THANKSGIVING DAY.
“Good-by, mother—it’s too bad you ain’t going. I hate to leave you all
alone.”
“Hadn’t you better come, _Miss_ Gilman? the sleigh can hold just as many
as we can pile in, and my wife don’t stint her oven Thanksgiving Day,”
urged the Deacon, standing up in the huge box-sleigh, and tucking the
buffalo robe around Mrs. Chase, who was on the front seat with him.
“Now, I know you haven’t got nothing to keep you,” said the good woman,
seconding her husband’s invitation.
“Do, mother!”—called out Abby again, from between Ben and Julia Chase,
and Hannah’s eyes looked “do mother,” though Ben had almost smothered her
in the blue and white coverlet, which came to their share.
“Two turkies,” said Ben, “real fine, fat fellows.”
“And whole oceans of mince and punkin pies, I helped to make ’em, didn’t
I, mother?” added Julia, proud of her first great attempt in the kitchen
department; “besides, the _biggest_ plum pudding!”
Mrs. Gilman only shook her head, and pulled her black hood close over her
face, as she went down the hill from the meeting-house. She was afraid to
speak, for fear her voice would tremble with the tears she could hardly
keep down. It had been a hard day to her, one of the hardest in her life,
for she knew she ought to join in the thanksgiving; and, look whichever
way she could, only her troubles came up to her.
The very name of the anniversary, so full of associations to her,—the
hymns of the morning service, the minister’s text—_O give thanks unto the
Lord, for He is good, and His mercy endureth for ever_! had made her sad
instead of rejoicing. When she came out with the congregation, families
that she had known all her lifetime, all looking so happy, a feeling
nearer to envy of their prosperity, and rebellion against her Heavenly
Father’s choice for her, than she had ever felt through all her troubles,
rose up, choking her voice, as she tried to return their friendly
salutations cheerfully. She was glad the children were going home with
the Deacon, they would not miss their thanksgiving dinner; but she felt
it would be impossible to accept the invitation for herself.
She did not look up as the sleighs passed her on the road, though she had
to stand aside for them more than once, warned by their merry bells. She
was chilled by the damp new-fallen snow, and felt utterly desolate, when
she unfastened the door of the little brown house. Squire Merrill’s team,
with its party of young and old, was just going by the gate.
“There’s a mail in from California, I hear”—he called out; checking his
horses for a moment. “I’ll go round to the post-office to-night. Fine
day, Mrs. Gilman,” and then she was alone in the empty room. The promise
did not raise her spirits; so many mails had arrived with nothing for
her, that she had almost given up looking for them. The neighbors had not
forgotten her in their own abundance, but she did not feel like eating.
She had never taken a thanksgiving dinner alone, in her life, and she
could not so much as taste food.
Sometimes the room, bare as it was, looked neat and comfortable to her,
but not now. Every thing had the stiff, cleared-up air of a holiday,
without its cheerfulness. The stove was a poor substitute for the wide,
blazing fireplace, to which she had been always accustomed; and she
thought of the homestead, and those who had gathered there in days gone
by. If she could have taken her work, it would have been a great relief,
but it would not have seemed right to sew on thanksgiving day, any more
than if it had been Sunday; so she drew her chair up to the black,
uninviting stove, and leaning her chin on her hand, went on with the
bitter thoughts, a weary, heart-stricken woman.
The thought of her childhood,—the abundance and merriment of those
thanksgiving days, when the whole house was filled with plenty, and
she dreamed for weeks of the dainties and merry making to come. When
she first had children of her own, she lived it all over again in
their pleasure. She thought of her husband as he was then,—a liberal,
kind-hearted man, loved and respected by others as well as herself. And
her boy—her first-born—where was he? She had not had, since the news
of his father’s death came, but one short letter, when he wrote in the
anticipation of a home he might never have found. His fate might be worse
than death, a wanderer in a strange land, and the pressing care of actual
poverty had come upon her with all the rest.
She listened and watched through the afternoon, with a kind of sickening
eagerness, for Squire Merrill’s return. But it was as she had feared—no
letter; and he did not even try to comfort her. He saw by the look which
came over her face, that it would be useless.
“Never mind”—she said to herself with a kind of despairing calmness, “she
ought not to expect any thing but disappointment in this world.”
But she knew she was doing wrong in giving up to such a temptation, and
indulging murmuring thoughts. “God forgive me! He knows what is best”—she
said half aloud, and got up with a great effort, and put down the paper
window-curtains, before she lighted a candle, to try and drive them away
with the darkness. Her hymn book, with its well-worn leathern binding,
laid on the mantel. It had been her mother’s before it was her own, and
she had learned her letters from the large capitals at the commencement
of the lines. She turned to the psalms first, and looked for those that
suited her present mood. She had often found comfort in their deep faith,
and humble, repentant spirit. There was one she had read many times of
late—
How long wilt thou forget me, Lord?
Must I for ever mourn?
How long wilt thou withdraw from me,
O, never to return!
Oh, hear, and to my longing eyes
Restore thy wonted light;
Dawn on my spirit, lest I sleep
In death’s most gloomy night.
Since I have always placed my trust
Beneath thy mercy’s wing,
_Thy saving health will come_; and then
My heart with joy shall spring.
She had always tried to do right. He had promised never to forsake those
who trusted His love and kindness!
She noticed something written with a pencil on the margin of a hymn, as
she turned over the leaves in search of other favorites. It was the text
of the sermon, the Sunday before her husband went away;—
_Lay not up for yourself treasures upon earth, where moth and rust do
corrupt, and thieves break through and steal._
Oh, if he had only heeded the warning, and made a wise use of what had
been given to him! and there was the hymn they had all sung, that last
Sunday evening. It came as an answer to her silent prayer, and hushed the
last struggling doubt of her heavenly Father’s goodness.
“Ye fearful souls fresh courage take,
The clouds you so much dread
Are full of mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.”
She sang to herself, as she rose with a quicker step and lighter heart
than she had had before that day.
There was a knock at the front door, and she opened it, wondering a
little who of her neighbors had left their families, Thanksgiving
evening, to pay her a visit.
But she had never seen the face before, and the stranger did not know
her either, for he asked “if Mrs. Gilman lived here?” He took off his
fur travelling cap when he came into the room, and his dark, handsome
face,—strange enough it looked to her, with its heavy beard and
moustache, lighted up with a pleasant smile, as he said—
“I bring my introduction, and I hope my welcome, too, in a letter from
your son, madam.”
“Oh, sir, from Sam—from California? Have you seen him? Is he well? _I am
so thankful._”
Mrs. Gilman had found her Thanksgiving Day at last.
The gentleman made himself very much at home, as she eagerly opened the
letter, and would not answer a question till she had read it. Then he was
ready to tell her all she wished to hear, and such good news, that she
scarcely knew how to bear it.
Mrs. Gilman knew from the letter that Mr. Hadley brought it. He had left
Sam in charge of the ranch, he said, and came to the States, partly
“to see if they were still standing,” and partly to take her back with
him. He and Sam had talked it over until they thought it was the best
thing to be done. He wanted a housekeeper, that would not go off and get
married the day she landed, and Sam wanted his mother and the girls. He
wanted a dairy, and Mrs. Gilman was the very one to manage it,—butter was
selling at a dollar a pound, and they would go partnership in it if she
was willing. Sam was too valuable a hand on the farm to waste his time in
housekeeping, and had been willing to enter into bonds for Abby’s good
care of the chicken-house. “It would be a shame,” he said, “to take Sam
out of the country; he would do better there than he could ever do in the
States, and she would see him in Congress yet, if he made as popular a
man as he was boy; but if Mrs. Gilman wouldn’t come out, Sam would come
home, and that would be the last of him.”
There was no end to the praises that he lavished on the young ranchero,
for so he began to call himself; on his honesty and industry, his
perseverance and his good sense. His pies and his ploughing, Hadley
declared, could not be beaten in the valley, and he didn’t believe his
sisters could hem a towel or make a flannel shirt better.
Mrs. Gilman actually laughed at this singular list of accomplishments,
and began to feel as if she had known Sam’s friend a long time. They got
on very fast indeed. Hadley thought to himself he could see Sam’s smile
in his mother’s eyes, and they had just that clear, honest look. He was
not in the least disappointed—and felt sure he should carry her back with
him, impossible as she seemed to think it at first. Mrs. Gilman did not
wonder that Sam’s letter praised him so, and hardly knew how to show him
how sincerely thankful and grateful she was.
Abby and Hannah came home in fine spirits. “Ben had driven them in the
cutter, and had tipped them out in a snow-drift on Shingle Camp, and they
had such fun! and such a splendid dinner, and Mrs. Chase had sent—”
But here the young ladies became suddenly aware of the presence of a
stranger, and became as quiet, and shy, and _awkward_ in a moment, as
they had been gleeful and graceful before.
Mr. Hadley did not intend this should last; he liked their faces much
better lighted up by fun and frolic, than when they settled themselves on
the edges of two chairs, stiff, little country girls.
“Well, what _did_ Mrs. Chase send, Abby?—this must be Abby,” he said,
pulling the bashful child towards him—“something good, I hope, for your
mother has not given me any supper yet. Let’s see”—and off came the clean
towels in quick order, as he set the dishes out of the big basket on the
table. “Cold ham—very good—apple pie, mince pie, better and better—goose
pie—”
“No, chicken,” corrected Abby, forgetting her awe of the height, and
moustache of the stranger, in his funny ways. It was a mistake “made on
purpose,” and they were good friends from that moment, though it took
Hannah much longer to get over her shyness.
“Well, now, let us have a plate, and a knife and fork,” Mr. Hadley went
on, “two of them, Hannah; I shouldn’t wonder if your mother would have
some goose pie too;” and late as it was, a capital supper was soon set
forth, in which Mrs. Gilman did join him. Hannah told Abby that she did
not believe her mother had tasted a mouthful before, all day, and she was
quite right.
“Good-night,” Mr. Hadley said, taking up his overcoat, when they had all
talked, and laughed, and wondered, until the old clock struck ten. “Our
friend, Mr. Mooney, has promised me a bed, but I shall come and help you
to finish that pie in the morning. Oh, Sam said you’d be wanting some new
travelling frocks, or something, and here’s a couple of slugs or so, to
get them with. Do all your shopping before you start; our Sonoma stores
haven’t the best assortment of calicoes.”
Abby picked up the “slugs,” as Mr. Hadley called them, six there were
instead of a couple; three hundred dollars, they found next day.
She never had seen any California gold before, and thought they looked
very like ugly, heavy brass medals. “Small cakes of maple sugar,”
Hannah suggested, trying to describe them to Julia Chase. They did not
“glitter,” it is true, but were excellent gold, for Squire Merrill
readily gave Mrs. Gilman three hundred dollars in new ten-dollar bank
bills in exchange.
Mr. Hadley came early the next morning, in Mr. Mooney’s best sleigh, full
of buffalo robes, to give them a sleigh-ride. He wanted to go over to
the Deacon’s, he said, and see Ben, and Julia, and Mrs. Chase. He knew
them all very well by Sam’s account, and had something in charge Sam had
sent. Abby had half a mind to be jealous at first, when a heavy ring of
Yuba-river gold came out for Julia, whose eyes sparkled not so much at
the gift as the remembrance of the giver. Ben had given up all idea of
going to sea, and “settled down into a real stiddy hand,”—his father
said, bidding fair to occupy the Deacon’s seat one day. The Deacon took
a great fancy to Mr. Hadley, and they had a long talk about crops, and
California farming, with a great many “deu tell’s,” and “jus’ so’s,” on
the Deacon’s part. He “tackled up,” and went over to Mrs. Gilman’s that
afternoon, to tell her, that he and his wife thought the best thing she
could do, was to “take up with the offer of this ere Californy chap, who
seemed to be doing first rate by Sam, and was real likely, if he’d only
shave that hair off his face.”
[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF THE MAJOR.
Page 209.]
Squire Merrill’s opinion, a little more elegantly expressed, agreed
with the Deacon’s, when he had seen and talked with Mr. Hadley. His
visit to the Gilmans, and their affairs, made a great noise in Merrill’s
Corner, which Abby was not slow to take airs upon. He was the first
real Californian that had ever been in the village, and the President,
himself, would hardly have had a greater crowd than gathered around
Mooney’s tavern to see him off. He was to come back again in a month for
Mrs. Gilman, whose preparations and leave-takings would not take more
than that time.
No brother could have been kinder to Abby and Hannah, when Mr. Hadley
really took charge of them at the commencement of their long journey.
He showed them all that he could think of that would interest them in
New-York, until their heads were in a whirl of panoramas, and museums,
and picture galleries, with dissolving views of the Battery and High
Bridge, and strong recollections of bookstores and confectioners. For
once in her life Hannah had enough of candies and new books. Mrs. Gilman
was afraid they would be completely spoiled, and talked to Mr. Hadley
very seriously about indulging them so.
He seemed to have adopted the whole family, for he said “mother” half
the time. So much, that several people on the steamer talked to Abby
about “her brother,” much to her delight and amusement. He was attentive
as a son to all Mrs. Gilman’s wants and wishes through the discomforts
of sea-sickness, and crossing the Isthmus. The girls enjoyed the Isthmus
mule-ride more than any part of the journey. Abby laughed at Hannah’s
mishaps, and slipped off the mule herself the next rough place they came
to. Mr. Hadley laughed at both of them, and said he should have to give
them lessons in horsemanship as soon as they got to the ranch.
They arrived safely in San Francisco, the steamer before Sam expected
them, and Mr. Hadley would not send him word, as he counted on a grand
surprise.
The team was waiting the arrival of the little steamboat, which now
touched twice a week to the Embarcadero, Mr. Maloney having come down for
a load of supplies, which Sam had been commissioned to get in advance,
for his mother’s arrival. He was “tuck off his feet entirely,” when he
saw his employer step on shore, and land Mrs. Gilman and the girls,
instead of the expected furniture.
It was a little earlier in the season than when Sam had arrived the
year before, but every thing in the valley was looking as lovely as a
bright day could make it. Mrs. Gilman, full of one thought—the meeting so
near at hand,—scarcely saw the country; but the girls begged to have the
wagon stopped every acre of red, and blue, and yellow flowers they came
to. They could hardly believe Mr. Hadley’s assurance, that the ranch was
covered with them, and they could gather a bouquet as large as a bushel
basket in ten minutes, if they chose to. The Queen of Sheba could not
have been more astonished with the magnificence of the Court of Solomon,
than these New Hampshire girls with the beauty and abundance of the
floral treasures of Sonoma Valley.
Sam was discovered in the pastoral occupation of watering his flocks and
herds; that is to say, Buck and Jerry, who had come to show a less truant
disposition,—and a shaggy-looking colt, he considered the handsomest
steed in the valley. It was in his eyes, for “Shanks” was his own
personal property, and returned his affection with interest.
It was a meeting which we cannot attempt to describe, and none of the
party quite recovered their senses until the next morning, when Mr.
Hadley rode over to Sonoma on business, and left Sam to do the honors of
the house, garden, and ranch generally. In the garden there was not much
to be seen as yet, but good intentions and a few heads of lettuce,—but
Sam had laid out nice flower-beds for Abby in the front of the house, and
stocked them with hare-bells and wild valley lilies, golden cardinals and
blue larkspurs,—all kinds of roots and seeds that had taken his fancy.
The new barn was nearly completed, Sam and Maloney were the principal
carpenters,—a trellice of very respectable lattice work relieved the
square front of the house, and a porch shaded the neat-looking kitchen.
Abby was introduced to her special territory, the enlarged chicken house,
where the children and grand-children of “Topknot” and her coop-mates
flourished, and then they all went to work to get the front room in
order before Mr. Hadley’s return. Maloney had arrived with the load of
furniture before breakfast; and the neat chairs and tables were soon
in their places. There was a bureau for Mrs. Gilman’s room, the upper
chambers had been finished off, and Mr. Hadley taken up his quarters in
one of them, while Maloney and his adherents retired to the barn chamber.
Mr. Hadley came dashing up to the front door at nightfall, and declared
he did not know his own house. The front room was graced with curtains,
and a lounge Sam had helped the girls to manufacture. The tables held
enormous bouquets, and there was a work-basket still standing on the
window seat, sure token of a woman’s presence. Mrs. Gilman had set the
tea-table, from what seemed, to her economical eyes, the extravagance of
the store-room, and no one could have wished a more cheerful welcome home.
Mrs. Gilman sat thinking of the beauty and abundance of all around
her that evening, and the hearty kindness, which made her feel how
useful and happy she should be there. A prayer for the pardon of her
faithless doubts and fears, came into her heart. She had not one, but two
Thanksgiving Days, and could join most heartily in the glad invitation,—
_O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good, and His mercy endureth for
ever!_
Julia Chase can probably tell best, whether our young Californian ever
intends to visit New Hampshire again, as she is the only one in Merrill’s
Corner who is favored with letters from Hadley’s ranch. Ben has not
turned out much of a scholar, but makes an excellent farmer, and is
contented with overlooking the correspondence, and sending messages in
the postscript. One thing is certain, it will only be a visit, if Sam
goes, for he bids fair to be one of the most respected and enterprising
men in the New Country.
THE END.