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What Every Child Should Know Library
GOOD CHEER STORIES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW
Edited by
ASA DON DICKINSON
Editor of
"The Children's Book of Christmas Stories," Etc.
[Illustration: "When we rounded the last patch of scrub pines and came
upon the long gray house fairly blazing with light ... the effect was
stunning."]
Published by Doubleday, Doran & Co., Inc., for
The Parents' Institute, Inc.
Publishers of "The Parents' Magazine"
52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York
Copyright, 1915, by Doubleday, Page & Company
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
The Publishers desire to acknowledge the kindness of the Century
Company, Ginn & Co., the J. L. Hammett Company, Harper & Brothers, the
Houghton, Mifflin Company, the J. B. Lippincott Company, the Lothrop,
Lee & Shepard Company, the Outlook Company, the Perry Mason Company,
Charles Scribner's Sons, and others, who have granted permission to
reproduce herein selections from works bearing their copyright.
CONTENTS
(Note.--The stories marked with a star (*) will be most enjoyed by
younger children; those marked with a (dagger) are better suited to
older children.)
*The Kingdom of the Greedy. _By P. J. Stahl_
Thankful. _By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman_
Beetle Ring's Thanksgiving Mascot. _By Sheldon C. Stoddard_
[dagger]Mistress Esteem Elliott's Molasses Cake. _By Kate Upson Clark_
The First Thanksgiving. _By Albert F. Blaisdell and Francis K. Ball_
[dagger]Thanksgiving at Todd's Asylum. _By Winthrop Packard_
How We Kept Thanksgiving at Oldtown. _By Harriet Beecher Stowe_
*Wishbone Valley. _By R. K. Munkittrick_
Patem's Salmagundi. _By E. S. Brooks_
Miss November's Dinner Party. _By Agnes Carr_
*The Visit. _By Maud Lindsay_
The Story of Ruth and Naomi. _Adapted from the Bible_
Bert's Thanksgiving. _By J. T. Trowbridge_
*A Thanksgiving Story. _By Miss L. B. Pingree_
[dagger]John Inglefield's Thanksgiving. _By Nathaniel Hawthorne_
How Obadiah Brought About a Thanksgiving. _By Emily Hewitt Leland_
The White Turkey's Wing. _By Sophie Swet_
*The Thanksgiving Goose. _By Fannie Wilder Brown_
[dagger]An English Dinner of Thanksgiving. _By George Eliot_
A Novel Postman. _By Alice Wheildon_
[dagger]Ezra's Thanksgivin' Out West _By Eugene Field_
*Chip's Thanksgiving. _By Annie Hamilton Donnell_
[dagger]The Master of the Harvest. _By Mrs. Alfred Gatty_
*A Thanksgiving Dinner. _By Edna Payson Brett_
Two Old Boys. _By Pauline Shackleford Colyar_
A Thanksgiving Dinner That Flew Away. _By Hezekiah Butterworth_
[dagger]Mon-daw-min. _By H. R. Schoolcraft_
A Mystery in the Kitchen. _By Olive Thorne Miller_
*Who Ate the Dolly's Dinner? _By Isabel Gordon Curtis_
[dagger]An Old-fashioned Thanksgiving. _By Rose Terry Cooke_
1800 and Froze to Death. By _C. A. Stephens_
THE CHILDREN'S BOOK OF THANKSGIVING STORIES
THE KINGDOM OF THE GREEDY
BY P. J. STAHL.
TRANSLATED BY LAURA W. JOHNSON.
This fairy tale of a gormandizing people contains no mention
of Thanksgiving Day. Yet its connection with our American
festival is obvious. Every one who likes fairy tales will
enjoy reading it.
The country of the Greedy, well known in history, was ruled by a king
who had much trouble. His subjects were well behaved, but they had one
sad fault: they were too fond of pies and tarts. It was as
disagreeable to them to swallow a spoonful of soup as if it were so
much sea water, and it would take a policeman to make them open their
mouths for a bit of meat, either boiled or roasted. This deplorable
taste made the fortunes of the pastry cooks, but also of the
apothecaries. Families ruined themselves in pills and powders;
camomile, rhubarb, and peppermint trebled in price, as well as other
disagreeable remedies, such as castor ---- which I will not name.
The King of the Greedy sought long for the means of correcting this
fatal passion for sweets, but even the faculty were puzzled.
"Your Majesty," said the great court doctor, Olibriers, at his last
audience, "your people look like putty! They are incurable; their
senseless love for good eating will bring them all to the grave."
This view of things did not suit the King. He was wise, and saw very
plainly that a monarch without subjects would be but a sorry king.
Happily, after this utter failure of the doctors, there came into the
mind of His Majesty a first-class idea: he telegraphed for Mother
Mitchel, the most celebrated of all pastry cooks. Mother Mitchel soon
arrived, with her black cat, Fanfreluche, who accompanied her
everywhere. He was an incomparable cat. He had not his equal as an
adviser and a taster of tarts.
Mother Mitchel having respectfully inquired what she and her cat could
do for His Majesty, the King demanded of the astonished pastry cook a
tart as big as the capitol--bigger even, if possible, but no smaller!
When the King uttered this astounding order, deep emotion was shown by
the chamberlains, the pages, and lackeys. Nothing but the respect due
to his presence prevented them from crying "Long live Your Majesty!"
in his very ears. But the King had seen enough of the enthusiasm of
the populace, and did not allow such sounds in the recesses of his
palace.
The King gave Mother Mitchel one month to carry out his gigantic
project. "It is enough," she proudly replied, brandishing her crutch.
Then, taking leave of the King, she and her cat set out for their
home.
On the way Mother Mitchel arranged in her head the plan of the
monument which was to immortalize her, and considered the means of
executing it. As to its form and size, it was to be as exact a copy of
the capitol as possible, since the King had willed it; but its outside
crust should have a beauty all its own. The dome must be adorned with
sugarplums of all colours, and surmounted by a splendid crown of
macaroons, spun sugar, chocolate, and candied fruits. It was no small
affair.
Mother Mitchel did not like to lose her time. Her plan of battle once
formed, she recruited on her way all the little pastry cooks of the
country, as well as all the tiny six-year-olds who had a sincere love
for the noble callings of scullion and apprentice. There were plenty
of these, as you may suppose, in the country of the Greedy; Mother
Mitchel had her pick of them.
Mother Mitchel, with the help of her crutch and of Fanfreluche, who
miaowed loud enough to be heard twenty miles off, called upon all the
millers of the land, and commanded them to bring together at a certain
time as many sacks of fine flour as they could grind in a week. There
were only windmills in that country; you may easily believe how they
all began to go. B-r-r-r-r-r! What a noise they made! The clatter was
so great that all the birds flew away to other climes, and even the
clouds fled from the sky.
At the call of Mother Mitchel all the farmers' wives were set to work;
they rushed to the hencoops to collect the seven thousand fresh eggs
that Mother Mitchel wanted for her great edifice. Deep was the emotion
of the fowls. The hens were inconsolable, and the unhappy creatures
mourned upon the palings for the loss of all their hopes.
The milkmaids were busy from morning till night in milking the cows.
Mother Mitchel must have twenty thousand pails of milk. All the little
calves were put on half rations. This great work was nothing to them,
and they complained pitifully to their mothers. Many of the cows
protested with energy against this unreasonable tax, which made their
young families so uncomfortable. There were pails upset, and even some
milkmaids went head over heels. But these little accidents did not
chill the enthusiasm of the labourers.
And now Mother Mitchel called for a thousand pounds of the best
butter. All the churns for twenty miles around began to work in the
most lively manner. Their dashers dashed without ceasing, keeping
perfect time. The butter was tasted, rolled into pats, wrapped up, and
put into baskets. Such energy had never been known before.
Mother Mitchel passed for a sorceress. It was all because of her cat,
Fanfreluche, with whom she had mysterious doings and pantomimes, and
with whom she talked in her inspired moments, as if he were a real
person. Certainly, since the famous "Puss in Boots," there had never
been an animal so extraordinary; and credulous folks suspected him of
being a magician. Some curious people had the courage to ask
Fanfreluche if this were true; but he had replied by bristling, and
showing his teeth and claws so fiercely, that the conversation had
ended there. Sorceress or not, Mother Mitchel was always obeyed. No
one else was ever served so punctually.
On the appointed day all the millers arrived with their asses trotting
in single file, each laden with a great sack of flour. Mother Mitchel,
after having examined the quality of the flour, had every sack
accurately weighed. This was head work and hard work, and took time;
but Mother Mitchel was untiring, and her cat, also, for while the
operation lasted he sat on the roof watching. It is only just to say
that the millers of the Greedy Kingdom brought flour not only
faultless but of full weight. They knew that Mother Mitchel was not
joking when she said that others must be as exact with her as she was
with them. Perhaps also they were a little afraid of the cat, whose
great green eyes were always shining upon them like two round lamps,
and never lost sight of them for one moment.
All the farmers' wives arrived in turn, with baskets of eggs upon
their heads. They did not load their donkeys with them, for fear that
in jogging along they would become omelettes on the way. Mother
Mitchel received them with her usual gravity. She had the patience to
look through every egg to see if it were fresh.
She did not wish to run the risk of having young chickens in a tart
that was destined for those who could not bear the taste of any meat
however tender and delicate. The number of eggs was complete, and
again Mother Mitchel and her cat had nothing to complain of. This
Greedy nation, though carried away by love of good eating, was
strictly honest. It must be said that where nations are patriotic,
desire for the common good makes them unselfish. Mother Mitchel's tart
was to be the glory of the country, and each one was proud to
contribute to such a great work.
And now the milkmaids with their pots and pails of milk, and the
buttermakers with their baskets filled with the rich yellow pats of
butter, filed in long procession to the right and left of the cabin of
Mother Mitchel. There was no need for her to examine so carefully the
butter and the milk. She had such a delicate nose that if there had
been a single pat of ancient butter or a pail of sour milk she would
have pounced upon it instantly. But all was perfectly fresh. In that
golden age they did not understand the art, now so well known, of
making milk out of flour and water. Real milk was necessary to make
cheesecakes and ice cream and other delicious confections much adored
in the Greedy Kingdom. If any one had made such a despicable
discovery, he would have been chased from the country as a public
nuisance.
Then came the grocers, with their aprons of coffee bags, and with the
jolly, mischievous faces the rogues always have. Each one clasped to
his heart a sugar loaf nearly as large as himself, whose summit,
without its paper cap, looked like new-fallen snow upon a pyramid.
Mother Mitchel, with her crutch for a baton, saw them all placed in
her storerooms upon shelves put up for the purpose. She had to be
very strict, for some of the little fellows could hardly part from
their merchandise, and many were indiscreet, with their tongues behind
their great mountains of sugar. If they had been let alone, they would
never have stopped till the sugar was all gone. But they had not
thought of the implacable eye of old Fanfreluche, who, posted upon a
water spout, took note of all their misdeeds. From another quarter
came a whole army of country people, rolling wheelbarrows and carrying
huge baskets, all filled with cherries, plums, peaches, apples, and
pears. All these fruits were so fresh, in such perfect condition, with
their fair shining skins, that they looked like wax or painted marble,
but their delicious perfume proved that they were real. Some little
people, hidden in the corners, took pains to find this out. Between
ourselves, Mother Mitchel made believe not to see them, and took the
precaution of holding Fanfreluche in her arms so that he could not
spring upon them. The fruits were all put into bins, each kind by
itself. And now the preparations were finished. There was no time to
lose before setting to work.
The spot which Mother Mitchel had chosen for her great edifice was a
pretty hill on which a plateau formed a splendid site. This hill
commanded the capital city, built upon the slope of another hill close
by. After having beaten down the earth till it was as smooth as a
floor, they spread over it loads of bread crumbs, brought from the
baker's, and levelled it with rake and spade, as we do gravel in our
garden walks. Little birds, as greedy as themselves, came in flocks to
the feast, but they might eat as they liked, it would never be missed,
so thick was the carpet. It was a great chance for the bold little
things.
All the ingredients for the tart were now ready. Upon order of Mother
Mitchel they began to peel the apples and pears and to take out the
pips. The weather was so pleasant that the girls sat out of doors,
upon the ground, in long rows. The sun looked down upon them with a
merry face. Each of the little workers had a big earthen pan, and
peeled incessantly the apples which the boys brought them. When the
pans were full, they were carried away and others were brought. They
had also to carry away the peels, or the girls would have been buried
in them. Never was there such a peeling before.
Not far away, the children were stoning the plums, cherries, and
peaches. This work, being the easiest, was given to the youngest and
most inexperienced hands, which were all first carefully washed, for
Mother Mitchel, though not very particular about her own toilet, was
very neat in her cooking. The schoolhouse, long unused (for in the
country of the Greedy they had forgotten everything), was arranged for
this second class of workers, and the cat was their inspector. He
walked round and round, growling if he saw the fruit popping into any
of the little mouths. If they had dared, how they would have pelted
him with plum stones! But no one risked it. Fanfreluche was not to be
trifled with.
In those days powdered sugar had not been invented, and to grate it
all was no small affair. It was the work that the grocers used to
dislike the most; both lungs and arms were soon tired. But Mother
Mitchel was there to sustain them with her unequalled energy. She
chose the labourers from the most robust of the boys. With mallet and
knife she broke the cones into round pieces, and they grated them till
they were too small to hold. The bits were put into baskets to be
pounded. One would never have expected to find all the thousand pounds
of sugar again. But a new miracle was wrought by Mother Mitchel. It
was all there!
It was then the turn of the ambitious scullions to enter the lists and
break the seven thousand eggs for Mother Mitchel. It was not hard to
break them--any fool could do that; but to separate adroitly the yolks
and the whites demands some talent, and, above all, great care. We
dare not say that there were no accidents here, no eggs too well
scrambled, no baskets upset. But the experience of Mother Mitchel had
counted upon such things, and it may truly be said that there were
never so many eggs broken at once, or ever could be again. To make an
omelette of them would have taken a saucepan as large as a skating
pond, and the fattest cook that ever lived could not hold the handle
of such a saucepan.
But this was not all. Now that the yolks and whites were once divided,
they must each be beaten separately in wooden bowls, to give them the
necessary lightness. The egg beaters were marshalled into two
brigades, the yellow and the white. Every one preferred the white, for
it was much more amusing to make those snowy masses that rose up so
high than to beat the yolks, which knew no better than to mix together
like so much sauce. Mother Mitchel, with her usual wisdom, had avoided
this difficulty by casting lots. Thus, those who were not on the white
side had no reason to complain of oppression. And truly, when all was
done, the whites and the yellows were equally tired. All had cramps in
their hands.
Now began the real labour of Mother Mitchel. Till now she had been the
commander-in-chief--the head only; now she put her own finger in the
pie. First, she had to make sweetmeats and jam out of all the immense
quantity of fruit she had stored. For this, as she could only do one
kind at a time, she had ten kettles, each as big as a dinner table.
During forty-eight hours the cooking went on; a dozen scullions blew
the fire and put on the fuel. Mother Mitchel, with a spoon that four
modern cooks could hardly lift, never ceased stirring and trying the
boiling fruit. Three expert tasters, chosen from the most dainty, had
orders to report progress every half hour.
It is unnecessary to state that all the sweetmeats were perfectly
successful, or that they were of exquisite consistency, colour, and
perfume. With Mother Mitchel there was no such word as _fail_. When
each kind of sweetmeat was finished, she skimmed it, and put it away
to cool in enormous bowls before potting. She did not use for this the
usual little glass or earthen jars, but great stone ones, like those
in the "Forty Thieves." Not only did these take less time to fill, but
they were safe from the children. The scum and the scrapings were
something, to be sure. But there was little Toto, who thought this was
not enough. He would have jumped into one of the bowls if they had not
held him.
Mother Mitchel, who thought of everything, had ordered two hundred
great kneading troughs, wishing that all the utensils of this great
work should be perfectly new. These two hundred troughs, like her
other materials, were all delivered punctually and in good order. The
pastry cooks rolled up their sleeves and began to knead the dough with
cries of "Hi! Hi!" that could be heard for miles. It was odd to see
this army of bakers in serried ranks, all making the same gestures at
once, like well-disciplined soldiers, stooping and rising together in
time, so that a foreign ambassador wrote to his court that he wished
his people could load and fire as well as these could knead. Such
praise a people never forgets.
When each troughful of paste was approved it was moulded with care
into the form of bricks, and with the aid of the engineer-in-chief, a
young genius who had gained the first prize in the school of
architecture, the majestic edifice was begun. Mother Mitchel herself
drew the plan; in following her directions, the young engineer showed
himself modest beyond all praise. He had the good sense to understand
that the architecture of tarts and pies had rules of its own, and that
therefore the experience of Mother Mitchel was worth all the
scientific theories in the world.
The inside of the monument was divided into as many compartments as
there were kinds of fruits. The walls were no less than four feet
thick. When they were finished, twenty-four ladders were set up, and
twenty-four experienced cooks ascended them. These first-class artists
were each of them armed with an enormous cooking spoon. Behind them,
on the lower rounds of the ladders, followed the kitchen boys,
carrying on their heads pots and pans filled to the brim with jam and
sweetmeats, each sort ready to be poured into its destined
compartment. This colossal labour was accomplished in one day, and
with wonderful exactness.
When the sweetmeats were used to the last drop, when the great spoons
had done all their work, the twenty-four cooks descended to earth
again. The intrepid Mother Mitchel, who had never quitted the spot,
now ascended, followed by the noble Fanfreluche, and dipped her finger
into each of the compartments, to assure herself that everything was
right. This part of her duty was not disagreeable, and many of the
scullions would have liked to perform it. But they might have lingered
too long over the enchanting task. As for Mother Mitchel, she had been
too well used to sweets to be excited now. She only wished to do her
duty and to insure success.
All went on well. Mother Mitchel had given her approbation. Nothing
was needed now but to crown the sublime and delicious edifice by
placing upon it the crust--that is, the roof, or dome. This delicate
operation was confided to the engineer-in-chief who now showed his
superior genius. The dome, made beforehand of a single piece, was
raised in the air by means of twelve balloons, whose force of
ascension had been carefully calculated. First it was directed, by
ropes, exactly over the top of the tart; then at the word of command
it gently descended upon the right spot. It was not a quarter of an
inch out of place. This was a great triumph for Mother Mitchel and her
able assistant.
But all was not over. How should this colossal tart be cooked? That
was the question that agitated all the people of the Greedy country,
who came in crowds--lords and commons--to gaze at the wonderful
spectacle.
Some of the envious or ill-tempered declared it would be impossible to
cook the edifice which Mother Mitchel had built; and the doctors were,
no one knows why, the saddest of all. Mother Mitchel, smiling at the
general bewilderment, mounted the summit of the tart; she waved her
crutch in the air, and while her cat miaowed in his sweetest voice,
suddenly there issued from the woods a vast number of masons, drawing
wagons of well-baked bricks, which they had prepared in secret. This
sight silenced the ill-wishers and filled the hearts of the Greedy
with hope.
In two days an enormous furnace was built around and above the
colossal tart, which found itself shut up in an immense earthen pot.
Thirty huge mouths, which were connected with thousands of winding
pipes for conducting heat all over the building, were soon choked with
fuel, by the help of two hundred charcoal burners, who, obeying a
private signal, came forth in long array from the forest, each
carrying his sack of coal. Behind them stood Mother Mitchel with a box
of matches, ready to fire each oven as it was filled. Of course the
kindlings had not been forgotten, and was all soon in a blaze.
When the fire was lighted in the thirty ovens, when they saw the
clouds of smoke rolling above the dome, that announced that the
cooking had begun, the joy of the people was boundless. Poets
improvised odes, and musicians sung verses without end, in honour of
the superb prince who had been inspired to feed his people in so
dainty a manner, when other rulers could not give them enough even of
dry bread. The names of Mother Mitchel and of the illustrious engineer
were not forgotten in this great glorification. Next to His Majesty,
they were certainly the first of mankind, and their names were worthy
of going down with his to the remotest posterity.
All the envious ones were thunderstruck. They tried to console
themselves by saying that the work was not yet finished, and that an
accident might happen at the last moment. But they did not really
believe a word of this. Notwithstanding all their efforts to look
cheerful, it had to be acknowledged that the cooking was possible.
Their last resource was to declare the tart a bad one, but that would
be biting off their own noses. As for declining to eat it, envy could
never go so far as that in the country of the Greedy.
After two days, the unerring nose of Mother Mitchel discovered that
the tart was cooked to perfection. The whole country was perfumed with
its delicious aroma. Nothing more remained but to take down the
furnaces. Mother Mitchel made her official announcement to His
Majesty, who was delighted, and complimented her upon her punctuality.
One day was still wanting to complete the month. During this time the
people gave their eager help to the engineer in the demolition,
wishing to have a hand in the great national work and to hasten the
blessed moment. In the twinkling of an eye the thing was done. The
bricks were taken down one by one, counted carefully, and carried into
the forest again, to serve for another occasion.
The TART, unveiled, appeared at last in all its majesty and splendour.
The dome was gilded, and reflected the rays of the sun in the most
dazzling manner. The wildest excitement and rapture ran through the
land of the Greedy. Each one sniffed with open nostrils the appetizing
perfume. Their mouths watered, their eyes filled with tears, they
embraced, pressed each other's hands, and indulged in touching
pantomimes. Then the people of town and country, united by one
rapturous feeling, joined hands, and danced in a ring around the
grand confection.
No one dared to touch the tart before the arrival of His Majesty.
Meanwhile, something must be done to allay the universal impatience,
and they resolved to show Mother Mitchel the gratitude with which all
hearts were filled. She was crowned with the laurel of _conquerors_,
which is also the laurel of _sauce_, thus serving a double purpose.
Then they placed her, with her crutch and her cat, upon a sort of
throne, and carried her all round her vast work. Before her marched
all the musicians of the town, dancing, drumming, fifing, and tooting
upon all instruments, while behind her pressed an enthusiastic crowd,
who rent the air with their plaudits and filled it with a shower of
caps. Her fame was complete, and a noble pride shone on her
countenance.
The royal procession arrived. A grand stairway had been built, so that
the King and his ministers could mount to the summit of this
monumental tart. Thence the King, amid a deep silence, thus addressed
his people:
"My children," said he, "you adore tarts. You despise all other food.
If you could, you would even eat tarts in your sleep. Very well. Eat
as much as you like. Here is one big enough to satisfy you. But know
this, that while there remains a single crumb of this august tart,
from the height of which I am proud to look down on you, all other
food is forbidden you on pain of death. While you are here, I have
ordered all the pantries to be emptied, and all the butchers, bakers,
pork and milk dealers, and fishmongers to shut up their shops. Why
leave them open? Why indeed? Have you not here at discretion what you
love best, and enough to last you ever, _ever_ so long? Devote
yourselves to it with all your hearts. I do not wish you to be bored
with the sight of any other food.
"Greedy ones! behold your TART!"
What enthusiastic applause, what frantic hurrahs rent the air, in
answer to this eloquent speech from the throne!
"Long live the King, Mother Mitchel, and her cat! Long live the tart!
Down with soup! Down with bread! To the bottom of the sea with all
beefsteaks, mutton chops, and roasts!"
Such cries came from every lip. Old men gently stroked their chops,
children patted their little stomachs, the crowd licked its thousand
lips with eager joy. Even the babies danced in their nurses' arms, so
precocious was the passion for tarts in this singular country. Grave
professors, skipping like kids, declaimed Latin verses in honour of
His Majesty and Mother Mitchel, and the shyest young girls opened
their mouths like the beaks of little birds. As for the doctors, they
felt a joy beyond expression. They had reflected. They understood.
But--my friends!--
At last the signal was given. A detachment of the engineer corps
arrived, armed with pick and cutlass, and marched in good order to the
assault. A breach was soon opened, and the distribution began. The
King smiled at the opening in the tart; though vast, it hardly showed
more than a mouse hole in the monstrous wall.
The King stroked his beard grandly. "All goes well," said he, "for him
who knows how to wait."
Who can tell how long the feast would have lasted if the King had not
given his command that it should cease? Once more they expressed their
gratitude with cries so stifled that they resembled grunts, and then
rushed to the river. Never had a nation been so besmeared. Some were
daubed to the eyes, others had their ears and hair all sticky. As for
the little ones, they were marmalade from head to foot. When they had
finished their toilets, the river ran all red and yellow and was
sweetened for several hours, to the great surprise of all the fishes.
Before returning home, the people presented themselves before the King
to receive his commands.
"Children!" said he, "the feast will begin again exactly at six
o'clock. Give time to wash the dishes and change the tablecloths, and
you may once more give yourselves over to pleasure. You shall feast
twice a day as long as the tart lasts. Do not forget. Yes! if there is
not enough in this one, I will even order ANOTHER from Mother Mitchel;
for you know that great woman is indefatigable. Your happiness is my
only aim." (Marks of universal joy and emotion.) "You understand?
Noon, and six o'clock! There is no need for me to say be punctual! Go,
then, my children--be happy!"
The second feast was as gay as the first, and as long. A pleasant walk
in the suburbs--first exercise--then a nap, had refreshed their
appetites and unlimbered their jaws. But the King fancied that the
breach made in the tart was a little smaller than that of the morning.
"'Tis well!" said he, "'tis well! Wait till to-morrow, my friends;
yes, till day after to-morrow, and _next week_!"
The next day the feast still went on gayly; yet at the evening meal
the King noticed some empty seats.
"Why is this?" said he, with pretended indifference, to the court
physician.
"Your Majesty," said the great Olibriers, "a few weak stomachs; that
is all."
On the next day there were larger empty spaces. The enthusiasm visibly
abated. The eighth day the crowd had diminished one half; the ninth,
three quarters; the tenth day, of the thousand who came at first, only
two hundred remained; on the eleventh day only one hundred; and on the
twelfth--alas! who would have thought it?--a single one answered to
the call. Truly he was big enough. His body resembled a hogshead, his
mouth an oven, and his lips--we dare not say what. He was known in the
town by the name of Patapouf. They dug out a fresh lump for him from
the middle of the tart. It quickly vanished in his vast interior, and
he retired with great dignity, proud to maintain the honour of his
name and the glory of the Greedy Kingdom.
But the next day, even he, the very last, appeared no more. The
unfortunate Patapouf had succumbed, and, like all the other
inhabitants of the country, was in a very bad way. In short, it was
soon known that the whole town had suffered agonies that night from
too much tart. Let us draw a veil over those hours of torture. Mother
Mitchel was in despair. Those ministers who had not guessed the secret
dared not open their lips. All the city was one vast hospital. No one
was seen in the streets but doctors and apothecaries' boys, running
from house to house in frantic haste. It was dreadful! Doctor
Olibriers was nearly knocked out. As for the King, he held his tongue
and shut himself up in his palace, but a secret joy shone in his eyes,
to the wonder of every one. He waited three days without a word.
The third day, the King said to his ministers:
"Let us go now and see how my poor people are doing, and feel their
pulse a little."
The good King went to every house, without forgetting a single one. He
visited small and great, rich and poor.
"Oh, oh! Your Majesty," said all, "the tart was good, but may we never
see it again! Plague on that tart! Better were dry bread. Your
Majesty, for mercy's sake, a little dry bread! Oh, a morsel of dry
bread, how good it would be!"
"No, indeed," replied the King. "_There is more of that tart!_"
"What! Your Majesty, _must_ we eat it all?"
"You _must_!" sternly replied the King; "you _MUST_! By the immortal
beefsteaks! not one of you shall have a slice of bread, and not a loaf
shall be baked in the kingdom while there remains a crumb of that
excellent tart!"
"What misery!" thought these poor people. "That tart forever!"
The sufferers were in despair. There was only one cry through all the
town: "Ow! ow! ow!" For even the strongest and most courageous were in
horrible agonies. They twisted, they writhed, they lay down, they got
up. Always the inexorable colic. The dogs were not happier than their
masters; even they had too much tart.
The spiteful tart looked in at all the windows. Built upon a height,
it commanded the town. The mere sight of it made everybody ill, and
its former admirers had nothing but curses for it now. Unhappily,
nothing they could say or do made it any smaller; still formidable, it
was a frightful joke for those miserable mortals. Most of them buried
their heads in their pillows, drew their nightcaps over their eyes,
and lay in bed all day to shut out the sight of it. But this would not
do; they knew, they felt it was there. It was a nightmare, a horrible
burden, a torturing anxiety.
In the midst of this terrible consternation the King remained
inexorable during eight days. His heart bled for his people, but the
lesson must sink deep if it were to bear fruit in future. When their
pains were cured, little by little, through fasting alone, and his
subjects pronounced these trembling words, "We are hungry!" the King
sent them trays laden with--the inevitable tart.
"Ah!" cried they, with anguish, "the tart again! Always the tart, and
nothing but the tart! Better were death!"
A few, who were almost famished, shut their eyes, and tried to eat a
bit of the detested food; but it was all in vain--they could not
swallow a mouthful.
At length came the happy day when the King, thinking their punishment
had been severe enough and could never be forgotten, believed them at
length cured of their greediness. That day he ordered Mother Mitchel
to make in one of her colossal pots a super-excellent soup of which a
bowl was sent to every family. They received it with as much rapture
as the Hebrews did the manna in the desert. They would gladly have had
twice as much, but after their long fast it would not have been
prudent. It was a proof that they had learned something already, that
they understood this.
The next day, more soup. This time the King allowed slices of bread in
it. How this good soup comforted all the town! The next day there was
a little more bread in it and a little soup meat. Then for a few days
the kind Prince gave them roast beef and vegetables. The cure was
complete.
The joy over this new diet was as great as ever had been felt for the
tart. It promised to last longer. They were sure to sleep soundly, and
to wake refreshed. It was pleasant to see in every house tables
surrounded with happy, rosy faces, and laden with good nourishing
food.
The Greedy people never fell back into their old ways. Their once
puffed-out, sallow faces shone with health; they became, not fat, but
muscular, ruddy, and solid. The butchers and bakers reopened their
shops; the pastry cooks and confectioners shut theirs. The country of
the Greedy was turned upside down, and if it kept its name, it was
only from habit. As for the tart, it was forgotten. To-day, in that
marvellous country, there cannot be found a paper of sugarplums or a
basket of cakes. It is charming to see the red lips and the beautiful
teeth of the people. If they have still a king, he may well be proud
to be their ruler.
Does this story teach that tarts and pies should never be eaten? No;
but there is reason in all things.
The doctors alone did not profit by this great revolution. They could
not afford to drink wine any longer in a land where indigestion had
become unknown. The apothecaries were no less unhappy, spiders spun
webs over their windows, and their horrible remedies were no longer of
use.
Ask no more about Mother Mitchel. She was ridiculed without measure by
those who had adored her. To complete her misfortune, she lost her
cat. Alas for Mother Mitchel!
The King received the reward of his wisdom. His grateful people called
him neither Charles the Bold, nor Peter the Terrible, nor Louis the
Great, but always by the noble name of Prosper I, the Reasonable.
THANKFUL[1]
BY MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN.
This tale is evidence that Mrs. Freeman understands the
children of New England as well as she knows their parents.
There is a doll in the story, but boys will not mind this as
there are also two turkey-gobblers and a pewter dish full of
Revolutionary bullets.
Submit Thompson sat on the stone wall; Sarah Adams, an erect, prim
little figure, ankle-deep in dry grass, stood beside it, holding
Thankful. Thankful was about ten inches long, made of the finest
linen, with little rosy cheeks, and a fine little wig of flax. She
wore a blue wool frock and a red cloak. Sarah held her close. She even
drew a fold of her own blue homespun blanket around her to shield her
from the November wind. The sky was low and gray; the wind blew from
the northeast, and had the breath of snow in it. Submit on the wall
drew her quilted petticoats close down over her feet, and huddled
herself into a small space, but her face gleamed keen and resolute out
of the depths of a great red hood that belonged to her mother. Her
eyes were fixed upon a turkey-gobbler ruffling and bobbing around the
back door of the Adams house. The two gambrel-roofed Thompson and
Adams houses were built as close together as if the little village of
Bridgewater were a city. Acres of land stretched behind them and at
the other sides, but they stood close to the road, and close to each
other. The narrow space between them was divided by a stone wall which
was Submit's and Sarah's trysting-place. They met there every day and
exchanged confidences. They loved each other like sisters--neither of
them had an own sister--but to-day a spirit of rivalry had arisen.
[Footnote 1: From _Harper's Young People_, November 25, 1890.]
The tough dry blackberry vines on the wall twisted around Submit; she
looked, with her circle of red petticoat, like some strange late
flower blooming out on the wall. "I know he don't, Sarah Adams," said
she.
"Father said he'd weigh twenty pounds," returned Sarah, in a small,
weak voice, which still had persistency in it.
"I don't believe he will. Our Thanksgiving turkey is twice as big. You
know he is, Sarah Adams."
"No, I don't, Submit Thompson."
"Yes, you do."
Sarah lowered her chin, and shook her head with a decision that was
beyond words. She was a thin, delicate-looking little girl, her small
blue-clad figure bent before the wind, but there was resolution in her
high forehead and her sharp chin.
Submit nodded violently.
Sarah shook her head again. She hugged Thankful, and shook her head,
with her eyes still staring defiantly into Submit's hood.
Submit's black eyes in the depths of it were like two sparks. She
nodded vehemently; the gesture was not enough for her; she nodded and
spoke together. "Sarah Adams," said she, "what will you give me if our
turkey is bigger than your turkey?"
"It ain't."
"What will you give me if it is?"
Sarah stared at Submit. "I don't know what you mean, Submit Thompson,"
said she, with a stately and puzzled air.
"Well, I'll tell you. If your turkey weighs more than ours I'll give
you--I'll give you my little work-box with the picture on the top, and
if our turkey weighs more than yours you give me--What will you give
me, Sarah Adams?"
Sarah hung her flaxen head with a troubled air. "I don't know," said
she. "I don't believe I've got anything mother would be willing to
have me give away."
"There's Thankful. Your mother wouldn't care if you gave her away."
Sarah started, and hugged Thankful closer. "Yes, my mother would care,
too," said she. "Don't you know my Aunt Rose from Boston made her and
gave her to me?"
Sarah's beautiful young Aunt Rose from Boston was the special
admiration of both the little girls. Submit was ordinarily impressed
by her name, but now she took it coolly.
"What if she did?" she returned. "She can make another. It's just
made out of a piece of old linen, anyhow. My work-box is real
handsome; but you can do just as you are a mind to."
"Do you mean I can have the work-box to keep?" inquired Sarah.
"Course I do, if your turkey's bigger."
Sarah hesitated. "Our turkey is bigger anyhow," she murmured. "Don't
you think I ought to ask mother, Submit?" she inquired suddenly.
"No! What for? I don't see anything to ask your mother for. She won't
care anything about that rag doll."
"Ain't you going to ask your mother about the work-box?"
"No," replied Submit stoutly. "It's mine; my grandmother gave it to
me."
Sarah reflected. "I _know_ our turkey is the biggest," she said,
looking lovingly at Thankful, as if to justify herself to her. "Well,
I don't care," she added, finally.
"Will you?"
"Yes."
"When's yours going to be killed?"
"This afternoon."
"So's ours. Then we'll find out."
Sarah tucked Thankful closer under her shawl. "I know our turkey is
biggest," said she. She looked very sober, although her voice was
defiant. Just then the great turkey came swinging through the yard. He
held up his head proudly and gobbled. His every feather stood out in
the wind. He seemed enormous--a perfect giant among turkeys. "_Look_
at him!" said Sarah, edging a little closer to the wall; she was
rather afraid of him.
"He ain't half so big as ours," returned Submit, stoutly; but her
heart sank. The Thompson turkey did look very large.
"Submit! Submit!" called a voice from the Thompson house.
Submit slowly got down from the wall. "His feathers are a good deal
thicker than ours," she said, defiantly, to Sarah.
"Submit," called the voice, "come right home! I want you to pare
apples for the pies. Be quick!"
"Yes, marm," Submit answered back, in a shrill voice; "I'm coming!"
Then she went across the yard and into the kitchen door of the
Thompson house, like a red robin into a nest. Submit had been taught
to obey her mother promptly. Mrs. Thompson was a decided woman.
Sarah looked after Submit, then she gathered Thankful closer, and also
went into the house. Her mother, as well as Mrs. Thompson, was
preparing for Thanksgiving. The great kitchen was all of a pleasant
litter with pie plates and cake pans and mixing bowls, and full of
warm, spicy odours. The oven in the chimney was all heated and ready
for a batch of apple and pumpkin pies. Mrs. Adams was busy sliding
them in, but she stopped to look at Sarah and Thankful. Sarah was her
only child.
"Why, what makes you look so sober?" said she.
"Nothing," replied Sarah. She had taken off her blanket, and sat in
one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs, holding Thankful.
"You look dreadful sober," said her mother. "Are you tired?"
"No, marm."
"I'm afraid you've got cold standing out there in the wind. Do you
feel chilly?"
"No, marm. Mother, how much do you suppose our turkey weighs?"
"I believe father said he'd weigh about twenty pounds. You are sure
you don't feel chilly?"
"No, marm. Mother, do you suppose our turkey weighs more than
Submit's?"
"How do you suppose I can tell? I ain't set eyes on their turkey
lately. If you feel well, you'd better sit up to the table and stone
that bowl of raisins. Put your dolly away, and get your apron."
But Sarah stoned raisins with Thankful in her lap, hidden under her
apron. She was so full of anxiety that she could not bear to put her
away. Suppose the Thompson turkey should be larger, and she should
lose Thankful--Thankful that her beautiful Aunt Rose had made for her?
Submit, over in the Thompson house, had sat down at once to her apple
paring. She had not gone into the best room to look at the work-box
whose possession she had hazarded. It stood in there on the table,
made of yellow satiny wood, with a sliding lid ornamented with a
beautiful little picture. Submit had a certain pride in it, but her
fear of losing it was not equal to her hope of possessing Thankful.
Submit had never had a doll, except a few plebeian ones, manufactured
secretly out of corncobs, whom it took more imagination than she
possessed to admire.
Gradually all emulation over the turkeys was lost in the naughty
covetousness of her little friend and neighbour's doll. Submit felt
shocked and guilty, but she sat there paring the Baldwin apples, and
thinking to herself: "If our turkey is only bigger, if it only is,
then--I shall have Thankful." Her mouth was pursed up and her eyes
snapped. She did not talk at all, but pared very fast.
Her mother looked at her. "If you don't take care, you'll cut your
fingers," said she. "You are in too much of a hurry. I suppose you
want to get out and gossip with Sarah again at the wall, but I can't
let you waste any more time to-day. There, I told you you would!"
Submit had cut her thumb quite severely. She choked a little when her
mother tied it up, and put on some balm of Gilead, which made it smart
worse.
"Don't cry!" said her mother. "You'll have to bear more than a cut
thumb if you live."
[Illustration: "How much do you suppose our turkey weighs?"]
And Submit did not let the tears fall. She came from a brave race. Her
great-grandfather had fought in the Revolution; his sword and
regimentals were packed in the fine carved chest in the best room.
Over the kitchen shelf hung an old musket with which her
great-grandmother, guarding her home and children, had shot an Indian.
In a little closet beside the chimney was an old pewter dish full of
homemade Revolutionary bullets, which Submit and her brothers had for
playthings. A little girl who played with Revolutionary bullets ought
not to cry over a cut thumb.
Submit finished paring the apples after her thumb was tied up,
although she was rather awkward about it. Then she pounded spices in
the mortar, and picked over cranberries. Her mother kept her busy
every minute until dinnertime. When Submit's father and her two
brothers, Thomas and Jonas, had come in, she began on the subject
nearest her heart.
"Father," said she, "how much do you think our Thanksgiving turkey
will weigh?"
Mr. Thompson was a deliberate man. He looked at her a minute before
replying. "Seventeen or eighteen pounds," replied he.
"Oh, Father! don't you think he will weigh twenty?" Mr. Thompson shook
his head.
"He don't begin to weigh so much as the Adams' turkey," said Jonas.
"Their turkey weighs twenty pounds."
"Oh, Thomas! do you think their turkey weighs more than ours?" cried
Submit.
Thomas was her elder brother; he had a sober, judicial air like his
father. "Their turkey weighs considerable more than ours," said he.
Submit's face fell.
"You are not showing a right spirit," said her mother, severely. "Why
should you care if the Adams' turkey does weigh more? I am ashamed of
you!"
Submit said no more. She ate her dinner soberly. Afterward she wiped
dishes while her mother washed. All the time she was listening. Her
father and brothers had gone out; presently she started. "Oh, Mother,
they're killing the turkey!" said she.
"Well, don't stop while the dishes are hot, if they are," returned her
mother.
Submit wiped obediently, but as soon as the dishes were set away, she
stole out in the barn where her father and brothers were picking the
turkey.
"Father, when are you going to weigh him?" she asked timidly.
"Not till to-night," said her father.
"Submit!" called her mother.
Submit went in and swept the kitchen floor. It was an hour after that,
when her mother was in the south room, getting it ready for her
grandparents, who were coming home to Thanksgiving--they had been on a
visit to their youngest son--that Submit crept slyly into the pantry.
The turkey lay there on the broad shelf before the window. Submit
looked at him. She thought he was small. "He was 'most all feathers,"
she whispered, ruefully. She stood looking disconsolately at the
turkey. Suddenly her eyes flashed and a red flush came over her face.
It was as if Satan, coming into that godly new England home three
days before Thanksgiving, had whispered in her ear.