Prudence again seated herself in the chair at John Inglefield's right
hand. She was naturally a girl of quick and tender sensibilities,
gladsome in her general mood, but with a bewitching pathos interfused
among her merriest words and deeds. It was remarked of her, too, that
she had a faculty, even from childhood, of throwing her own feelings
like a spell over her companions. Such as she had been in her days of
innocence, so did she appear this evening. Her friends, in the surprise
and bewilderment of her return, almost forgot that she had ever left
them, or that she had forfeited any of her claims to their affection.
In the morning, perhaps, they might have looked at her with altered
eyes, but by the Thanksgiving fireside they felt only that their own
Prudence had come back to them, and were thankful. John Inglefield's
rough visage brightened with the glow of his heart, as it grew warm
and merry within him; once or twice, even, he laughed till the room
rang again, yet seemed startled by the echo of his own mirth. The brave
young minister became as frolicsome as a schoolboy. Mary, too, the
rosebud, forgot that her twin-blossom had ever been torn from the stem
and trampled in the dust. And as for Robert Moore, he gazed at Prudence
with the bashful earnestness of love new-born, while she, with sweet
maiden coquetry, half smiled upon and half discouraged him.
In short, it was one of those intervals when sorrow vanishes in its
own depth of shadow, and joy starts forth in transitory brightness.
When the clock struck eight, Prudence poured out her father's customary
draught of herb tea, which had been steeping by the fireside ever since
twilight.
"God bless you, child," said John Inglefield, as he took the cup from
her hand; "you have made your old father happy again. But we miss your
mother sadly, Prudence, sadly. It seems as if she ought to be here now."
"Now, father, or never," replied Prudence.
It was now the hour for domestic worship. But while the family were
making preparations for this duty, they suddenly perceived that
Prudence had put on her cloak and hood, and was lifting the latch of
the door.
"Prudence, Prudence! where are you going?" cried they all with one
voice.
As Prudence passed out of the door, she turned toward them and flung
back her hand with a gesture of farewell. But her face was so changed
that they hardly recognized it. Sin and evil passions glowed through
its comeliness, and wrought a horrible deformity; a smile gleamed in
her eyes, as of triumphant mockery, at their surprise and grief.
"Daughter," cried John Inglefield, between wrath and sorrow, "stay and
be your father's blessing, or take his curse with you!"
For an instant Prudence lingered and looked back into the fire-lighted
room, while her countenance wore almost the expression as if she were
struggling with a fiend who had power to seize his victim even within
the hallowed precincts of her father's hearth. The fiend prevailed,
and Prudence vanished into the outer darkness. When the family rushed
to the door, they could see nothing, but heard the sound of wheels
rattling over the frozen ground.
That same night, among the painted beauties at the theatre of a
neighbouring city, there was one whose dissolute mirth seemed
inconsistent with any sympathy for pure affections, and for the
joys and griefs which are hallowed by them. Yet this was Prudence
Inglefield. Her visit to the Thanksgiving fireside was the realization
of one of those waking dreams in which the guilty soul will sometimes
stray back to its innocence. But Sin, alas! is careful of her
bondslaves; they hear her voice, perhaps, at the holiest moment, and
are constrained to go whither she summons them. The same dark power
that drew Prudence Inglefield from her father's hearth--the same in
its nature, though heightened then to a dread necessity--would snatch
a guilty soul from the gate of heaven, and make its sin and its
punishment alike eternal.
HOW OBADIAH BROUGHT ABOUT A THANKSGIVING[16]
BY EMILY HEWITT LELAND.
The Waddle family had very bad luck on their farm in
the West. And they certainly were homesick! But Obadiah
and his uncle, between them, found means to mend
matters.
THAT an innocent and helpless baby should be named Obadiah Waddle was
an outrage which the infant unceasingly resented from the time he got
old enough to realize the awful gulf that lay between his name and
those of his more fortunate mates. The experiences of his first day at
school were branded into his soul; and although he made friends by his
bright face and kind and honest nature, scarcely a day passed during
his six years of village schooling without his absurd name flying out
at him from some unsuspected ambush and making him wince.
It was bad enough when the guying came from a boy, but when a girl took
to punning, jeering, or giggling at him it seemed as if his burden was
greater than he could bear. Then he would go home through the woods and
fields to avoid human beings, so hurt and unhappy that nothing but his
mother's greeting and the smell of a good supper could cheer him.
At home he had no trouble. His mother and his baby sister called
him Obie, and sweet was his name on their lips. His father, who had
objected to "Obadiah" from the first, called him Bub or Bubby; but one
can bear almost any name when it comes with a loving smile or a pat on
the shoulder, which was Mr. Waddle's way of addressing his only son.
Very early in life it had been explained to Obadiah that he was named
for his mother's favourite brother, who went to California to live,
after hanging a silver dollar on a black silk cord round the neck of
his little namesake.
Obadiah often looked at this dollar, which was kept in a little box
with a broken earring, a hair chain, a glass breastpin, and an ancient
"copper"; and sometimes on circus days or on the Fourth of July he
wished there was no hole in it that he might expend it on sideshows and
lemonade or on monstrous firecrackers.
But he knew that his mother valued it highly because Uncle Obie gave it
to him and because there were little dents in it made by his vigorous
first teeth; so he always returned it to the box with a sigh of
resignation, and made the most of the twenty-five cents given him by
his father on the great days of the year.
When he was eleven years old the Waddle family moved West, and the last
thing Obadiah heard as the train pulled away from the little station
of his native town was this verse, lustily shouted from a group of
schoolmates assembled to bid him good-bye:
"Oh, Obadiah, you're going West,
Where the prairie winds don't have no rest,
You'll have to waddle your level best.
Good-bye, my lover, good-bye!"
Ill-fortune attended the Waddles in their western home. To be sure,
they had their rich, broad acres, with never a stone or a stump to
hinder the smooth cutting plow, but a frightful midsummer storm in the
second year literally wiped out crops and cattle, and left them with
their bare lives in their lowly sod house.
"Drought first year, tornado second. If next year's a failure, we'll
go back--if we can raise money enough to go with. Three times and then
out!" said Mr. Waddle.
Mrs. Waddle broke down and wept. It scared the children to learn that
their mother could cry--their mother, who was always so bright and
cheerful and who always laughed away their griefs!
Mr. Waddle was scared, too. He bent down and patted her shoulder--his
favourite way of soothing beast or human being.
"Now, Mary, Mary! Don't you go back on us. We can stand everything as
long as you are all right. Don't feel bad! We'll pick up again. There's
time enough yet to grow turnips and fodder corn."
"But what will we fodder it to?" wailed Mrs. Waddle.
Mr. Waddle could not answer, thinking of his splendid horses, and of
his pure Jersey cows that would never answer to his call again.
"Well, I am ashamed of myself!" said Mrs. Waddle, after a few moments,
bravely drying her eyes. "And I'm wicked, too! I've just wished that
something would happen so we'd have to go back East, and it's happened;
and we might have all been killed. And I'm going to stop just where
I am. I don't care where we live--or how we live--so long as we are
all together--and well--and there's a crust in the house and water to
drink."
Rising, she seized the broom and began vigorously to sweep together the
leaves and grass which the cyclone had cast in through the open door.
"I declare, Mary!" said Mr. Waddle. "Do you mean to say you've been
homesick all this time?"
"I'd give more for the north side of one of those old Vermont hills
than I would for the whole prairie!" was the emphatic reply. "But I'm
not going to say another single word."
Mr. Waddle felt a thrill of comfort in knowing he was not alone in his
yearning for the old home. It was singular that these two, who loved
each other so truly, could so hide their inmost feelings. Each had
feared to appear weak to the other.
Mr. Waddle looked at his wife with almost a radiant smile. "Well, Mary,
we'll go back in the fall--if we can sell. I guess we can hire the
Deacon Elbridge place I see by last week's paper it's still for sale
or rent, and carpenter work in old Hartbridge is about as profitable
for me as farming out West."
"I'm glad you wouldn't mind going back, Homer," said Mrs. Waddle, and
they looked at each other as in the days of their courtship.
But selling the farm was not easy, and October found the Waddles in
painful straits.
"What will we have for Thanksgiving, Ma?" asked Obadiah.
"Oh, a pair of nice prairie chickens, mashed turnips, hot biscuits, and
melted sugar," cheerfully replied Mrs. Waddle.
"That sounds pretty good," said Obadiah; but when he got out of doors
he said to himself that you could not shoot prairie chickens without
ammunition, and that he had no bait even if he tried to use his quail
traps. He also reflected that his mother looked thin and pale, that
sister Ellie needed shoes, and that plum pudding and mince pie used
to be on Thanksgiving tables. But this was the day for his story
paper--post-office day--which seemed to cheer things up somehow.
When he went to town for the mail he would see if his father, who was
at work carpentering on a barn, could not spare a dime for a little
powder and shot. So the boy trudged away on his long walk, with his
empty gun on his shoulder and the hope of youth in his heart.
His father, busy at work, greeted him cheerily, but had no dime for
powder and shot. Pay for the work was not to be had until the first of
December, and meanwhile every penny must be saved--for coal and for
Ellie's shoes.
"It leaves Thanksgiving out in the cold, doesn't it, Bub? But we'll
make it up at Christmas, maybe," said Mr. Waddle, as Obadiah turned to
go. "Here's three cents for a bite of candy for Sis, and take good care
of mother. I'll be home day after to-morrow, likely."
Obadiah jingled the three pennies in his pocket as he walked to the
combined store and post-office. Three cents! They would buy a charge or
two of powder and shot, and he still had a few caps. And candy was not
good for people anyhow! He wished he had asked his father if he might
buy ammunition instead.
"But I'll not bother him again," he decided, "and Sis will be glad
enough of the candy."
He would not buy rashly. He looked over the jars of striped sticks,
peppermint drops, chocolate mice, and mixed varieties. Then he sat
down on a nail keg to await the distribution of the mail. He watched
the people standing by for the opening of the delivery window. It was
a rare thing for his family to get a letter, but then they seldom sent
one.
Once in a while a newspaper came from Uncle Obadiah, but only one
letter in two years. Perhaps if he knew what hard luck they were having
he would write oftener. The boy had heard his mother say only the week
before that she wanted to write to Brother Obie, but was no hand at
letters, especially when there was no good news to write.
A thought now came to young Obadiah. He would write to his Uncle
to-morrow, and his brain began fairly to hum with what he would say.
When his time came he invested one cent in a clean white stick of candy
and the remaining two in a postage stamp. "I'll pay two cents back to
pa as soon as I get the answer," he said confidently to his questioning
conscience.
His walk home abounded in exasperations. Never had game appeared so
plentiful. Three separate flocks of prairie chickens flew directly over
his head, a rabbit scurried across his path, and in the stubble of the
ruined grainfields rose and fell little clouds of quail.
"They just know it ain't loaded!" grumbled Obadiah, trudging with his
empty gun.
That night, after Sis had gone to sleep, and his mother had lain down
beside her, cheerfully remarking that bed was cheaper than fire, and
that she was glad there was a good wood lot on the Elbridge place,
Obadiah, behind the sheltering canvas partition that separated the
kitchen from the bedrooms, wrote the following letter:
DEAR UNCLE:--Last year our crops were burned up by the
drought and this year they were swept away by a cyclone
and all the stock was killed, and father will not get
his pay for carpenter work until December. If there was
no hole in the dollar you gave me when I was a baby I
would take it and buy something for Thanksgiving. I
wish you would send me a dollar without a hole in it as
soon as you can and I will send you the one with a hole
in it. I would send it now but I have not got stamps
enough. I hope you are well. We are all well, only ma
is homesick. Your sincere nephew,
OBADIAH WADDLE.
P. S.--Please send your answer right to me, because I
want to surprise ma with some things for Thanksgiving.
The next morning he set off to look at his most distant quail traps,
found them empty, and circled round to the village, where he posted his
letter.
The days crept slowly by, and times grew more and more uncomfortable
in the little sod house. Often when Obadiah was doing his "sums" his
pencil would shy off to a corner of his slate and scribble a list of
items something like this:
2 cents to Pa $.02
Stamps and paper (to send the D) .06
Powder and shot .10
Tea and sugar for Ma .30
1 lb. raisens .15
6 eggs .08
1 lb. butter .20
-----
.91
More powder .09
-----
$1.00
Sometimes he would set down half a pound of "raisens" and add "candy
for Sis, .05," but this was in his reckless moments. Sober second
thought always convinced him that "raisens" would bring the greatest
good to the greatest number about Thanksgiving time.
He casually asked his mother how long it took people to go to
California.
"Well, Uncle Obie's newspapers always get here about four or five days
after they are printed. Dear me! I must write to your Uncle Obie just
as soon as we can spare the money for paper and stamps. He'll be glad
to know we are all alive and well, and that's about all I can tell him."
Obadiah smiled broadly behind his geography and began reckoning the
days. The answer might arrive about the 18th, but he heroically waited
until the 21st before going to ask for it. He reached the village long
before mail time, but saw so many things to consider in the grocery
and provision line that he was almost surprised when the rattle of the
"mail rig" and an ingathering of people told that the important time
had arrived.
The Waddles had given up their box, so he could not expect to see his
letter until it should be handed out to him from the general "W" pile.
He waited patiently. The fortunate owners of lock boxes took out their
letters with a proud air while the distributing was still going on.
Others, who had mere open boxes, drew close and tried to read inverted
superscriptions with poor success. Others who never had either letters
or papers, but who came in at this hour from force of habit, stood
near the stove or leaned on the counters and spoke of the weather and
swapped feeble jokes. Finally the small wooden window was flung open.
The little group got its papers and letters and gradually retired.
"Any letter for me?" cried Obadiah, his heart jumping.
"Nope; your pa got your papers last Saturday."
"But--ain't there a letter--for me?"
The man hastily ran over the half-dozen "W" missives. "Nope."
Obadiah's heart was heavy as lead now. He went out into the sleety
weather and faced the long walk home. His eyes were so blurred with
tears he could hardly see and his feet came near slipping.
A derisive shout came from across the street: "Hallo! Pretty bad
'waddling' this weather!"
Obadiah pulled his hat over his eyes and tramped on in scornful silence.
And now another voice called out to him, a voice from the rear: "Oh,
say! Waddle! Come back here--package for ye!" Obadiah hastily went
back, his heart leaping.
"Registered package," explained the postmaster. "'Most forgot it. Sign
your name on that line. Odd name you've got. No danger your mail going
to some other fellow."
Obadiah laughed and said he guessed not, and hardly believing
his senses, again started for home, and soon struck out upon the
far-stretching road. In the privacy of the great prairie he looked at
the package again. How heavy it was for such a small one, and how
important looked the long row of stamps; and there was Uncle Obadiah's
name in one corner, proving that it was truly the answer!
There must be a jackknife in it, or something besides the dollar. He
cut the stout twine, removed the wrapper, and lifted the cover of a
strong paper box. There was something wrapped in neat white paper and
feeling very solid.
Obadiah removed the paper, and a heavy, handsome and very fat leather
purse slipped into his hand. He opened it. It had several compartments,
and in each one were three or more hard, flat, round objects wrapped in
more white paper to keep them from jingling, very likely.
Obadiah unwrapped one of these round, flat objects, and even in the
dull light of the drizzling and fading November day he could see that
it was a bright, clean, shining silver dollar--and had no hole in it.
With hands fairly shaking with joy, he returned the purse to the box
and sped homeward. He ran all the way, only slowing up for breath now
and then, but it was dark, and the poor little supper was waiting when
he reached the house. The small lamp did not shed a very brilliant
light, but a mother does not need an electric glare in order to read
her child's face.
"Well, Obie, what's happened?" asked his mother as soon as he was
inside the door. "Have you caught a whole flock of quails?"
"Something better'n quails! Guess again, Ma!"
"Three nice fat prairie hens then."
"Something better'n prairie hens." And then Obie could wait no longer.
He pulled the package from under his coat and tossed it down beside the
poor old teapot, which had known little but hot water these many weeks.
"Why, it's from Brother Obie--to _you_!" exclaimed his mother, while
his father drew near and said, "Well, well!"
"And look inside! I haven't half looked yet," said Obie, "but _you_
look, Ma! I just want you to look!"
Ma opened the box, and then the purse, and then the fourteen round
objects wrapped in white paper. And they made a fine glitter on the red
tablecloth.
"Well, _well_!" repeated Mr. Waddle.
"And here's something written," said Mrs. Waddle, taking a paper from a
pocket at the back of the purse.
"Read it, Ma--out loud! _I_ don't care," said Obie generously.
So Ma read it in a voice that trembled a little:
MY DEAR NEPHEW:--If I count rightly, it is thirteen
years since your good mother labelled you Obadiah. I'm
not near enough to give you thirteen slaps--I wish I
were--so I send you thirteen dollars, and one to grow
on. Never mind returning the dollar with the hole in
it--keep it for your grandchildren to cut their teeth
on. Give my love to your parents and little sister; and
if you look the purse through closely, I think you will
find something of interest to your mother. It is about
time she paid our old Vermont a visit. Be a good boy.
Your affectionate uncle,
OBADIAH BROWN.
"Oh, that blessed brother!" cried Mrs. Waddle, wiping her eyes with her
apron.
Obie seized the purse and examined it on all sides. It was a very
wizard of a purse, for another little flat pocket was found in its
inmost centre, and from it Obie drew out another bit of folded paper
and opened it.
"Why, it's a check!" shouted Mr. Waddle. "A check for you, Mary,
for--two--hundred--dollars! My! There's a brother for you!"
"Oh, not two _hundred_--it must be twenty--it can't be----" faltered
Mrs. Waddle, wiping her eyes to look at the paper.
Then she gave a little cry and fell to hugging all her family. "We can
all go back--we can go next week!" and she almost danced up and down on
the unresponsive clay floor.
"I owe you two cents, Pa, and I'll pay it back to you just as soon as I
can get a dollar changed," said Obadiah proudly, fingering the shining
coins.
"How's that, Bubby?"
Then Obadiah explained.
"I hope you didn't complain, Obie," said his mother, her happy face
clouding.
"Well, I told him about the drought and the cyclone. I guess if I was a
near relation I wouldn't call that complaining. And then I asked him if
he wouldn't swap dollars with me, so I could have one without a hole in
it to get something for Thanks----"
Mr. Waddle broke in with a shout of laughter, and Mrs. Waddle kissed
her son once more, and laughed, too, although her eyes were full of
tears. And then Obadiah knew everything was all right.
"We can have Thanksgiving now, can't we, Ma?" he asked. "It's so near;
and I'm going to get all the things. We'll have chicken pie--_tame_
chicken pie--and plum pudding--and butter--and cream for the
coffee--and cranberries--and lump sugar--and pumpkin pie--and----"
"Oh, me wants supper!" exclaimed Sis. And then they laughed again, and
fell upon the cooling cornbread and molasses and melancholy bits of
fried pork and the thin ghost of tea as if they were already engaged in
a feast of Thanksgiving. And so they were.
FOOTNOTE:
[16] From the _Youth's Companion_, November 26, 1903.
THE WHITE TURKEY'S WING[17]
BY SOPHIE SWETT.
Priscilla, the big white hen turkey, deserved a better
fate than to be eaten on Thanksgiving Day, and Minty
and Jason contrived to save her.
MARY ELLEN was coming home from her school teaching at the Falls, and
Nahum from 'tending in Blodgett's store at Edom Four Corners, and Uncle
and Aunt Piper with Mirandy and Augustus and the twins were coming from
Juniper Hill, and there was every prospect of as merry a Thanksgiving
as one could wish to see. And Thanksgivings were always merry at the
Kittredge farm on Red Hill. Uncle Kittredge might be a trifle over
thrift--a leetle nigh, his neighbours called him--but there was no
stinting at Thanksgiving, and when a boy is accustomed to perpetual
cornbread and sausages, he knows how to appreciate unlimited turkey
and plum pudding; and when he is used to gloomy evenings, in which
Uncle Kittredge holds the one feeble kerosene lamp between himself and
a newspaper, Aunt Kittredge knits in silent meditation on blue yarn
stockings, he knows how good it is to have the house filled with lights
and people, jolly games going on in the parlour, and candy-pulling in
the kitchen. All these delights were directly before Jason Kittredge
as he dangled his legs from the stone wall and whittled away at the
skewers which Clorinda, the "hired girl," had demanded of him, and yet
his heart was as heavy as lead.
He did not even look up when his sister Minty came up the hill toward
him. He knew it was Minty, because she was hop-skipping and humming,
and he knew that Aunt Kittredge had sent her to Mrs. Deacon Preble's to
get a recipe for snow pudding; she had said she "must have something
real stylish, because she had invited the new minister and his daughter
to dinner."