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AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG
Is now full, and contains
=I. MY BOYS=, and other stories.
=II. SHAWL-STRAPS=. Sketches of a European Trip.
=III. CUPID AND CHOW-CHOW=, and other stories.
=IV. MY GIRLS=, and other stories.
=V. JIMMY'S CRUISE IN THE PINAFORE=, and other stories.
=VI. AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING=, and other stories.
_Six volumes neatly bound in cloth. Price, $6.00._
ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON.
[Illustration: AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.
"Suddenly Tilly threw down the axe, flung open the door, and ran
straight into the arms of the bear."--PAGE 29.]
[Illustration: HOW IT ALL HAPPENED.
Dolly opened the door, and started back with a cry of astonishment at
the lovely spectacle before her.--PAGE 47.]
* * * * *
AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG.
AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING,
Etc.
[Illustration: SCRAP-BAG, VOL. VI.]
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT,
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL," "LITTLE MEN,"
"HOSPITAL SKETCHES."
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1882.
_Copyright, 1882,_
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
UNIVERSITY PRESS:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
I. AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING 7
II. HOW IT ALL HAPPENED 37
III. THE DOLLS' JOURNEY FROM MINNESOTA TO MAINE 53
IV. MORNING-GLORIES 78
V. SHADOW-CHILDREN 104
VI. POPPY'S PRANKS 124
VII. WHAT THE SWALLOWS DID 147
VIII. LITTLE GULLIVER 163
IX. THE WHALE'S STORY 178
X. A STRANGE ISLAND 192
XI. FANCY'S FRIEND 208
* * * * *
I.
AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.
Sixty years ago, up among the New Hampshire hills, lived Farmer Bassett,
with a house full of sturdy sons and daughters growing up about him.
They were poor in money, but rich in land and love, for the wide acres
of wood, corn, and pasture land fed, warmed, and clothed the flock,
while mutual patience, affection, and courage made the old farm-house a
very happy home.
November had come; the crops were in, and barn, buttery, and bin were
overflowing with the harvest that rewarded the summer's hard work. The
big kitchen was a jolly place just now, for in the great fireplace
roared a cheerful fire; on the walls hung garlands of dried apples,
onions, and corn; up aloft from the beams shone crook-necked squashes,
juicy hams, and dried venison--for in those days deer still haunted the
deep forests, and hunters flourished. Savory smells were in the air; on
the crane hung steaming kettles, and down among the red embers copper
sauce-pans simmered, all suggestive of some approaching feast.
A white-headed baby lay in the old blue cradle that had rocked seven
other babies, now and then lifting his head to look out, like a round,
full moon, then subsided to kick and crow contentedly, and suck the rosy
apple he had no teeth to bite. Two small boys sat on the wooden settle
shelling corn for popping, and picking out the biggest nuts from the
goodly store their own hands had gathered in October. Four young girls
stood at the long dresser, busily chopping meat, pounding spice, and
slicing apples; and the tongues of Tilly, Prue, Roxy, and Rhody went as
fast as their hands. Farmer Bassett, and Eph, the oldest boy, were
"chorin' 'round" outside, for Thanksgiving was at hand, and all must be
in order for that time-honored day.
To and fro, from table to hearth, bustled buxom Mrs. Bassett, flushed
and floury, but busy and blithe as the queen bee of this busy little
hive should be.
"I do like to begin seasonable and have things to my mind. Thanksgivin'
dinners can't be drove, and it does take a sight of victuals to fill all
these hungry stomicks," said the good woman, as she gave a vigorous stir
to the great kettle of cider apple-sauce, and cast a glance of
housewifely pride at the fine array of pies set forth on the buttery
shelves.
"Only one more day and then it will be time to eat. I didn't take but
one bowl of hasty pudding this morning, so I shall have plenty of room
when the nice things come," confided Seth to Sol, as he cracked a large
hazel-nut as easily as a squirrel.
"No need of my starvin' beforehand. _I always_ have room enough, and I'd
like to have Thanksgiving every day," answered Solomon, gloating like a
young ogre over the little pig that lay near by, ready for roasting.
"Sakes alive, I don't, boys! It's a marcy it don't come but once a year.
I should be worn to a thread-paper with all this extra work atop of my
winter weavin' and spinnin'," laughed their mother, as she plunged her
plump arms into the long bread-trough and began to knead the dough as if
a famine was at hand.
Tilly, the oldest girl, a red-cheeked, black-eyed lass of fourteen, was
grinding briskly at the mortar, for spices were costly, and not a grain
must be wasted. Prue kept time with the chopper, and the twins sliced
away at the apples till their little brown arms ached, for all knew how
to work, and did so now with a will.
"I think it's real fun to have Thanksgiving at home. I'm sorry Gran'ma
is sick, so we can't go there as usual, but I like to mess 'round here,
don't you, girls?" asked Tilly, pausing to take a sniff at the spicy
pestle.
"It will be kind of lonesome with only our own folks." "I like to see
all the cousins and aunts, and have games, and sing," cried the twins,
who were regular little romps, and could run, swim, coast and shout as
well as their brothers.
"I don't care a mite for all that. It will be so nice to eat dinner
together, warm and comfortable at home," said quiet Prue, who loved her
own cozy nooks like a cat.
"Come, girls, fly 'round and get your chores done, so we can clear away
for dinner jest as soon as I clap my bread into the oven," called Mrs.
Bassett presently, as she rounded off the last loaf of brown bread which
was to feed the hungry mouths that seldom tasted any other.
"Here's a man comin' up the hill, lively!" "Guess it's Gad Hopkins. Pa
told him to bring a dezzen oranges, if they warn't too high!" shouted
Sol and Seth, running to the door, while the girls smacked their lips at
the thought of this rare treat, and Baby threw his apple overboard, as
if getting ready for a new cargo.
But all were doomed to disappointment, for it was not Gad, with the
much-desired fruit. It was a stranger, who threw himself off his horse
and hurried up to Mr. Bassett in the yard, with some brief message that
made the farmer drop his ax and look so sober that his wife guessed at
once some bad news had come; and crying, "Mother's wuss! I know she
is!" out ran the good woman, forgetful of the flour on her arms and the
oven waiting for its most important batch.
The man said old Mr. Chadwick, down to Keene, stopped him as he passed,
and told him to tell Mrs. Bassett her mother was failin' fast, and she'd
better come to-day. He knew no more, and having delivered his errand he
rode away, saying it looked like snow and he must be jogging, or he
wouldn't get home till night.
"We must go right off, Eldad. Hitch up, and I'll be ready in less'n
no time," said Mrs. Bassett, wasting not a minute in tears and
lamentations, but pulling off her apron as she went in, with her mind in
a sad jumble of bread, anxiety, turkey, sorrow, haste, and cider
apple-sauce.
A few words told the story, and the children left their work to help her
get ready, mingling their grief for "Gran'ma" with regrets for the lost
dinner.
"I'm dreadful sorry, dears, but it can't be helped. I couldn't cook nor
eat no way, now, and if that blessed woman gets better sudden, as she
has before, we'll have cause for thanksgivin', and I'll give you a
dinner you won't forget in a hurry," said Mrs. Bassett, as she tied on
her brown silk pumpkin-hood, with a sob for the good old mother who had
made it for her.
Not a child complained after that, but ran about helpfully, bringing
moccasins, heating the footstone, and getting ready for a long drive,
because Gran'ma lived twenty miles away, and there were no railroads in
those parts to whisk people to and fro like magic. By the time the old
yellow sleigh was at the door, the bread was in the oven, and Mrs.
Bassett was waiting, with her camlet cloak on, and the baby done up like
a small bale of blankets.
"Now, Eph, you must look after the cattle like a man, and keep up the
fires, for there's a storm brewin', and neither the children nor dumb
critters must suffer," said Mr. Bassett, as he turned up the collar of
his rough coat and put on his blue mittens, while the old mare shook her
bells as if she preferred a trip to Keene to hauling wood all day.
"Tilly, put extry comfortables on the beds to-night, the wind is so
searchin' up chamber. Have the baked beans and Injun-puddin' for dinner,
and whatever you do, don't let the boys git at the mince-pies, or you'll
have them down sick. I shall come back the minute I can leave Mother. Pa
will come to-morrer, anyway, so keep snug and be good. I depend on you,
my darter; use your jedgment, and don't let nothin' happen while
Mother's away."
"Yes'm, yes'm--good-bye, good-bye!" called the children, as Mrs. Bassett
was packed into the sleigh and driven away, leaving a stream of
directions behind her.
Eph, the sixteen-year-old boy, immediately put on his biggest boots,
assumed a sober, responsible manner, and surveyed his little
responsibilities with a paternal air, drolly like his father's. Tilly
tied on her mother's bunch of keys, rolled up the sleeves of her
homespun gown, and began to order about the younger girls. They soon
forgot poor Granny, and found it great fun to keep house all alone, for
Mother seldom left home, but ruled her family in the good old-fashioned
way. There were no servants, for the little daughters were Mrs.
Bassett's only maids, and the stout boys helped their father, all
working happily together with no wages but love; learning in the best
manner the use of the heads and hands with which they were to make their
own way in the world.
The few flakes that caused the farmer to predict bad weather soon
increased to a regular snow-storm, with gusts of wind, for up among the
hills winter came early and lingered long. But the children were busy,
gay, and warm in-doors, and never minded the rising gale nor the
whirling white storm outside.
Tilly got them a good dinner, and when it was over the two elder girls
went to their spinning, for in the kitchen stood the big and little
wheels, and baskets of wool-rolls, ready to be twisted into yarn for the
winter's knitting, and each day brought its stint of work to the
daughters, who hoped to be as thrifty as their mother.
Eph kept up a glorious fire, and superintended the small boys, who
popped corn and whittled boats on the hearth; while Roxy and Rhody
dressed corn-cob dolls in the settle corner, and Bose, the brindled
mastiff, lay on the braided mat, luxuriously warming his old legs. Thus
employed, they made a pretty picture, these rosy boys and girls, in
their homespun suits, with the rustic toys or tasks which most children
nowadays would find very poor or tiresome.
Tilly and Prue sang, as they stepped to and fro, drawing out
the smoothly twisted threads to the musical hum of the great
spinning-wheels. The little girls chattered like magpies over their
dolls and the new bed-spread they were planning to make, all white
dimity stars on a blue calico ground, as a Christmas present to Ma. The
boys roared at Eph's jokes, and had rough and tumble games over Bose,
who didn't mind them in the least; and so the afternoon wore pleasantly
away.
At sunset the boys went out to feed the cattle, bring in heaps of wood,
and lock up for the night, as the lonely farm-house seldom had visitors
after dark. The girls got the simple supper of brown bread and milk,
baked apples, and a doughnut all 'round as a treat. Then they sat before
the fire, the sisters knitting, the brothers with books or games, for
Eph loved reading, and Sol and Seth never failed to play a few games of
Morris with barley corns, on the little board they had made themselves
at one corner of the dresser.
"Read out a piece," said Tilly, from Mother's chair, where she sat in
state, finishing off the sixth woolen sock she had knit that month.
"It's the old history book, but here's a bit you may like, since it's
about our folks," answered Eph, turning the yellow page to look at a
picture of two quaintly dressed children in some ancient castle.
"Yes, read that. I always like to hear about the Lady Matildy I was
named for, and Lord Bassett, Pa's great-great-great-grandpa. He's only a
farmer now, but it's nice to know that we were somebody two or three
hundred years ago," said Tilly, bridling and tossing her curly head as
she fancied the Lady Matilda might have done.
"Don't read the queer words, 'cause we don't understand 'em. Tell it,"
commanded Roxy, from the cradle, where she was drowsily cuddled with
Rhody.
"Well, a long time ago, when Charles the First was in prison, Lord
Bassett was a true friend to him," began Eph, plunging into his story
without delay. "The lord had some papers that would have hung a lot of
people if the king's enemies got hold of 'em, so when he heard one day,
all of a sudden, that soldiers were at the castle-gate to carry him
off, he had just time to call his girl to him, and say: 'I may be going
to my death, but I won't betray my master. There is no time to burn the
papers, and I can not take them with me; they are hidden in the old
leathern chair where I sit. No one knows this but you, and you must
guard them till I come or send you a safe messenger to take them away.
Promise me to be brave and silent, and I can go without fear.' You see,
he wasn't afraid to die, but he _was_ to seem a traitor. Lady Matildy
promised solemnly, and the words were hardly out of her mouth when the
men came in, and her father was carried away a prisoner and sent off to
the Tower.
"But she didn't cry; she just called her brother, and sat down in that
chair, with her head leaning back on those papers, like a queen, and
waited while the soldiers hunted the house over for 'em: wasn't that a
smart girl?" cried Tilly, beaming with pride, for she was named for this
ancestress, and knew the story by heart.
"I reckon she was scared, though, when the men came swearin' in and
asked her if she knew anything about it. The boy did his part then, for
_he_ didn't know, and fired up and stood before his sister; and he says,
says he, as bold as a lion: 'If my lord had told us where the papers be,
we would die before we would betray him. But we are children and know
nothing, and it is cowardly of you to try to fright us with oaths and
drawn swords!'"
As Eph quoted from the book, Seth planted himself before Tilly, with the
long poker in his hand, saying, as he flourished it valiantly:
"Why didn't the boy take his father's sword and lay about him? I would,
if any one was ha'sh to Tilly."
"You bantam! He was only a bit of a boy, and couldn't do anything. Sit
down and hear the rest of it," commanded Tilly, with a pat on the yellow
head, and a private resolve that Seth should have the largest piece of
pie at dinner next day, as reward for his chivalry.
"Well, the men went off after turning the castle out of window, but they
said they should come again; so faithful Matildy was full of trouble,
and hardly dared to leave the room where the chair stood. All day she
sat there, and at night her sleep was so full of fear about it, that she
often got up and went to see that all was safe. The servants thought the
fright had hurt her wits, and let her be, but Rupert, the boy, stood by
her and never was afraid of her queer ways. She was 'a pious maid,' the
book says, and often spent the long evenings reading the Bible, with her
brother by her, all alone in the great room, with no one to help her
bear her secret, and no good news of her father. At last, word came that
the king was dead and his friends banished out of England. Then the
poor children were in a sad plight, for they had no mother, and the
servants all ran away, leaving only one faithful old man to help them."
"But the father did come?" cried Roxy, eagerly.
"You'll see," continued Eph, half telling, half reading.
"Matilda was sure he would, so she sat on in the big chair, guarding the
papers, and no one could get her away, till one day a man came with her
father's ring and told her to give up the secret. She knew the ring, but
would not tell until she had asked many questions, so as to be very
sure, and while the man answered all about her father and the king, she
looked at him sharply. Then she stood up and said, in a tremble, for
there was something strange about the man: 'Sir, I doubt you in spite of
the ring, and I will not answer till you pull off the false beard you
wear, that I may see your face and know if you are my father's friend or
foe.' Off came the disguise, and Matilda found it was my lord himself,
come to take them with him out of England. He was very proud of that
faithful girl, I guess, for the old chair still stands in the castle,
and the name keeps in the family, Pa says, even over here, where some of
the Bassetts came along with the Pilgrims."
"Our Tilly would have been as brave, I know, and she looks like the old
picter down to Grandma's, don't she, Eph?" cried Prue, who admired her
bold, bright sister very much.
"Well, I think you'd do the settin' part best, Prue, you are so patient.
Till would fight like a wild cat, but she can't hold her tongue worth a
cent," answered Eph; whereat Tilly pulled his hair, and the story ended
with a general frolic.
When the moon-faced clock behind the door struck nine, Tilly tucked up
the children under the "extry comfortables," and having kissed them all
around, as Mother did, crept into her own nest, never minding the little
drifts of snow that sifted in upon her coverlet between the shingles of
the roof, nor the storm that raged without.
As if he felt the need of unusual vigilance, old Bose lay down on the
mat before the door, and pussy had the warm hearth all to herself. If
any late wanderer had looked in at midnight, he would have seen the fire
blazing up again, and in the cheerful glow the old cat blinking her
yellow eyes, as she sat bolt upright beside the spinning-wheel, like
some sort of household goblin, guarding the children while they slept.
When they woke, like early birds, it still snowed, but up the little
Bassetts jumped, broke the ice in their pitchers, and went down with
cheeks glowing like winter apples, after a brisk scrub and scramble
into their clothes. Eph was off to the barn, and Tilly soon had a great
kettle of mush ready, which, with milk warm from the cows, made a
wholesome breakfast for the seven hearty children.
"Now about dinner," said the young housekeeper, as the pewter spoons
stopped clattering, and the earthen bowls stood empty.
"Ma said, have what we liked, but she didn't expect us to have a real
Thanksgiving dinner, because she won't be here to cook it, and we don't
know how," began Prue, doubtfully.
"I can roast a turkey and make a pudding as well as anybody, I guess.
The pies are all ready, and if we can't boil vegetables and so on, we
don't deserve any dinner," cried Tilly, burning to distinguish herself,
and bound to enjoy to the utmost her brief authority.
"Yes, yes!" cried all the boys, "let's have a dinner anyway; Ma won't
care, and the good victuals will spoil if they ain't eaten right up."
"Pa is coming to-night, so we won't have dinner till late; that will be
real genteel and give us plenty of time," added Tilly, suddenly
realizing the novelty of the task she had undertaken.
"Did you ever roast a turkey?" asked Roxy, with an air of deep interest.
"Should you darst to try?" said Rhody, in an awe-stricken tone.
"You will see what I can do. Ma said I was to use my jedgment about
things, and I'm going to. All you children have got to do is to keep out
of the way, and let Prue and me work. Eph, I wish you'd put a fire in
the best room, so the little ones can play in there. We shall want the
settin'-room for the table, and I won't have 'em pickin' 'round when we
get things fixed," commanded Tilly, bound to make her short reign a
brilliant one.
"I don't know about that. Ma didn't tell us to," began cautious Eph, who
felt that this invasion of the sacred best parlor was a daring step.
"Don't we always do it Sundays and Thanksgivings? Wouldn't Ma wish the
children kept safe and warm anyhow? Can I get up a nice dinner with four
rascals under my feet all the time? Come, now, if you want roast turkey
and onions, plum-puddin' and mince-pie, you'll have to do as I tell you,
and be lively about it."
Tilly spoke with such spirit, and her last suggestion was so
irresistible, that Eph gave in, and, laughing good-naturedly, tramped
away to heat up the best room, devoutly hoping that nothing serious
would happen to punish such audacity.
The young folks delightedly trooped in to destroy the order of that prim
apartment with housekeeping under the black horse-hair sofa, "horseback
riders" on the arms of the best rocking-chair, and an Indian war-dance
all over the well-waxed furniture. Eph, finding the society of the
peaceful sheep and cows more to his mind than that of two excited
sisters, lingered over his chores in the barn as long as possible, and
left the girls in peace.
Now Tilly and Prue were in their glory, and as soon as the breakfast
things were out of the way, they prepared for a grand cooking-time. They
were handy girls, though they had never heard of a cooking-school, never
touched a piano, and knew nothing of embroidery beyond the samplers
which hung framed in the parlor; one ornamented with a pink mourner
under a blue weeping-willow, the other with this pleasing verse, each
word being done in a different color, which gave the effect of a
distracted rainbow:
"This sampler neat was worked by me,
In my twelfth year, Prudence B."
Both rolled up their sleeves, put on their largest aprons, and got out
all the spoons, dishes, pots, and pans they could find, "so as to have
everything handy," as Prue said.
"Now, sister, we'll have dinner at five; Pa will be here by that time if
he is coming to-night, and be so surprised to find us all ready, for he
won't have had any very nice victuals if Gran'ma is so sick," said Tilly
importantly. "I shall give the children a piece at noon" (Tilly meant
luncheon); "doughnuts and cheese, with apple-pie and cider will please
'em. There's beans for Eph; he likes cold pork, so we won't stop to warm
it up, for there's lots to do, and I don't mind saying to you I'm
dreadful dubersome about the turkey."
"It's all ready but the stuffing, and roasting is as easy as can be. I
can baste first rate. Ma always likes to have me, I'm so patient and
stiddy, she says," answered Prue, for the responsibility of this great
undertaking did not rest upon her, so she took a cheerful view of
things.
"I know, but it's the stuffin' that troubles me," said Tilly, rubbing
her round elbows as she eyed the immense fowl laid out on a platter
before her. "I don't know how much I want, nor what sort of yarbs to put
in, and he's so awful big, I'm kind of afraid of him."
"I ain't! I fed him all summer, and he never gobbled at _me_. I feel
real mean to be thinking of gobbling him, poor old chap," laughed Prue,
patting her departed pet with an air of mingled affection and appetite.
"Well, I'll get the puddin' off my mind fust, for it ought to bile all
day. Put the big kettle on, and see that the spit is clean, while I get
ready."
Prue obediently tugged away at the crane, with its black hooks, from
which hung the iron tea-kettle and three-legged pot; then she settled
the long spit in the grooves made for it in the tall andirons, and put
the dripping-pan underneath, for in those days meat was roasted as it
should be, not baked in ovens.
Meantime Tilly attacked the plum-pudding. She felt pretty sure of coming
out right, here, for she had seen her mother do it so many times, it
looked very easy. So in went suet and fruit; all sorts of spice, to be
sure she got the right ones, and brandy instead of wine. But she forgot
both sugar and salt, and tied it in the cloth so tightly that it had no
room to swell, so it would come out as heavy as lead and as hard as a
cannon-ball, if the bag did not burst and spoil it all. Happily
unconscious of these mistakes, Tilly popped it into the pot, and proudly
watched it bobbing about before she put the cover on and left it to its
fate.
"I can't remember what flavorin' Ma puts in," she said, when she had got
her bread well soaked for the stuffing. "Sage and onions and apple-sauce
go with goose, but I can't feel sure of anything but pepper and salt for
a turkey."
"Ma puts in some kind of mint, I know, but I forget whether it is
spearmint, peppermint, or penny-royal," answered Prue, in a tone of
doubt, but trying to show her knowledge of "yarbs," or, at least, of
their names.
"Seems to me it's sweet marjoram or summer savory. I guess we'll put
both in, and then we are sure to be right. The best is up garret; you
run and get some, while I mash the bread," commanded Tilly, diving into
the mess.
Away trotted Prue, but in her haste she got catnip and wormwood, for the
garret was darkish, and Prue's little nose was so full of the smell of
the onions she had been peeling, that everything smelt of them. Eager to
be of use, she pounded up the herbs and scattered the mixture with a
liberal hand into the bowl.
"It doesn't smell just right, but I suppose it will when it is cooked,"
said Tilly, as she filled the empty stomach, that seemed aching for
food, and sewed it up with the blue yarn, which happened to be handy.
She forgot to tie down his legs and wings, but she set him by till his
hour came, well satisfied with her work.
"Shall we roast the little pig, too? I think he'd look nice with a
necklace of sausages, as Ma fixed one last Christmas," asked Prue,
elated with their success.
"I couldn't do it. I loved that little pig, and cried when he was
killed. I should feel as if I was roasting the baby," answered Tilly,
glancing toward the buttery where piggy hung, looking so pink and pretty
it certainly did seem cruel to eat him.
It took a long time to get all the vegetables ready, for, as the cellar
was full, the girls thought they would have every sort. Eph helped, and
by noon all was ready for cooking, and the cranberry-sauce, a good deal
scorched, was cooling in the lean-to.
Luncheon was a lively meal, and doughnuts and cheese vanished in such
quantities that Tilly feared no one would have an appetite for her
sumptuous dinner. The boys assured her they would be starving by five
o'clock, and Sol mourned bitterly over the little pig that was not to be
served up.
"Now you all go and coast, while Prue and I set the table and get out
the best chiny," said Tilly, bent on having her dinner look well, no
matter what its other failings might be.
Out came the rough sleds, on went the round hoods, old hats, red cloaks,
and moccasins, and away trudged the four younger Bassetts, to disport
themselves in the snow, and try the ice down by the old mill, where the
great wheel turned and splashed so merrily in the summer-time.
Eph took his fiddle and scraped away to his heart's content in the
parlor, while the girls, after a short rest, set the table and made all
ready to dish up the dinner when that exciting moment came. It was not
at all the sort of table we see now, but would look very plain and
countrified to us, with its green-handled knives and two-pronged steel
forks; its red-and-white china, and pewter platters, scoured till they
shone, with mugs and spoons to match, and a brown jug for the cider.
The cloth was coarse, but white as snow, and the little maids had seen
the blue-eyed flax grow, out of which their mother wove the linen they
had watched and watered while it bleached in the green meadow. They had
no napkins and little silver; but the best tankard and Ma's few wedding
spoons were set forth in state. Nuts and apples at the corners gave an
air, and the place of honor was left in the middle for the oranges yet
to come.
"Don't it look beautiful?" said Prue, when they paused to admire the
general effect.
"Pretty nice, I think. I wish Ma could see how well we can do it," began
Tilly, when a loud howling startled both girls, and sent them flying to
the window. The short afternoon had passed so quickly that twilight had
come before they knew it, and now, as they looked out through the
gathering dusk, they saw four small black figures tearing up the road,
to come bursting in, all screaming at once: "The bear, the bear! Eph,
get the gun! He's coming, he's coming!"
Eph had dropped his fiddle, and got down his gun before the girls could
calm the children enough to tell their story, which they did in a
somewhat incoherent manner. "Down in the holler, coastin', we heard a
growl," began Sol, with his eyes as big as saucers. "I see him fust
lookin' over the wall," roared Seth, eager to get his share of honor.
"Awful big and shaggy," quavered Roxy, clinging to Tilly, while Rhody
hid in Prue's skirts, and piped out: "His great paws kept clawing at us,
and I was so scared my legs would hardly go."
"We ran away as fast as we could go, and he come growling after us. He's
awful hungry, and he'll eat every one of us if he gets in," continued
Sol, looking about him for a safe retreat.
"Oh, Eph, don't let him eat us," cried both little girls, flying up
stairs to hide under their mother's bed, as their surest shelter.
"No danger of that, you little geese. I'll shoot him as soon as he
comes. Get out of the way, boys," and Eph raised the window to get good
aim.
"There he is! Fire away, and don't miss!" cried Seth, hastily following
Sol, who had climbed to the top of the dresser as a good perch from
which to view the approaching fray.
Prue retired to the hearth as if bent on dying at her post rather than
desert the turkey, now "browning beautiful," as she expressed it. But
Tilly boldly stood at the open window, ready to lend a hand if the enemy
proved too much for Eph.
All had seen bears, but none had ever come so near before, and even
brave Eph felt that the big brown beast slowly trotting up the door-yard
was an unusually formidable specimen. He was growling horribly, and
stopped now and then as if to rest and shake himself.
"Get the ax, Tilly, and if I should miss, stand ready to keep him off
while I load again," said Eph, anxious to kill his first bear in style
and alone; a girl's help didn't count.
Tilly flew for the ax, and was at her brother's side by the time the
bear was near enough to be dangerous. He stood on his hind legs, and
seemed to sniff with relish the savory odors that poured out of the
window.
"Fire, Eph!" cried Tilly, firmly.
"Wait till he rears again. I'll get a better shot, then," answered the
boy, while Prue covered her ears to shut out the bang, and the small
boys cheered from their dusty refuge up among the pumpkins.
But a very singular thing happened next, and all who saw it stood
amazed, for suddenly Tilly threw down the ax, flung open the door, and
ran straight into the arms of the bear, who stood erect to receive her,
while his growlings changed to a loud "Haw, haw!" that startled the
children more than the report of a gun.
"It's Gad Hopkins, tryin' to fool us!" cried Eph, much disgusted at the
loss of his prey, for these hardy boys loved to hunt, and prided
themselves on the number of wild animals and birds they could shoot in a
year.
"Oh, Gad, how could you scare us so?" laughed Tilly, still held fast in
one shaggy arm of the bear, while the other drew a dozen oranges from
some deep pocket in the buffalo-skin coat, and fired them into the
kitchen with such good aim that Eph ducked, Prue screamed, and Sol and
Seth came down much quicker than they went up.
"Wal, you see I got upsot over yonder, and the old horse went home while
I was floundering in a drift, so I tied on the buffalers to tote 'em
easy, and come along till I see the children playin' in the holler. I
jest meant to give 'em a little scare, but they run like partridges, and
I kep' up the joke to see how Eph would like this sort of company," and
Gad haw-hawed again.
"You'd have had a warm welcome if we hadn't found you out. I'd have put
a bullet through you in a jiffy, old chap," said Eph, coming out to
shake hands with the young giant, who was only a year or two older than
himself.
"Come in and set up to dinner with us. Prue and I have done it all
ourselves, and Pa will be along soon, I reckon," cried Tilly, trying to
escape.
"Couldn't, no ways. My folks will think I'm dead ef I don't get along
home, sence the horse and sleigh have gone ahead empty. I've done my
arrant and had my joke; now I want my pay, Tilly," and Gad took a hearty
kiss from the rosy cheeks of his "little sweetheart," as he called her.
His own cheeks tingled with the smart slap she gave him as she ran
away, calling out that she hated bears and would bring her ax next time.
"I ain't afeared; your sharp eyes found me out; and ef you run into a
bear's arms you must expect a hug," answered Gad, as he pushed back the
robe and settled his fur cap more becomingly.
"I should have known you in a minute if I hadn't been asleep when the
girls squalled. You did it well, though, and I advise you not to try it
again in a hurry, or you'll get shot," said Eph, as they parted, he
rather crestfallen and Gad in high glee.
"My sakes alive--the turkey is burnt one side, and the kettles have
biled over so the pies I put to warm are all ashes!" scolded Tilly, as
the flurry subsided and she remembered her dinner.
"Well, I can't help it. I couldn't think of victuals when I expected to
be eaten alive myself, could I?" pleaded poor Prue, who had tumbled into
the cradle when the rain of oranges began.
Tilly laughed, and all the rest joined in, so good humor was restored,
and the spirits of the younger ones were revived by sucks from the one
orange which passed from hand to hand with great rapidity, while the
older girls dished up the dinner. They were just struggling to get the
pudding out of the cloth when Roxy called out, "Here's Pa!"
"There's folks with him," added Rhody.
"Lots of 'em! I see two big sleighs chock full," shouted Seth, peering
through the dusk.
"It looks like a semintary. Guess Gramma's dead and come up to be buried
here," said Sol in a solemn tone. This startling suggestion made Tilly,
Prue, and Eph hasten to look out, full of dismay at such an ending of
their festival.
"If that is a funeral, the mourners are uncommon jolly," said Eph,
drily, as merry voices and loud laughter broke the white silence
without.
"I see Aunt Cinthy, and Cousin Hetty--and there's Mose and Amos. I do
declare, Pa's bringin' 'em all home to have some fun here," cried Prue,
as she recognized one familiar face after another.
"Oh, my patience! Ain't I glad I got dinner, and don't I hope it will
turn out good!" exclaimed Tilly, while the twins pranced with delight,
and the small boys roared:
"Hooray for Pa! Hooray for Thanksgivin'!"
The cheer was answered heartily, and in came Father, Mother, Baby, aunts
and cousins, all in great spirits, and all much surprised to find such a
festive welcome awaiting them.
"Ain't Gran'ma dead at all?" asked Sol, in the midst of the kissing and
hand-shaking.
"Bless your heart, no! It was all a mistake of old Mr. Chadwick's. He's
as deaf as an adder, and when Mrs. Brooks told him Mother was mendin'
fast, and she wanted me to come down to-day, certain sure, he got the
message all wrong, and give it to the fust person passin' in such a way
as to scare me 'most to death, and send us down in a hurry. Mother was
sittin' up as chirk as you please, and dreadful sorry you didn't all
come."
"So, to keep the house quiet for her, and give you a taste of the fun,
your Pa fetched us all up to spend the evenin', and we are goin' to have
a jolly time on't, to jedge by the looks of things," said Aunt Cinthy,
briskly finishing the tale when Mrs. Bassett paused for want of breath.
"What in the world put it into your head we was comin', and set you to
gettin' up such a supper?" asked Mr. Bassett, looking about him, well
pleased and much surprised at the plentiful table.
Tilly modestly began to tell, but the others broke in and sang her
praises in a sort of chorus, in which bears, pigs, pies, and oranges
were oddly mixed. Great satisfaction was expressed by all, and Tilly and
Prue were so elated by the commendation of Ma and the aunts, that they
set forth their dinner, sure everything was perfect.
But when the eating began, which it did the moment wraps were off, then
their pride got a fall; for the first person who tasted the stuffing (it
was big Cousin Mose, and that made it harder to bear) nearly choked over
the bitter morsel.
"Tilly Bassett, whatever made you put wormwood and catnip in your
stuffin'?" demanded Ma, trying not to be severe, for all the rest were
laughing, and Tilly looked ready to cry.
"I did it," said Prue, nobly taking all the blame, which caused Pa to
kiss her on the spot, and declare that it didn't do a might of harm, for
the turkey was all right.
"I never see onions cooked better. All the vegetables is well done, and
the dinner a credit to you, my dears," declared Aunt Cinthy, with her
mouth full of the fragrant vegetable she praised.
The pudding was an utter failure, in spite of the blazing brandy in
which it lay--as hard and heavy as one of the stone balls on Squire
Dunkin's great gate. It was speedily whisked out of sight, and all fell
upon the pies, which were perfect. But Tilly and Prue were much
depressed, and didn't recover their spirits till the dinner was over and
the evening fun well under way.
"Blind-man's buff," "Hunt the slipper," "Come, Philander," and other
lively games soon set every one bubbling over with jollity, and when Eph
struck up "Money Musk" on his fiddle, old and young fell into their
places for a dance. All down the long kitchen they stood, Mr. and Mrs.
Bassett at the top, the twins at the bottom, and then away they went,
heeling and toeing, cutting pigeon-wings, and taking their steps in a
way that would convulse modern children with their new-fangled romps
called dancing. Mose and Tilly covered themselves with glory by the
vigor with which they kept it up, till fat Aunt Cinthy fell into a
chair, breathlessly declaring that a very little of such exercise was
enough for a woman of her "heft."
Apples and cider, chat and singing, finished the evening, and after a
grand kissing all round, the guests drove away in the clear moonlight
which came just in time to cheer their long drive.
When the jingle of the last bell had died away, Mr. Bassett said
soberly, as they stood together on the hearth: "Children, we have
special cause to be thankful that the sorrow we expected was changed
into joy, so we'll read a chapter 'fore we go to bed, and give thanks
where thanks is due."
Then Tilly set out the light-stand with the big Bible on it, and a
candle on each side, and all sat quietly in the fire-light, smiling as
they listened with happy hearts to the sweet old words that fit all
times and seasons so beautifully.
When the good-nights were over, and the children in bed, Prue put her
arm around Tilly and whispered tenderly, for she felt her shake, and was
sure she was crying:
"Don't mind about the old stuffin' and puddin', deary--nobody cared, and
Ma said we really did do surprisin' well for such young girls."
The laughter Tilly was trying to smother broke out then, and was so
infectious, Prue could not help joining her, even before she knew the
cause of the merriment.
"I was mad about the mistakes, but don't care enough to cry. I'm
laughing to think how Gad fooled Eph and I found him out. I thought Mose
and Amos would have died over it when I told them, it was so funny,"
explained Tilly, when she got her breath.
"I was so scared that when the first orange hit me, I thought it was a
bullet, and scrabbled into the cradle as fast as I could. It was real
mean to frighten the little ones so," laughed Prue, as Tilly gave a
growl.
Here a smart rap on the wall of the next room caused a sudden lull in
the fun, and Mrs. Bassett's voice was heard, saying warningly, "Girls,
go to sleep immediate, or you'll wake the baby."
"Yes'm," answered two meek voices, and after a few irrepressible
giggles, silence reigned, broken only by an occasional snore from the
boys, or the soft scurry of mice in the buttery, taking their part in
this old-fashioned Thanksgiving.
II.
HOW IT ALL HAPPENED.
It was a small room, with nothing in it but a bed, two chairs, and a big
chest. A few little gowns hung on the wall, and the only picture was the
wintry sky, sparkling with stars, framed by the uncurtained window. But
the moon, pausing to peep, saw something pretty and heard something
pleasant. Two heads in little round nightcaps lay on one pillow, two
pairs of wide-awake blue eyes stared up at the light, and two tongues
were going like mill clappers.
"I'm so glad we got our shirts done in time! It seemed as if we never
should, and I don't think six cents is half enough for a great red
flannel thing with four button-holes--do you?" said one little voice,
rather wearily.
"No; but then we each made four, and fifty cents is a good deal of
money. Are you sorry we didn't keep our quarters for ourselves?" asked
the other voice, with an under-tone of regret in it.
"Yes, I am, till I think how pleased the children will be with our tree,
for they don't expect anything, and will be so surprised. I wish we had
more toys to put on it, for it looks so small and mean with only three
or four things."
"It won't hold any more, so I wouldn't worry about it. The toys are very
red and yellow, and I guess the babies won't know how cheap they are,
but like them as much as if they cost heaps of money."
This was a cheery voice, and as it spoke the four blue eyes turned
toward the chest under the window, and the kind moon did her best to
light up the tiny tree standing there. A very pitiful little tree it
was--only a branch of hemlock in an old flower-pot, propped up with bits
of coal, and hung with a few penny toys earned by the patient fingers of
the elder sisters, that the little ones should not be disappointed.
But in spite of the magical moonlight the broken branch, with its scanty
supply of fruit, looked pathetically poor, and one pair of eyes filled
slowly with tears, while the other pair lost their happy look, as if a
cloud had come over the sunshine.
"Are you crying, Dolly?"
"Not much, Polly."
"What makes you, dear?"
"I didn't know how poor we were till I saw the tree, and then I couldn't
help it," sobbed the elder sister, for at twelve she already knew
something of the cares of poverty, and missed the happiness that seemed
to vanish out of all their lives when father died.
"It's dreadful! I never thought we'd have to earn our tree, and only be
able to get a broken branch, after all, with nothing on it but three
sticks of candy, two squeaking dogs, a red cow, and an ugly bird with
one feather in its tail;" and overcome by a sudden sense of destitution,
Polly sobbed even more despairingly than Dolly.
"Hush, dear; we must cry softly, or mother will hear, and come up, and
then we shall have to tell. You know we said we wouldn't seem to mind
not having any Christmas, she felt so sorry about it."
"I _must_ cry, but I'll be quiet."
So the two heads went under the pillow for a few minutes, and not a
sound betrayed them as the little sisters cried softly in one another's
arms, lest mother should discover that they were no longer careless
children, but brave young creatures trying to bear their share of the
burden cheerfully.
When the shower was over, the faces came out shining like roses after
rain, and the voices went on again as before.
"Don't you wish there really was a Santa Claus, who knew what we wanted,
and would come and put two silver half-dollars in our stockings, so we
could go and see _Puss in Boots_ at the Museum to-morrow afternoon?"
"Yes, indeed; but we didn't hang up any stockings, you know, because
mother had nothing to put in them. It does seem as if rich people might
think of poor people now and then. Such little bits of things would
make us happy, and it couldn't be much trouble to take two small girls
to the play, and give them candy now and then."
"_I_ shall when I'm rich, like Mr. Chrome and Miss Kent. I shall go
round every Christmas with a big basket of goodies, and give _all_ the
poor children some."
"P'r'aps if we sew ever so many flannel shirts we may be rich by-and-by.
I should give mother a new bonnet first of all, for I heard Miss Kent
say no lady would wear such a shabby one. Mrs. Smith said fine bonnets
didn't make real ladies. I like her best, but I do want a locket like
Miss Kent's."
"I should give mother some new rubbers, and then I should buy a white
apron, with frills like Miss Kent's, and bring home nice bunches of
grapes and good things to eat, as Mr. Chrome does. I often smell them,
but he never gives _me_ any; he only says, 'Hullo, chick!' and I'd
rather have oranges any time."
"It will take us a long while to get rich, I'm afraid. It makes me tired
to think of it. I guess we'd better go to sleep now, dear."
"Good-night, Dolly."
"Good-night, Polly."
Two soft kisses were heard, a nestling sound followed, and presently the
little sisters lay fast asleep cheek against cheek, on the pillow wet
with their tears, never dreaming what was going to happen to them
to-morrow.
Now Miss Kent's room was next to theirs, and as she sat sewing she could
hear the children's talk, for they soon forgot to whisper. At first she
smiled, then she looked sober, and when the prattle ceased she said to
herself, as she glanced about her pleasant chamber:
"Poor little things! they think I'm rich, and envy me, when I'm only a
milliner earning my living. I ought to have taken more notice of them,
for their mother has a hard time, I fancy, but never complains. I'm
sorry they heard what I said, and if I knew how to do it without
offending her, I'd trim a nice bonnet for a Christmas gift, for she _is_
a lady, in spite of her old clothes. I can give the children some of the
things they want anyhow, and I will. The idea of those mites making a
fortune out of shirts at six cents apiece!"
Miss Kent laughed at the innocent delusion, but sympathized with her
little neighbors, for she knew all about hard times. She had good wages
now, but spent them on herself, and liked to be fine rather than neat.
Still, she was a good-hearted girl, and what she had overheard set her
to thinking soberly, then to acting kindly, as we shall see.
"If I hadn't spent all my money on my dress for the party to-morrow
night, I'd give each of them a half-dollar. As I can not, I'll hunt up
the other things they wanted, for it's a shame they shouldn't have a bit
of Christmas, when they tried so hard to please the little ones."
As she spoke she stirred about her room, and soon had a white apron, an
old carnelian heart on a fresh blue ribbon, and two papers of bonbons
ready. As no stockings were hung up, she laid a clean towel on the floor
before the door, and spread forth the small gifts to look their best.
Miss Kent was so busy that she did not hear a step come quietly up
stairs, and Mr. Chrome, the artist, peeped at her through the balusters,
wondering what she was about. He soon saw, and watched her with
pleasure, thinking that she never looked prettier than now.
Presently she caught him at it, and hastened to explain, telling what
she had heard, and how she was trying to atone for her past neglect of
these young neighbors. Then she said good-night, and both went into
their rooms, she to sleep happily, and he to smoke as usual.
But his eye kept turning to some of the "nice little bundles" that lay
on his table, as if the story he had heard suggested how he might follow
Miss Kent's example. I rather think he would not have disturbed himself
if he had not heard the story told in such a soft voice, with a pair of
bright eyes full of pity looking into his, for little girls were not
particularly interesting to him, and he was usually too tired to notice
the industrious creatures toiling up and down stairs on various errands,
or sewing at the long red seams.
Now that he knew something of their small troubles, he felt as if it
would please Miss Kent, and be a good joke, to do his share of the
pretty work she had begun.