming back in this wagon you would not be
stepping so slowly."
The old horses pricked up their ears when they heard this, and trotted
away as fast as they could down the country road until they came to
town. Just as they got to the railway station the train came whizzing
in.
"All off!" cried the conductor, as the train stopped; and out came
a group of children who were, every one of them, Grandfather and
Grandmother Grey's grandchildren. They had come to spend Thanksgiving
Day on the farm.
There was John, who was named for grandfather and looked just like him,
and the twins, Teddie and Pat, who looked like nobody but each other;
their papa was grandfather's oldest son. Then there was Louisa, who
had a baby sister at home, and then Mary Virginia Martin, who was her
mamma's only child.
"I tell you," said grandfather, as he helped them into the wagon, "your
grandmother will be glad to see you!"
And so she was. She was watching at the window for them when they
drove up, and when the children spied her they could scarcely wait for
grandfather to stop the wagon before they scrambled out.
"Dear me, dear me!" said grandmother, as they all tried to kiss her at
the same time, "how you have grown."
"I am in the first grade," said John, hugging her with all his might.
"So am I," cried Louisa.
"We are going to be," chimed in the twins; and then they all talked at
once, till grandmother could not hear herself speak.
Then, after they had told her all about their mammas and papas, and
homes, and cats and dogs, they wanted to go and say "how do you do" to
everything on the place.
"Take care of yourselves," called grandmother, "for I don't want to
send any broken bones home to your mothers."
"I can take care of myself," said John.
"So can we," said the rest; and off they ran.
First they went to the kitchen where Mammy 'Ria was getting ready to
cook the Thanksgiving dinner; then out to the barnyard, where there
were two new red calves, and five little puppies belonging to Juno, the
dog, for them to see. Then they climbed the barnyard fence and made
haste to the pasture where grandfather kept his woolly sheep. "Baa-a!"
said the sheep when they saw the children; but then, they always said
that, no matter what happened.
There were cows in this pasture, too, and Mary Virginia was afraid of
them, even though she knew that they were the mothers of the calves she
had seen in the barnyard.
"Silly Mary Virginia!" said John, and Mary Virginia began to cry.
"Don't cry," said Louisa. "Let's go to the hickory-nut tree."
This pleased them all, and they hurried off; but on the way they
came to the big shed where grandfather kept his plows and reaper and
threshing machine and all his garden tools.
The shed had a long, wide roof, and there was a ladder leaning against
it. When John saw that, he thought he must go up on the roof; and then,
of course, the twins went, too. Then Louisa and Mary Virginia wanted to
go, and although John insisted that girls could not climb, they managed
to scramble up the ladder to where the boys were. And there they all
sat in a row on the roof.
"Grandmother doesn't know how well we can take care of ourselves," said
John. "But I am such a big boy that I can do anything. I can ride a
bicycle and go on errands----"
"So can I," said Louisa.
"We can ride on the trolley!" cried the twins.
"Mamma and I go anywhere by ourselves," said Mary Virginia.
"Moo!" said something down below; and when they looked, there was one
of the cows rubbing her head against the ladder.
"Don't be afraid, Mary Virginia," said Louisa. "Cows can't climb
ladders."
"Don't be afraid, Mary Virginia," said John. "I'll drive her away."
So he kicked his feet against the shed roof and called, "Go away!
go away!" The twins kicked their feet, too, and called, "Go away!
go away!" and somebody, I don't know who, kicked the ladder and it
fell down and lay in the dry grass. And the cow walked peacefully on,
thinking about her little calf.
"There, now!" exclaimed Louisa, "how shall we ever get down?"
"Oh, that's nothing," said John. "All I'll have to do is to stand up on
the roof and call grandfather. Just watch me do it."
So he stood up and called, "Grandfather! Grandfather! Grandfather!"
till he was tired; but no grandfather answered.
Then the twins called, "Grandfather! Grandmother!"
"Baa," said the sheep, as if beginning to think that somebody ought to
answer all that calling.
Then they all called together: "Grandfather! Grandfather! Grandfather!"
and when nobody heard that, they began to feel frightened and lonely.
"I want to go home to my mother! I wish I hadn't come!" wailed Mary
Virginia.
"It's Thanksgiving dinner time, too," said John, "and there's turkey
for dinner, for I saw it in the oven."
"Pie, too," said Louisa.
"Dear, dear!" cried the twins.
And then they all called together once more, but this time with such a
weak little cry that not even the sheep heard it.
The sun grew warmer and the shadows straighter as they sat there, and
grandmother's house seemed miles away when John stood up to look at it.
"They've eaten dinner by this time, I know," he said as he sat down
again; "and grandfather and grandmother have forgotten all about us."
But grandfather and grandmother had not forgotten them, for just about
then grandmother was saying to grandfather: "You had better see where
the children are, for Thanksgiving dinner will soon be ready and I know
that they are hungry."
So grandfather went out to look for them. He did not find them in the
kitchen nor the barnyard, so he called, "Johnnie! Johnnie!" and when
nobody answered he made haste to the pasture.
The children saw him coming, and long before he had reached the
gate they began to call with all their might. This time grandfather
answered, "I'm coming!" and I cannot tell you how glad they were.
In another minute he had set the ladder up again and they all came
down. Mary Virginia came first because she was the youngest girl, and
John came last because he was the biggest boy. Grandfather put his arms
around each one as he helped them down, and carried Mary Virginia home
on his back. When they got to the house dinner was just ready.
The turkey was brown, the potatoes were sweet,
The sauce was so spicy, the biscuits were beat,
The great pumpkin pie was as yellow as gold,
And the apples were red as the roses, I'm told.
It was such a good dinner that I had to tell you about it in rhyme!
And I'm sure you'll agree,
With the children and me,
That there's never a visit so pleasant to pay
As a visit to grandma on Thanksgiving Day.
FOOTNOTE:
[12] From "More Mother Stories," Milton Bradley Company.
THE STORY OF RUTH AND NAOMI[13]
ADAPTED FROM THE BIBLE, BY C. S. BAILEY AND C. M. LEWIS.
Ruth's story is one of the most beautiful ones to be
found in the Old Book. As a tale of the harvest, it
deserves to be included in this collection.
NOW it came to pass, many hundreds of years ago, that there was a good
woman named Naomi who lived in the land of the Moabites. She had once
been very rich and happy, but now her husband was dead and her two sons
also, and she had left only Orpah and Ruth, the wives of her sons.
There was a famine in the land. Naomi could find no grain in the fields
to beat into flour. She and Orpah and Ruth were lonely and sad and very
hungry.
But Naomi heard there was a land where the Lord had visited His people
and given them bread; so she went forth from the place where she was,
and her two daughters with her, to the land called Judah. It was a
long, hard way to go. There were rough roads to travel and steep hills
to climb. Their feet grew so weary they could scarcely walk, and at
last Naomi said:
"Go, return each to your father's house. The Lord deal kindly with you
as you have dealt with me. The Lord grant you that you may find rest."
Then she kissed them, and Orpah kissed her and left her, but Ruth would
not leave Naomi. And Naomi said to Ruth:
"Behold, thy sister is gone back unto her own people; return thou!"
But Ruth clung to Naomi more closely, as she said:
"Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee:
for whither thou goest, there will I go; and where thou lodgest, there
will I lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God."
When Naomi saw that Ruth loved her so much, she forgot how tired and
hungry she was, and the two journeyed on together until they came to
Bethlehem in Judah in the beginning of the barley harvest. There was
no famine in Bethlehem. The fields were full of waving grain, and busy
servants were reaping it and gathering it up to bind into sheaves.
Above all were the fields of the rich man, Boaz, shining with barley
and corn.
Naomi and Ruth came to the edge of the fields and watched the busy
reapers. They saw that after each sheaf was bound, and each pile of
corn was stacked, a little grain fell, unnoticed, to the ground. Ruth
said to Naomi: "Let me go to the field and glean the ears of corn after
them." And Naomi said to her, "Go, my daughter." And she went, and came
and gleaned in the field after the reapers.
And Boaz came from Bethlehem, and said to his reapers: "Whose damsel is
this?" for he saw how very beautiful Ruth was, and how busily she was
gleaning. The reapers said: "It is the damsel that came back with Naomi
out of the land of the Moabites."
And Ruth ran up to Boaz, crying: "I pray you, let me glean and gather
after the reapers among the sheaves."
And Boaz, who was good and kind, said to Ruth:
"Hearest thou not, my daughter? Go not to glean in any other field, but
abide here."
Then Ruth bowed herself to the ground, and said: "Why have I found such
favour in thine eyes, seeing I am a stranger?"
And Boaz answered her: "It hath been showed me all that thou hast done
to thy mother."
So, all day, Ruth gleaned in Boaz's fields. At noon she ate bread and
parched corn with the others. Boaz commanded his reapers to let fall
large handfuls of grain, as they worked, for Ruth to gather, and at
night she took it all home to Naomi.
"Where hast thou gleaned to-day?" asked Naomi, when she saw the food
that Ruth had brought to her.
"The man's name with whom I wrought to-day is Boaz," said Ruth. And
Naomi said: "Blessed be he of the Lord--the man is near of kin unto us."
So Ruth gleaned daily, and at the end of the barley harvest the good
man Boaz took Ruth and Naomi to live with him in his own house forever.
FOOTNOTE:
[13] From "For the Children's Hour," Milton Bradley Company.
BERT'S THANKSGIVING[14]
BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
Bert is a manly, generous, warm-hearted fellow. Other
boys will like to read how good luck began to come his
way on a certain memorable Thanksgiving Day.
AT NOON, on a dreary November day, a lonesome little fellow, looking
very red about the ears and very blue about the mouth, stood kicking
his heels at the door of a cheap eating house in Boston, and offering a
solitary copy of a morning paper for sale to the people passing.
But there were really not many people passing, for it was Thanksgiving
Day, and the shops were shut, and everybody who had a home to go to and
a dinner to eat seemed to have gone home to eat that dinner, while Bert
Hampton, the newsboy, stood trying in vain to sell the last "extry"
left on his hands by the dull business of the morning.
An old man, with a face that looked pinched, and who was dressed in a
seedy black coat and a much-battered stovepipe hat, stopped at the same
doorway, and, with one hand on the latch, appeared to hesitate between
hunger and a sense of poverty before going in.
It was possible, however, that he was considering whether he could
afford himself the indulgence of a morning paper (seeing it was
Thanksgiving Day); so, at least, Bert thought, and accosted him
accordingly.
"Buy a paper, sir? All about the fire in East Boston, and arrest of
safe-burglars in Springfield. Only two cents!"
The little old man looked at the boy with keen gray eyes, which seemed
to light up the pinched and skinny face, and
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