It always made Ben feel solemn to watch the river in a storm. To-day
it was grey, and rough and noisy, and the few boats, which went down
toward Lake Huron, pitched about so that their decks slanted first
one way, then another, and their sides were coated with ice.
“Gran’ma, what day’s to-day?” he asked at last, turning from the
stormy river to glance about their warm, comfortable little room.
“Wednesday, Benny,” answered the small old woman who crouched over
the stove.
“Then to-morrow will be Thanksgiving day, and the Rosses are going
to have a turkey,” said Ben, excitedly. “What are we going to have,
Gran’ma?”
Mrs. Moxon looked over her glasses at her grandson’s small, thin
figure in its patched and faded clothes, and at his bright, eager
face.
“Sonny, dear, what do you think Gran’ma has for Thanksgiving?” she
asked gently.
The expectant look faded from Ben’s face, and he winked hard to keep
the tears from running over. He did not need to be told how bare of
dainties their cupboard was, for everything there he had brought
with his own hands. Bacon and smoked fish enough for all winter were
stored away; flour, potatoes, and a few other vegetables were there.
“Tell me about a real Thanksgiving dinner,” the small boy begged
after the first disappointment had been bravely put away. Mrs.
Moxon took off her spectacles, and leaned back cautiously in her
broken-rockered chair.
“I remember one Thanksgiving when your pa was alive, we had a dinner
fit for a king. There was a ten-pound turkey, with bread stuffing. I
put the sage and onions into the stuffing with my own hands.”
“We could have some stuffing,” interrupted Ben, eagerly.
“So we could, sonny, so we could. It takes you to think of things,”
and Mrs. Moxon affectionately patted the little brown hand on her
knee. “It never would ’a’ come to me that we might have turkey
stuffing even if we didn’t have any turkey.”
Ben beamed with delight at this praise. “And was there anything else
besides the turkey and the stuffing, Gran’ma?”
“Land, yes, child. There was turnips, and mashed potatoes and
mince pie, and your pa got two pounds of grapes, though grapes was
expensive at that time o’ year. Yes, nobody could ask for a better
dinner than that was.”
“We could have one just like it, all but the turkey and the mince pie
and the grapes,” said Ben hopefully.
“So we can, and will, too, child,” answered the old woman. “Trust
you for making the best of things,” and the two smiled at each other
happily.
Next morning Ben watched his grandmother add an egg, some sage and
chopped onion to a bowlful of dry bread, pour boiling water over it,
and put the mixture in the oven.
“Your father said I made the best turkey stuffing he ever ate,” she
said with satisfaction. “We’ll see how it comes out, Benny.”
“I can’t hardly wait till dinner-time,” Ben said, with an excited
skip. “I b’lieve I’ll go down to the beach, and pick up driftwood for
a while. You call me when the things are most cooked, Gran’ma.”
The storm of the day before had left many a bit of board or end of a
log on the beach that would be just the thing for Mrs. Moxon’s stove.
Ben worked so hard that he did not notice a big barge that was coming
slowly down the river, towing two other boats behind it, until he
heard a voice ask:
“Hullo, kid! What makes you work so hard on Thanksgiving day?”
Then he straightened up, to see the boat’s captain standing near its
pilot house, and shouting through a great trumpet.
“I’m waiting for dinner to cook,” Ben answered in his piping voice.
“Can’t hear you!” roared the captain. “Run home and get your horn,
and talk to me.”
Ben ran up the little hill to Mrs. Ross’s, and borrowed her trumpet,
or megaphone. One’s voice sounds much louder when these are used, and
they are to be found at every house on the shores of the St. Mary’s,
boats, and those on the land, often want to say, “How do you do?” to
each other. It was all Ben could do to hold the great tin trumpet on
straight, for it was nearly as long as he was.
“I’m waiting for dinner to cook,” the boy shouted again, and this
time the captain heard him.
“Going to have turkey, I suppose?” the captain asked.
“No, but we’re going to have turkey stuffing,” answered Ben with
pride.
“Turkey stuffing, but no turkey! If that isn’t the best I ever
heard!” The captain had dropped his trumpet, and doubled up with
sudden laughter. Luckily Ben did not hear. “What else are you going
to have?” he called when he had repeated the joke about him. “Mince
pie without any mince meat?”
“No, sir!” Ben’s voice was shrill, but clear. “My father had mince
pie for Thanksgiving dinner once, though.”
“Did, did he?” The captain dropped his trumpet again. “That boy’s all
right,” he said to the first mate. “He’s too plucky to be laughed at.
I’m going to send him some turkey for his stuffing, Morgan. Tell the
cook to get ready half a turkey and a mince pie, and say, Morgan,
have him send up one of those small baskets of grapes. We’ll tie them
to a piece of plank, and they’ll float ashore all right. Tell the
cook to hurry, or we’ll be too far downstream for the boy to get the
things.” Then he raised his trumpet again.
“Say, kid, can you row that boat that’s tied to your dock?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you hurry out into the river, and I’ll put off a float with
some things for your Thanksgiving dinner. You’re going to have some
turkey for that stuffing.”
You may be sure Ben lost no time in pushing the rowboat off into the
stream, where the end of a plank and its delicious load were soon
bobbing up and down on the water. How he did smack his lips when he
lifted them into the boat, and how pleased he was for grandma!
“First the stuffing, and then the turkey! My, ain’t I lucky?” He did
not know that the captain had said he was plucky, and that luck is
very apt to follow pluck.