"Because they're small," said Mary. "Snakes?"
"They can't climb trees," Mrs. Burns called out from the pantry. The
children fairly roared at that. "A pantry with no window in it?"
"Oh, we've had that before," Katie answered. "I know what you say. It's
a good place to ripen pears in when Mrs. Wright gives us some."
Guy knocked very loudly at that. He had not thought that he was
listening.
The children started, but did not leave their work. They looked at
their mother. "Jamie," she said. Then Jamie came to meet Guy, and
invited him to walk in.
"What game is it?" asked Guy, forgetting his errand.
"Making mince pies," said Jamie. "It's lots of fun. Don't you want to
play? I'll let you turn the paring machine if you'd like that best."
Guy said "Thank you" and began to turn the parer eagerly.
"But I don't mean what you are doin'," said Guy. "I knew that was mince
pies. I thought that was work. I meant what you were saying. It sounds
so funny! I never heard it before."
"Mamma made it up," explained Malcolm. "It's great fun. We always play
it at Thanksgiving time. You think of something that people don't like,
and the one who can think first tells what he is thankful for about it.
We call it 'Thanksgiving.'"
Guy stayed for an hour, and played both games. Then, quite to his
surprise, the twelve o'clock whistles blew, and he had to go home. But
he remembered his errands and did them, to the great pleasure of the
whole Burns family.
In the afternoon Guy spent some time writing a note to his mother. It
was badly written, but it made his mother happy. It read:
DEAR MOTHER:--I am Thankful the blot isent any bigger.
I am Thankful the hankershefs isent black on the
borders. I would like that one with the Blot on to put
in my pocket when you read this. But my old ones are
nice. The Burnses dont have things to be Thankful for
but they are Thankful just the same.
I am Thankful for the Goose we are going to have. The
best is I am Thankful I am not a Goose myself, for if I
was I wouldent know enough to be Thankful.
Respectfully yours,
GUY THEODORE WRIGHT.
FOOTNOTE:
[18] From the _Youth's Companion_, November 26, 1908.
AN ENGLISH DINNER OF THANKSGIVING[19]
BY GEORGE ELIOT.
Americans are not the only people who hold a feast each
year after the crops are gathered into barns.
The older boys and girls who wish to know more of the
jolly English farmer, Martin Poyser, and his household,
will enjoy reading about them in George Eliot's great
novel, "Adam Bede."
IT WAS a goodly sight--that table, with Martin Poyser's round
good-humoured face and large person at the head of it, helping his
servants to the fragrant roast beef, and pleased when the empty
plates came again. Martin, though usually blest with a good appetite,
really forgot to finish his own beef to-night--it was so pleasant to
him to look on in the intervals of carving, and see how the others
enjoyed their supper; for were they not men who, on all the days of
the year except Christmas Day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner, in
a makeshift manner, under the hedgerows, and drank their beer out of
wooden bottles--with relish certainly, but with their mouths toward the
zenith, after a fashion more endurable to ducks than to human bipeds.
Martin Poyser had some faint conception of the flavour such men must
find in hot roast beef and fresh-drawn ale. He held his head on one
side, and screwed up his mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey, and watched
half-witted Tom Tholer, otherwise known as "Tom Saft," receiving his
second plateful of beef. A grin of delight broke over Tom's face as the
plate was set down before him, between his knife and fork, which he
held erect, as if they had been sacred tapers; but the delight was too
strong to continue smouldering in a grin--it burst out the next moment
in a long-drawn "haw, haw!" followed by a sudden collapse into utter
gravity, as the knife and fork darted down on the prey. Martin Poyser's
large person shook with his silent unctuous laugh; he turned toward
Mrs. Poyser to see if she, too, had been observant of Tom, and the eyes
of husband and wife met in a glance of good-natured amusement.
But _now_ the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, leaving
a fair large deal table for the bright drinking cans, and the foaming
brown jugs, and the bright brass candlesticks, pleasant to behold.
_Now_ the great ceremony of the evening was to begin--the harvest
song, in which every man must join; he might be in tune, if he liked
to be singular, but he must not sit with closed lips. The movement was
obliged to be in triple time; the rest was _ad libitum_.
As to the origin of this song--whether it came in its actual state
from the brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually perfected
by a school or succession of rhapsodists, I am ignorant. There is a
stamp of unity, of individual genius upon it, which inclines me to
the former hypothesis, though I am not blind to the consideration
that this unity may rather have arisen from that consensus of many
minds which was a condition of primitive thought foreign to our modern
consciousness. Some will perhaps think that they detect in the first
quatrain an indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists, failing
in imaginative vigour, have supplied by the feeble device of iteration;
others, however, may rather maintain that this very iteration is an
original felicity to which none but the most prosaic minds can be
insensible.
The ceremony connected with the song was a drinking ceremony. (That
is perhaps a painful fact, but then, you know, we cannot reform our
forefathers.) During the first and second quatrain, sung decidedly
_forte_, no can was filled:
"Here's a health unto our master,
The founder of the feast;
Here's a health unto our master
And to our mistress!
"And may his doings prosper,
Whate'er he takes in hand,
For we are all his servants,
And are at his command."
But now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sung
_fortissimo_, with emphatic raps on the table, which gave the effect of
cymbals and drum together, Alick's can was filled, and he was bound to
empty it before the chorus ceased.
"Then drink, boys, drink!
And see ye do not spill,
For if ye do, ye shall drink two,
For 'tis our master's will."
When Alick had gone successfully through this test of steady-handed
manliness, it was the turn of old Kester, at his right hand--and so on,
till every man had drunk his initiatory pint under the stimulus of the
chorus. Tom Saft--the rogue--took care to spill a little by accident;
but Mrs. Poyser (too officiously, Tom thought) interfered to prevent
the exaction of the penalty.
To any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse of
obvious why the "Drink, boys, drink!" should have such an immediate
and often-repeated encore; but once entered, he would have seen that
all faces were at present sober, and most of them serious; it was the
regular and respectable thing for those excellent farm-labourors to
do, as much as for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over
their wine glasses. Bartle Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive,
had gone out to see what sort of evening it was at an early stage in
the ceremony; and had not finished his contemplation, until a silence
of five minutes declared that "Drink, boys, drink!" was not likely to
begin again for the next twelve-month. Much to the regret of the boys
and Totty; on them the stillness fell rather flat, after that glorious
thumping of the table, toward which Totty, seated on her father's knee,
contributed with her small might and small fist.
When Bartle reëntered, however, there appeared to be a general desire
for solo music after the choral. Nancy declared that Tim the wagoner
knew a song and was "allays singing like a lark i' the stable";
whereupon Mr. Poyser said encouragingly, "Come, Tim, lad, let's hear
it." Tim looked sheepish, tucked down his head, and said he couldn't
sing; but this encouraging invitation of the master's was echoed all
round the table. It was a conversational opportunity: everybody could
say, "Come, Tim"--except Alick, who never relaxed into the frivolity of
unnecessary speech. At last Tim's next neighbour, Ben Tholoway, began
to give emphasis to his speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing rather
savage, said, "Let me alooan, will ye? else I'll ma' ye sing a toon ye
wonna like." A good-tempered wagoner's patience has limits, and Tim was
not to be urged further.
"Well, then, David, ye're the lad to sing," said Ben, willing to show
that he was not discomfited by this check. "Sing 'My loove's a roos
wi'out a thorn.'"
The amatory David was a young man of an unconscious abstracted
expression, which was due probably to a squint of superior intensity
rather than to any mental characteristic; for he was not indifferent to
Ben's invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed his sleeve over
his mouth in a way that was regarded as a symptom of yielding. And for
some time the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire
to hear David's song. But in vain. The lyrism of the evening was in
the cellar at present, and was not to be drawn from that retreat just
yet....
FOOTNOTE:
[19] From Chapter LIII of "Adam Bede."
A NOVEL POSTMAN[20]
BY ALICE W. WHEILDON.
A little country girl made known her wants in a
decidedly original way. A small boy in the city did
his best to satisfy them. This is at once a story of
Thanksgiving and of Christmas.
"OH, MOTHER! what do you suppose Ellen found in the turkey? You
never could guess. It's a letter--yes, a real letter just stuffed
inside--see!" And Freddie held before his mother's wondering eyes a
soiled and crumpled envelope which seemed to contain a letter.
Freddie had been in the kitchen all the morning watching the various
operations for the Thanksgiving dinner which was "to come off" the next
day, when all the "sisters, cousins, and aunts" of the family were to
assemble, as was their custom each year, and great was the commotion in
the kitchen and much there was for Master Fred to inspect. When Ellen
put her hand into the turkey to arrange him for the stuffing, great
was her astonishment at finding a piece of paper. Drawing it quickly
out she called, "Freddie, Freddie, see here! See what I've found in
the turkey! I declare if he isn't a new kind of a postman, for sure as
you're born this is a letter, come from somewhere, in the turkey. My!
who ever heard of such a thing?"
Freddie, standing with eyes and mouth wide open, finally said, "Why,
Ellen, do you believe it is a letter?"
"Why, of course it is! Don't you see it's in a' envelope and all sealed
and everything?"
"Yes, but it hasn't any stamp and how could a turkey bring it--how did
it get in him?"
"Oh," laughed Ellen, "that's the question! You'd better take it right
up to your mother and get her to read it to you and perhaps it will
tell."
So Freddie, all excitement, rushed upstairs and into his mother's room,
shouting as we have read.
His mother took the letter from him. "Where did you get this,
Freddie--what do you mean by finding it in the turkey?"
"Why, Ellen found it in the turkey when she was fixing him, and I don't
see how it got there."
Mrs. Page turned the envelope and slowly read, "To the lady who buys
this turkey," written with a pencil and in rather crooked letters on
the outside; then opening the envelope she found, surely enough, a
letter within, also written in pencil, in rather uncertain letters,
some large, some quite small, some on the line, others above or below,
but all bearing sufficient relation to one another for her finally to
decipher the following:
_Nov. 20,
Mad River Village, N. H._
dere lady I doo want a dol for Christmas orful and
mother says that Sante Claws is so busy in the city
that she gueses he forgits the cuntry and for me to
rite to the city lady who buys our turkey and ask her
if she will pleas to ask Sante Claws if he could send
a dol way up here in the cuntry to me. I will hang my
stockin in the chimly and he cannot mistake the house
becaus it is the only house that is black in the hole
place. I have prayed to him lots of times to give me
a dol but I gues he does not mind prayers much from a
little girl so far away so will you pleas to ask him
for me and oblige
LUCY TILLAGE.
P. S.--I hope the turkey will be good to eat, he is our
very best one and I was sorry to have him killed, but I
never had a dol.
Freddie listened, very much interested, sometimes helping to make
out the letters while his mother read this remarkable letter. At
its conclusion he dropped upon a chair in deep thought while in his
imagination he saw a small black house surrounded by turkeys running
wildly about while a little girl tried to catch the largest.
"Oh, mother," at length he sighed, "only think of a girl who never
had a doll, and Beth has so many she don't know what to do with them
all--shall you ask Santa Claus to send her one?"
"Well," said Mrs. Page, who also had been in deep thought, "do you
think we better ask Santa Claus to send her one, or send her one
ourselves? You and Beth might send her one for a Christmas present."
At once Freddie became fired with the desire to rush to a store,
purchase a doll, and send it off to the little "black house." He seemed
to think the house was little because the girl was little.
"No, no, Freddie, not so fast," said Mrs. Page. "I think we better wait
till papa comes home and then we will ask his advice about it: first,
if he knows of a town in New Hampshire of this name, and then if he
thinks there may really be a little girl there who has such an odd
name--I shouldn't be surprised if Papa could find out all about her."
Freddie thought it was hard to wait until his father came home before
something was done about securing a doll; still he knew his mother was
right and tried to be patient, wishing Beth would come home, wondering
how the little girl looked, and if she had any brothers who wanted
something, and fifty other things, till he heard his father's key in
the front door; then down he rushed, flourishing the open sheet in his
hand, and gave him a most bewildering and rapid account of the letter
and the finding it in the turkey, ending with, "Now, Papa, do you know
of any such town, and did you ever hear of Lucy Tillage before, or of
anybody's turkey having a letter sent in him, and don't you think we
might send her the doll right away so's she might have it for Christmas
sure--don't you, Papa? And if we can't get a new one won't you tell
Beth to send one of hers? I know she won't want so many and----"
"Oh! stop, my boy," said Mr. Page, laughing heartily; "wait a moment,
Fred, I don't half understand what this is all about--a letter and a
turkey and a little girl with a doll and a turkey in a black house----"
"Now, Papa, you're getting it all mixed up; you read the letter
yourself, please."
So Mr. Page read the letter and heard about finding it in the turkey,
and then talked it over with his wife and Freddie and Beth, who had
come in from her play, and it was decided that he should write to the
postmaster and minister in Mad River Village asking them if they knew
of any family in the place of the name of Tillage, and if they did,
whether they were a poor family, and how many children they had, and
anything else they might know of them.
There was no time to lose if the doll was to be sent for Christmas, so
both letters were written that very evening and Freddie begged to put
them in the post box himself that there might be no mistake in that.
Then came a long time of waiting for Master Fred. At first he thought
one day would be enough for the letter to find its way to Mad River
Village; but upon a solemn consultation with the cousins and aunts
who came to the Thanksgiving party, it was decided that three days,
at least, ought to be allowed for a letter to reach a place that none
of them had ever heard of, and perhaps there was not such a village
anywhere after all; but Freddie had made up his mind that there was
somewhere, and so each morning found him watching for the postman and
each night he went to bed disappointed, saying, "Oh! I hope there is a
truly Mad Village."
Beth was almost as much excited as Fred about Lucy's letter, but still
she laughed at him as older sisters sometimes seem to take pleasure in
doing, saying, "I guess it's a delicious wonderland kind of a letter,
and that the people up there are mad people to be sending letters in
turkeys!"
"Well, you just wait, Beth, and see if they are," answered Fred;
and sure enough, after ten days of waiting Freddie was rewarded by
receiving from the postman a yellow envelope with "Mad River Village"
printed in large, clear letters "right side of the stamp." He ran as
fast as he could with it to his father, shouting to Beth by the way to
"come and see if there isn't a Mad Village and a Lucy Tillage."
Mr. Page was never given so short a time before to open a letter and
adjust his glasses, but then a letter had never before been received
under such circumstances. It proved to be from the postmaster at Mad
River Village, and ran as follows:
_Mad River Village, N. H._
MR. PAGE of Boston: I rec. your letter a Day or two
since and hasten to ans. it right away, as you wish,
by this morning's mail which I must put up pretty soon
so this letter must be short. Yes sir I do know a
family in this town by the name of Tillage and they're
a good respectable family too. They live a mile or
two out of the village on a farm his father left him
and I guess they have pretty hard times making both
ends meet--there ain't much sale up here for farm
things, you know, and it costs a heap to send them
to Boston but they do say that of late he's raised
lots of chickens and turkeys to send to Boston for
Thanksgiving. Last year he and his wife started in on
taking summer boarders and I guess they done first
rate. They're young folks, got three children, a
little girl a small boy and a baby and I guess they'll
do as well as any one can on that farm, it's a likely
place but his father ain't been dead long and Geo.
didn't have no show while the old man was alive. He
buys his flour and groceries of me and I call him a
honest fellow and I guess you'd like to board with them
if you want to try them next summer. I don't think of
anything more to say so will close.
Yours respt.
JOSIAH SAFFORD.
P. S.--His name and address are George Tillage,
Intervale Farm, Mad River Village, N. H.
This was a highly satisfactory letter, especially to Master Fred who
had shouted gleefully to Beth, "I told you so!" "I do know a family
of the name of Tillage," and when his father read "three children, a
little girl, etc.," he nearly turned a somersault in his excitement,
dancing about and saying, "that's Lucy! that's Lucy!"
Mr. Page turned smilingly to his wife, saying, "Well, my dear, this
does not sound so much like a fairy tale after all, and I really think
you and the children must play Santa Claus and send Lucy a doll."
"Oh, yes, Papa, of course we must! Yes, do, Mamma!" shouted both
children at once. "It'll be such fun and she won't know where it comes
from."
Mrs. Page was only too willing, so she promised, only adding that she
hoped the minister would give an equally good account.
The children, however, were quite satisfied with the postmaster's
letter and began preparations the very next morning to secure the doll
and her "fit out" as Beth called it. First, Beth's dolls were looked
at to see if one of them would do to take a trip into the country, but
although there were quite a number of them none seemed to just suit
their ideas of what Lucy's doll should be. So Mamma was appealed to
and in consequence a visit was paid to Partridge's store by Mrs. Page,
accompanied by Beth and Master Fred. Here such a bewildering array of
dolls was presented to the children that it was with difficulty they
finally decided upon one with blue eyes and short golden hair, and real
hair that curled bewitchingly. Then came the selection of the "fit
out." Freddie thought she should have skates and a watch and bracelets
and one of the cunning waterproof cloaks and a trunk--in fact,
everything that could be bought for a doll (and in these days that
means all articles of apparel, whether for use or ornament, that could
be bought for a real person); but Mrs. Page explained that she would
not need so many things in Mad River Village, so he was contented with
a trunk which he selected himself, while his mother and Beth bought
a little hat and cloak, shoes, stockings, and a pretty sunshade--the
dresses and underclothing Beth thought she could make with the aid of
her mother's seamstress, and she was very ambitious to try.
Freddie thought the "small boy" and the "baby" ought to have presents
sent to them also; so he was allowed to select a drum, which he was
sure the boy "would like best of anything," and a pretty rattle and a
rubber cow for the baby.
It was a very busy season of the year for the Pages as well as for
other people, and Beth had many presents to think about, but she kept
the little dresses and clothes for Lucy's doll in mind and worked and
planned with a will all the time she could spare for them, and Mary,
the seamstress, sewed and sewed, and as she knew how to cut dresses as
well as make them, in about two weeks they had, as Beth said, "a lovely
fit out," even to a tiny muff and collar made from some bits of fur
mamma had and a sweet little hood made just like Beth's own.
Then Miss Doll was dressed in her travelling suit, muff and all, her
other dresses and clothing packed in the little trunk, and she herself
carefully tucked in on top, then Beth shut the cover and locked it,
tying the key to one of the buckles of the side strap--a box had been
procured and into it was packed the trunk, the drum, and the presents
for the baby, supplemented by Freddie with a ball which he had found
among his own playthings and two cornucopias of candy which he had
purchased himself, saying that "Christmas won't be Christmas if they
don't have some candy." Mrs. Page "filled in the nooks and corners just
to steady the whole," as she modestly said, with a pair of strong warm
mittens for Mr. Tillage, some magazines and books, several pairs of
long thick stockings which Freddie had outgrown but not worn out, and
over the whole a beautiful warm shawl.
Then Beth and Fred composed a letter together which Beth wrote and they
both signed:
DEAR LUCY TILLAGE:--The turkey brought the letter
safely to us and we wanted to be Santa Claus ourselves
and so send the doll and the other things for a
Christmas present to you and your brother and the baby.
We wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
BETH PAGE,
FRED PAGE.
This they neatly folded, put in an envelope addressed to Miss Lucy
Tillage, Mad River Village, and placed on the shawl where it might be
seen the moment the box was opened. They felt very proud and happy when
the box was finally nailed up and directed in clear printed letters to
GEORGE TILLAGE,
Intervale Farm,
Mad River Village,
New Hampshire.
Freddie insisted that Lucy's name ought to be put on, too, as she was
the one who had written the letter and to whom the box was really
sent; so "For Lucy" was printed across one corner and underlined that
her father might see it was sent particularly to her. It all seemed
so mysterious, sending presents to people they did not know, and so
delightful, that they thought this the best Christmas they had ever
known and only wished that they could be in the little "black house"
when the box was opened, to see Lucy's face as she caught sight of the
cunning trunk and then the doll which she had so longed for.
The very day the box was sent on its way there came a letter from a
minister in the town in which Mad River Village was located, saying
that he "did not know any family of the name of Tillage, but upon
inquiry he had found that there was a family of that name living on the
other side of the river, but as they did not go to his church he was
not acquainted with them; he was sorry, etc., etc."
But the children cared little for this letter; their faith in Lucy was
not shaken, and they were very happy that they had answered her letter.
FOOTNOTE:
[20] From _Wideawake_, November, 1889. Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company.
EZRA'S THANKSGIVIN' OUT WEST[21]
BY EUGENE FIELD.