all feel better to kill off them fowls--all but two or three? They're
master hands to eat corn, and it does seem as though that biled hen
done us all a sight o' good to-night. Just hear them children."
And it certainly was, as Hannah said, "musical to hear 'em." Joe had a
cornstalk fiddle, and Eben an old singing book, which Diana read over
his shoulder while she kept on knitting her blue sock; and the three
youngsters--Sam, Obed, and Betty--with wide mouths and intent eyes,
followed Diana's "lining out" of that quaint hymn "The Old Israelites,"
dwelling with special gusto and power on two of the verses:
"We are little, 'tis true,
And our numbers are few,
And the sons of old Anak are tall;
But while I see a track
I will never go back,
But go on at the risk of my all.
"The way is all new,
As it opens to view,
And behind is the foaming Red Sea;
So none need to speak
Of the onions and leeks
Or to talk about garlics to me!"
Hannah's face grew brighter still. "We'll stay right here!" she said,
adding her voice to the singular old ditty with all her power:
"What though some in the rear
Preach up terror and fear,
And complain of the trials they meet,
Tho' the giants before
With great fury do roar,
I'm resolved I can never retreat."
And in this spirit, sustained, no doubt, by the occasional chickens,
they lived the winter out, till blessed, beneficent spring came again,
and brought news, great news, with it. Not from the army, though.
There had been a post rider in Nepash during the January thaw, and he
brought short letters only. There was about to be a battle, and there
was no time to write more than assurances of health and good hopes for
the future. Only once since had news reached them from that quarter.
A disabled man from the Nepash company was brought home dying with
consumption. Hannah felt almost ashamed to rejoice in the tidings he
brought of John's welfare, when she heard his husky voice, saw his
worn and ghastly countenance, and watched the suppressed agony in his
wife's eyes. The words of thankfulness she wanted to speak would have
been so many stabs in that woman's breast. It was only when her eight
children rejoiced in the hearing that she dared to be happy. But the
other news was from Sylvia. She was promised to the schoolmaster in
Litchfield. Only to think of it! Our Sylvy!
Master Loomis had been eager to go to the war; but his mother was
a poor bedrid woman, dependent on him for support, and all the
dignitaries of the town combined in advising and urging him to stay
at home for the sake of their children, as well as his mother. So at
home he stayed, and fell into peril of heart, instead of life and
limb, under the soft fire of Sylvia's eyes, instead of the enemy's
artillery. Parson Everett could not refuse his consent, though he and
madam were both loth to give up their sweet daughter. But since she and
the youth seemed to be both of one mind about the matter, and he being
a godly young man, of decent parentage, and in a good way of earning
his living, there was no more to be said. They would wait a year before
thinking of marriage, both for better acquaintance and on account of
the troubled times.
"Mayhap the times will mend, sir," anxiously suggested the schoolmaster
to Parson Everett.
"I think not, I think not, Master Loomis. There is a great blackness of
darkness in hand, the Philistines be upon us, and there is moving to
and fro. Yea, Behemoth lifteth himself and shaketh his mane--h-m! ah!
h-m! It is not a time for marrying and giving in marriage, for playing
on sackbuts and dulcimers--h-m!"
A quiet smile flickered around Master Loomis's mouth as he turned
away, solaced by a shy, sweet look from Sylvia's limpid eyes, as he
peeped into the keeping-room, where she sat with madam, on his way
out. He could afford to wait a year for such a spring blossom as that,
surely. And wait he did, with commendable patience, comforting his
godly soul with the fact that Sylvia was spared meantime the daily
tendance and care of a fretful old woman like his mother; for, though
Master Loomis was the best of sons, that did not blind him to the
fact that the irritability of age and illness were fully developed in
his mother, and he alone seemed to have the power of calming her. She
liked Sylvia at first, but became frantically jealous of her as soon as
she suspected her son's attachment. So the summer rolled away. Hannah
and her little flock tilled their small farm and gathered plenteous
harvest. Mindful of last year's experience, they raised brood after
brood of chickens, and planted extra acres of corn for their feeding,
so that when autumn came, with its vivid, splendid days, its keen winds
and turbulent skies, the new chicken yard, which the boys had worked
at through the summer, with its wattled fence, its own tiny spring,
and lofty covered roofs, swarmed with chickens, ducks, and turkeys.
Many a dollar was brought home about Thanksgiving time for the fat
fowls sold in Litchfield and Nepash; but dollars soon vanished in
buying winter clothes for so many children, or rather, in buying wool
to spin and weave for them. Mahala Green, the village tailoress, came
to fashion the garments, and the girls sewed them. Uncouth enough was
their aspect; but fashion did not yet reign in Nepash, and if they were
warm, who cared for elegance? Not Hannah's rosy, hearty, happy brood.
They sang and whistled and laughed with a force and freedom that was
kin to the birds and squirrels among whom they lived; and Hannah's
kindly, cheery face lit up as she heard them, while a half sigh told
that her husband and her soldier boys were still wanting to her perfect
contentment.
At last they were all housed snugly for winter. The woodpile was larger
than ever before, and all laid up in the shed, beyond which a rough
shelter of chinked logs had been put up for the chickens, to which
their roosts and nest boxes, of coarse wicker, boards nailed together,
hollow bark from the hemlock logs, even worn-out tin pails, had all
been transferred. The cellar had been well banked from the outside,
and its darksome cavern held good store of apples, pork, and potatoes.
There was dried beef in the stairway, squashes in the cupboard,
flour in the pantry, and the great gentle black cow in the barn was
a wonderful milker. In three weeks Thanksgiving would come, and even
Hannah's brave heart sank as she thought of her absent husband and
boys; and their weary faces rose up before her as she numbered over
to herself her own causes for thankfulness, as if to say: "Can you
keep Thanksgiving without us?" Poor Hannah! She did her best to set
these thankless thoughts aside, but almost dreaded the coming festival.
One night, as she sat knitting by the fire, a special messenger from
Litchfield rode up to the door and brought stirring news. Master
Loomis's mother was dead, and the master himself, seeing there was
a new levy of troops, was now going to the war. But before he went
there was to be a wedding, and, in the good old fashion, it should be
on Thanksgiving Day, and Madam Everett had bidden as many of Sylvy's
people to the feast as would come.
There was great excitement as Hannah read aloud the madam's note. The
tribe of Perkins shouted for joy, but a sudden chill fell on them when
mother spoke:
"Now, children, hush up! I want to speak myself, ef it's a possible
thing to git in a word edgeways. We can't all go, fust and foremost.
'Tain't noways possible."
"Oh, Mother! Why? Oh, do! Not go to Sylvy's wedding?" burst in the
"infinite deep chorus" of youngsters.
"No, you can't. There ain't no team in the county big enough to hold ye
all, if ye squeeze ever so much. I've got to go, for Sylvy'd be beat
out if mother didn't come. And Dolly's the oldest. She's got a right to
go."
Loud protest was made against the right of primogeniture, but mother
was firm.
"Says so in the Bible. Leastways, Bible folks always acted so. The
first-born, ye know. Dolly's goin', sure. Eben's got to drive, and I
must take Obed. He'd be the death of somebody, with his everlastin'
mischief, if I left him to home. Mebbe I can squeeze in Betty, to keep
him company. Joe and Sam and Dianner won't be more'n enough to take
care o' the cows and chickens and fires, and all. Likewise of each
other."
Sam set up a sudden howl at his sentence, and kicked the mongrel yellow
puppy, who leaped on him to console him, till that long-suffering beast
yelped in concert.
Diana sniffed and snuffled, scrubbed her eyes with her checked apron,
and rocked back and forth.
"Now, stop it!" bawled Joe. "For the land's sake, quit all this noise.
We can't all on us go; 'n' for my part, I don't want to. We'll hev a
weddin' of our own some day!" and here he gave a sly look at Dolly, who
seemed to understand it and blushed like an apple-blossom, while Joe
went on: "Then we'll all stay to 't, I tell ye, and have a right down
old country time."
Mother had to laugh.
"So you shall, Joe, and dance 'Money Musk' all night, if you want
to--same as you did to the corn huskin'. Now, let's see. Betty, she's
got that chintz gown that was your Sunday best, Dolly--the flowered
one, you know, that Dianner outgrowed. We must fix them lawn ruffles
into 't; and there's a blue ribbin laid away in my chest o' drawers
that'll tie her hair. It's dreadful lucky we've got new shoes all
round; and Obed's coat and breeches is as good as new, if they be made
out of his pa's weddin' suit. That's the good o' good cloth. It'll last
most forever. Joe hed 'em first, then Sam wore 'em quite a spell, and
they cut over jest right for Obey. My black paduasoy can be fixed up, I
guess. But, my stars! Dolly, what hev' you got?"
"Well, Mother, you know I ain't got a real good gown. There's the
black lutestring petticoat Sylvy fetched me two years ago; but there
ain't any gown to it. We calculated I could wear that linsey jacket to
meeting, under my coat; but 'twouldn't do rightly for a weddin'."
"That's gospel truth. You can't wear that, anyhow. You've got to hev
somethin'. 'Twon't do to go to Sylvy's weddin' in linsey woolsy; but I
don't believe there's more'n two hard dollars in the house. There's a
few Continentals; but I don't count on them. Joe, you go over to the
mill fust thing in the morning and ask Sylvester to lend me his old
mare a spell to-morrer, to ride over to Nepash, to the store."
"Why don't ye send Doll?" asked Joe, with a wicked glance at the girl
that set her blushing again.
"Hold your tongue, Joseph, 'n' mind me. It's bedtime now, but I'll wake
ye up airly," energetically remarked Hannah. And next day, equipped in
cloak and hood, she climbed the old mare's fat sides and jogged off on
her errand; and by noon-mark was safe and sound home again, looking a
little perplexed, but by no means cast down.
"Well, Dolly," said she, as soon as cloak and hood were laid aside,
"there's the beautifulest piece of chintz over to the store you ever
see--jest enough for a gown. It's kind of buff-coloured ground,
flowered all over with roses, deep-red roses, as nateral as life.
Squire Dart wouldn't take no money for 't. He's awful sharp about them
new bills. Sez they ain't no more'n corn husks. Well, we ain't got a
great lot of 'em, so there's less to lose, and some folks will take
'em; but he'll let me have the chintz for 'leven yards o' soldier's
cloth--blue, ye know, like what we sent pa and the boys. And I spent
them two silver dollars on a white gauze neckkercher and a piece of red
satin ribbin for ye, for I'm set on that chintz. Now hurry up 'nd fix
the loom right off. The web's ready, then we'll card the wool. I'll
lay ye a penny we'll have them 'leven yards wove by Friday. To-day's
Tuesday, Thanksgiving comes a Thursday week, an' ef we have the chintz
by sundown a Saturday there'll be good store of time for Mahaly Green
and you to make it afore Wednesday night. We'll hev a kind of a
Thanksgiving, after all. But I wisht your pa----" The sentence ended in
Hannah's apron at her eyes, and Dolly looked sober; but in a minute she
dimpled and brightened, for the pretty chintz gown was more to her than
half a dozen costly French dresses to a girl of to-day. But a little
cloud suddenly put out the dimples.
"But, Mother, if somebody else should buy it?"
"Oh, they won't. I've fixed that. I promised to fetch the cloth inside
of a week, and Squire Dart laid away the chintz for me till that time.
Fetch the wool, Dolly, before you set up the web, so's I can start."
The wool was carded, spun, washed, and put into the dye tub, one "run"
of yarn that night; and another spun and washed by next day's noon--for
the stuff was to be checked, and black wool needed no dyeing. Swiftly
hummed the wheel, merrily flew the shuttle, and the house steamed with
inodorous dye; but nobody cared for that, if the cloth could only
be finished. And finished it was--the full measure and a yard over;
and on Saturday morning Sylvester's horse was borrowed again, and
Hannah came back from the village beaming with pleasure, and bringing
besides the chintz a yard of real cushion lace, to trim the ruffles
for Dolly's sleeves, for which she had bartered the over yard of cloth
and two dozen fresh eggs. Then even busier times set in. Mahala Green
had already arrived, for she was dressmaker as well as tailoress, and
was sponging and pressing over the black paduasoy that had once been
dove-coloured and was Hannah's sole piece of wedding finery, handed
down from her grandmother's wardrobe at that. A dark green grosgrain
petticoat and white lawn ruffles made a sufficiently picturesque attire
for Hannah, whose well-silvered hair set off her still sparkling
eyes and clear healthy skin. She appeared in this unwonted finery on
Thanksgiving morning to her admiring family, having added a last touch
of adornment by a quaint old jet necklace, that glittered on the pure
lawn neckkerchief with as good effect as a chain of diamonds and much
more fitness. Betty, in her striped blue-and-white chintz, a clean
dimity petticoat, and a blue ribbon round her short brown curls, looked
like a cabbage rosebud--so sturdy and wholesome and rosy that no more
delicate symbol suits her.
Obed was dreadful in the old-fashioned costume of coat and breeches,
ill-fitting and shiny with wear, and his freckled face and round
shock head of tan-coloured hair thrown into full relief by a big,
square collar of coarse tatten lace laid out on his shoulders like
a barber's towel, and illustrating the great red ears that stood
out at right angles above it. But Obed was only a boy. He was not
expected to be more than clean and speechless; and, to tell the truth,
Eben, being in the hobbledehoy stage of boyhood--gaunt, awkward, and
self-sufficient--rather surpassed his small brother in unpleasant
aspect and manner. But who would look at the boys when Dolly stood
beside them, as she did now, tall and slender, with the free grace of
an untrammelled figure, her small head erect, her eyes dark and soft as
a deer's, neatly clothed feet (not too small for her height) peeping
from under the black lutestring petticoat, and her glowing brunette
complexion set off by the picturesque buff-and-garnet chintz gown,
while her round throat and arms were shaded by delicate gauze and
snowy lace, and about her neck lay her mother's gold beads, now and
then tangling in the heavy black curls that, tied high on her head with
a garnet ribbon, still dropped in rich luxuriance to her trim waist.
The family approved of Dolly, no doubt, though their phrases of
flattery were as homely as heartfelt.
"Orful slick-lookin', ain't she?" confided Joe to Eben; while sinful
Sam shrieked out: "Land o' Goshen! ain't our Dolly smart? Shan't I
fetch Sylvester over?"
For which I regret to state Dolly smartly boxed his ears.
But the pung was ready, and Sam's howls had to die out uncomforted.
With many parting charges from Hannah about the fires and fowls, the
cow, the hasty pudding, already put on for its long boil, and the
turkey that hung from a string in front of the fire and must be watched
well, since it was the Thanksgiving dinner, the "weddingers," as Joe
called them, were well packed in with blankets and hot stones and set
off on their long drive.
The day was fair and bright, the fields of snow purely dazzling; but
the cold was fearful, and in spite of all their wraps, the keen winds
that whistled over those broad hilltops where the road lay seemed
to pierce their very bones, and they were heartily glad to draw up,
by twelve o'clock, at the door of the parsonage and be set before a
blazing fire, and revived with sundry mugs of foaming and steaming
flip, made potent with a touch of old peach brandy; for in those
ancient days, even in parsonages, the hot poker knew its office and
sideboards were not in vain.
There was food, also, for the exhausted guests, though the refection
was slight and served informally in the kitchen corner, for the
ceremonial Thanksgiving dinner was to be deferred till after the
wedding. And as soon as all were warmed and refreshed they were ushered
into the great parlour, where a Turkey carpet, amber satin curtains,
spider-legged chairs and tables, and a vast carved sofa, cushioned also
with amber, made a regal and luxurious show in the eyes of our rustic
observers.
But when Sylvy came in with the parson, who could look at furniture?
Madam Everett had lavished her taste and her money on the lovely
creature as if she were her own daughter, for she was almost as dear to
that tender, childless soul. The girl's lustrous gold-brown hair was
dressed high upon her head in soft puffs and glittering curls, and a
filmy thread-lace scarf pinned across it with pearl-headed pins. Her
white satin petticoat showed its rich lustre under a lutestring gown of
palest rose brocaded with silver sprigs and looped with silver ribbon
and pink satin roses. Costly lace clung about her neck and arms, long
kid gloves covered her little hands and wrists and met the delicate
sleeve ruffles, and about her white throat a great pink topaz clasped a
single string of pearls. Hannah could scarce believe her eyes. Was this
her Sylvy?--she who even threw Madam Everett, with her velvet dress,
powdered hair, and Mechlin laces, quite into the background!
"I did not like it, Mammy dear," whispered Sylvy, as she clung round
her astonished mother's neck. "I wanted a muslin gown; but madam had
laid this by long ago, and I could not thwart or grieve her, she is so
very good to me."
"No more you could, Sylvy. The gown is amazing fine, to be sure; but
as long as my Sylvy's inside of it I won't gainsay the gown. It ain't
a speck too pretty for the wearer, dear." And Hannah gave her another
hug. The rest scarce dared to touch that fair face, except Dolly, who
threw her arms about her beautiful sister, with little thought of her
garments, but a sudden passion of love and regret sending the quick
blood to her dark brows and wavy hair in a scarlet glow.
Master Loomis looked on with tender eyes. He felt the usual masculine
conviction that nobody loved Sylvy anywhere near as much as he did;
but it pleased him to see that she was dear to her family. The parson,
however, abruptly put an end to the scene.
"H-m! my dear friends, let us recollect ourselves. There is a time for
all things. Yea, earth yieldeth her increase--h-m! The Lord ariseth to
shake visibly the earth--ahem! Sylvia, will you stand before the sophy?
Master Lummis on the right side. Let us pray."
But even as he spoke the words a great knocking pealed through the
house: the brass lion's head on the front door beat a reveille loud and
long. The parson paused, and Sylvia grew whiter than before; while
Decius, the parson's factotum, a highly respectable old negro (who,
with his wife and daughter, sole servants of the house, had stolen in
to see the ceremony), ambled out to the vestibule in most undignified
haste. There came sounds of dispute, much tramping of boots, rough
voices, and quick words; then a chuckle from Decius, the parlour door
burst open, and three bearded, ragged, eager men rushed in upon the
little ceremony.
There was a moment's pause of wonder and doubt, then a low cry from
Hannah, as she flew into her husband's arms; and in another second
the whole family had closed around the father and brothers, and for
once the hardy, stern, reticent New England nature, broken up from
its foundations, disclosed its depths of tenderness and fidelity.
There were tears, choking sobs, cries of joy. The madam held her lace
handkerchief to her eyes with real need of it; Master Loomis choked for
sympathy; and the parson blew his nose on the ceremonial bandanna like
the trumpet of a cavalry charge.
"Let us pray!" said he, in a loud but broken voice; and holding fast
to the back of the chair, he poured out his soul and theirs before the
Lord with all the fervour and the fluency of real feeling. There was
no stumbling over misapplied texts now, no awkward objections in his
throat, but only glowing Bible words of thankfulness and praise and
joy. And every heart was uplifted and calm as they joined in the "Amen."
John's story was quickly told. Their decimated regiment was disbanded,
to be reformed of fresh recruits, and a long furlough given to the
faithful but exhausted remnant. They had left at once for home, and
their shortest route lay through Litchfield. Night was near when
they reached the town, but they must needs stop to get one glimpse
of Sylvy and tidings from home, for fear lay upon them lest there
might be trouble there which they knew not of. So they burst in upon
the wedding. But Master Loomis began to look uneasy. Old Dorcas had
slipped out, to save the imperilled dinner, and Pokey, the maid (_née_
Pocahontas!) could be heard clinking glass and silver and pushing about
chairs; but the happy family were still absorbed in each other.
"Mister Everett!" said the madam, with dignity, and the little minister
trotted rapturously over to her chair to receive certain low orders.
"Yes, verily, yes--h-m! A--my friends, we are assembled in this place
this evening----"
A sharp look from madam recalled him to the fact that this was not a
prayer-meeting.
"A--that is--yes, of a truth our purpose this afternoon was to----"
"That's so!" energetically put in Captain John. "Right about face!
Form!" and the three Continentals sprung to their feet and assumed
their position, while Sylvy and Master Loomis resumed theirs, a
flitting smile in Sylvia's tearful eyes making a very rainbow.
So the ceremony proceeded to the end, and was wound up with a short
prayer, concerning which Captain Perkins irreverently remarked to his
wife some days after:
"Parson smelt the turkey, sure as shootin', Hannah. He shortened up so
'mazin' quick on that prayer. I tell you I was glad on't. I knew how he
felt. I could ha' ate a wolf myself."
Then they all moved in to the dinner table--a strange group, from
Sylvia's satin and pearls to the ragged fatigue-dress of her father and
brothers; but there was no help for that now, and really it troubled
nobody. The shade of anxiety in madam's eye was caused only by a doubt
as to the sufficiency of her supplies for three unexpected and ravenous
guests; but a look at the mighty turkey, the crisp roast pig, the
cold ham, the chicken pie, and the piles of smoking vegetables, with
a long vista of various pastries, apples, nuts, and pitchers of cider
on the buffet, and an inner consciousness of a big Indian pudding, for
twenty-four hours simmering in the pot over the fire, reassured her,
and perhaps heartened up the parson, for after a long grace he still
kept his feet and added, with a kindly smile:
"Brethren and friends, you are heartily welcome. Eat and be glad, for
seldom hath there been such cause and need to keep a Thanksgiving!"
And they all said Amen!
FOOTNOTE:
[30] Adapted from "Huckleberries," Houghton, Mifflin Co.
1800 AND FROZE TO DEATH[31]
BY C. A. STEPHENS.
An exciting story of a battle with a crazy moose. It
has a Thanksgiving flavour, too.
"What shall we have for Thanksgiving dinner?" was a question which
distressed more than one household that year. Indeed, it was often a
question what to have for dinner, supper, or breakfast on any day.
For that was the strangely unpropitious, unproductive season of 1816,
quaintly known in local annals as "1800 and Froze to Death."