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.