But there were really not many people passing, for it was Thanksgiving
Day, and the shops were shut, and everybody who had a home to go to
and a dinner to eat seemed to have gone home to eat that dinner, while
Bert Hampton, the newsboy, stood trying in vain to sell the last
"extry" left on his hands by the dull business of the morning.
An old man, with a face that looked pinched, and who was dressed in a
seedy black coat and a much-battered stovepipe hat, stopped at the
same doorway, and, with one hand on the latch, appeared to hesitate
between hunger and a sense of poverty before going in.
It was possible, however, that he was considering whether he could
afford himself the indulgence of a morning paper (seeing it was
Thanksgiving Day); so, at least, Bert thought, and accosted him
accordingly.
"Buy a paper, sir? All about the fire in East Boston, and arrest of
safe-burglars in Springfield. Only two cents!"
The little old man looked at the boy with keen gray eyes, which seemed
to light up the pinched and skinny face, and answered in a shrill
voice that whistled through white front teeth:
"You ought to come down in your price this time of day. You can't
expect to sell a morning paper at twelve o'clock for full price."
"Well, give me a cent then," said Bert. "That's less'n cost; but never
mind; I'm bound to sell out anyhow."
"You look cold," said the old man.
"Cold?" replied Bert; "I'm froze. And I want my dinner. And I'm going
to have a big dinner, too, seeing it's Thanksgiving Day."
"Ah! lucky for you, my boy!" said the old man. "You've a home to go
to, and friends, too, I hope?"
"No, _sir_; nary home, and nary friend; only my mother"--Bert
hesitated, and grew serious; then suddenly changed his tone--"and Hop
Houghton. I told him to meet me here, and we'd have a first-rate
Thanksgiving dinner together; for it's no fun to be eatin' alone
Thanksgiving Day! It sets a feller thinking of everything, if he ever
had a home and then hain't got a home any more."
"It's more lonesome not to eat at all," said the old man, his gray
eyes twinkling. "And what can a boy like you have to think of? Here, I
guess I can find one cent for you, though there's nothing in the
paper, I know."
The old man spoke with some feeling, his fingers trembled, and somehow
he dropped two cents instead of one into Bert's hand.
"Here! You've made a mistake!" cried Bert. "A bargain's a bargain.
You've given me a cent too much."
"No, I didn't. I never give anybody a cent too much."
"But, see here!" And Bert showed the two cents, offering to return
one.
"No matter," said the old man, "it will be so much less for _my_
dinner, that's all."
Bert had instinctively pocketed the pennies when, on a moment's
reflection, his sympathies were excited.
"Poor old man!" he thought; "he's seen better days I guess. Perhaps
he's no home. A boy like me can stand it, but I guess it must be hard
for _him_. He _meant_ to give me the odd cent all the while; and I
don't believe he has had a decent dinner for many a day."
All this, which I have been obliged to write out slowly in words, went
through Bert's mind like a flash. He was a generous little fellow, and
any kindness shown him, no matter how trifling, made his heart
overflow.
"Look here!" he cried, "where are _you_ going to get your dinner
to-day?"
"I can get a bite here as well as anywhere. It don't matter much to
me," replied the old man.
"Dine with _me_," said Bert, laughing. "I'd like to have you."
"I'm afraid I couldn't afford to dine as you are going to," said the
man, with a smile, his eyes twinkling again and his white front teeth
shining.
"I'll pay for your dinner!" Bert exclaimed. "Come! We don't have a
Thanksgiving but once a year, and a feller wants a good time then."
"But you are waiting for another boy."
"Oh, Hop Houghton! He won't come now, it's so late. He's gone to a
place down in North Street, I guess--a place I don't like: there's so
much tobacco smoked and so much beer drank there." Bert cast a final
glance up the street. "No, he won't come now. So much the worse for
him! He likes the men down there; I don't."
"Ah!" said the man, taking off his hat, and giving it a brush with his
elbow, as they entered the restaurant, as if trying to appear as
respectable as he could in the eyes of a newsboy of such fastidious
tastes.
To make him feel quite comfortable in his mind on that point, Bert
hastened to say:
"I mean rowdies, and such. Poor people, if they behave themselves, are
just as respectable to me as rich folks. I ain't the least mite
aristocratic."
"Ah, indeed!" And the old man smiled again, and seemed to look
relieved. "I'm very glad to hear it."
He placed his hat on the floor and took a seat opposite Bert at a
little table, which they had all to themselves.
Bert offered him the bill of fare.
"No, I must ask you to choose for me; but nothing very extravagant,
you know. I'm used to plain fare."
"So am I. But I'm going to have a good dinner for once in my life, and
so shall you!" cried Bert, generously. "What do you say to chicken
soup, and then wind up with a thumping big piece of squash pie? How's
that for a Thanksgiving dinner?"
"Sumptuous!" said the old man, appearing to glow with the warmth of
the room and the prospect of a good dinner. "But won't it cost you too
much?"
"Too much? No, _sir_!" laughed Bert. "Chicken soup, fifteen cents;
pie--they give tremendous pieces here; thick, I tell you--ten cents.
That's twenty-five cents; half a dollar for two. Of course, I don't do
this way every day in the year. But mother's glad to have me, once in
a while. Here, waiter!" And Bert gave his princely order as if it were
no very great thing for a liberal young fellow like him, after all.
"Where is your mother? Why don't you dine with her?" the little man
asked.
Bert's face grew sober in a moment.
"That's the question: why don't I? I'll tell you why I don't. I've got
the best mother in the world. What I'm trying to do is to make a home
for her, so we can live together and eat our Thanksgiving dinners
together some time. Some boys want one thing, some another. There's
one goes in for good times; another's in such a hurry to get rich he
don't care much how he does it; but what I want most of anything is to
be with my mother and my two sisters again, and I ain't ashamed to say
so."
Bert's eyes grew very tender, and he went on, while his companion
across the table watched him with a very gentle, searching look.
"I haven't been with her now for two years, hardly at all since father
died. When his business was settled up--he kept a little grocery store
on Hanover Street--it was found he hadn't left us anything. We had
lived pretty well up to that time, and I and my two sisters had been
to school; but then mother had to do something, and her friends got
her places to go out nursing, and she's a nurse now. Everybody likes
her, and she has enough to do. We couldn't be with her, of course. She
got us boarded at a good place, but I saw how hard it was going to be
for her to support us, so I said, 'I'm a boy; _I_ can do something for
_myself_. You just pay their board, and keep 'em to school, and I'll
go to work, and maybe help you a little, besides taking care of
myself.'"
"What could _you_ do?" said the little old man.
"That's it. I was only 'leven years old, and what could I? What I
should have liked would have been some nice place where I could do
light work, and stand a chance of learning a good business. But
beggars mustn't be choosers. I couldn't find such a place; and I
wasn't going to be loafing about the streets, so I went to selling
newspapers. I've sold newspapers ever since, and I shall be twelve
years old next month."
"You like it?" said the old man.
"I like to get my own living," replied Bert, proudly, "but what I want
is to learn some trade, or regular business, and settle down, and make
a home for--But there's no use talking about that. Make the best of
things, that's my motto. Don't this soup smell good? And don't it
taste good, too? They haven't put so much chicken in yours as they
have in mine. If you don't mind my having tasted it, we'll change."
The old man declined this liberal offer, took Bert's advice to help
himself freely to bread, which "didn't cost anything," and ate his
soup with prodigious relish, as it seemed to Bert, who grew more and
more hospitable and patronizing as the repast proceeded.
"Come, now, won't you have something between the soup and the pie?
Don't be afraid: I'll pay for it. Thanksgiving don't come but once a
year. You won't? A cup of tea, then, to go with your pie?"
"I think I _will_ have a cup of tea; you are _so_ kind," said the old
man.
"All right! Here, waiter! Two pieces of your fattest and biggest
squash pie; and a cup of tea, strong, for this gentleman."
"I've told you about myself," added Bert; "suppose, now, _you_ tell
_me_ something."
"About myself?"
"Yes. I think that would go pretty well with the pie."
But the man shook his head. "I could go back and tell about my plans
and hopes when I was a lad of your age, but it would be too much like
your own story over again. Life isn't what we think it will be when we
are young. You'll find that out soon enough. I am all alone in the
world now, and I am sixty-seven years old."
"Have some cheese with your pie, won't you? It must be so lonely at
your age! What do you do for a living?"
"I have a little place in Devonshire Street. My name is Crooker.
You'll find me up two flights of stairs, back room, at the right. Come
and see me, and I'll tell you all about my business, and perhaps help
you to such a place as you want, for I know several business men. Now
don't fail."
And Mr. Crooker wrote his address with a little stub of a pencil on a
corner of the newspaper which had led to their acquaintance, tore it
off carefully, and gave it to Bert.
Thereupon the latter took a card from his pocket, not a very clean
one, I must say (I am speaking of the card, though the remark will
apply equally well to the pocket) and handed it across the table to
his new friend.
"_Herbert Hampton, Dealer in Newspapers_," the old man read, with his
sharp gray eyes, which glanced up funnily at Bert, seeming to say,
"Isn't this rather aristocratic for a twelve-year-old newsboy?"
Bert blushed, and explained: "Got up for me by a printer's boy I know.
I'd done some favours for him, so he made me a few cards. Handy to
have sometimes, you know."
"Well, Herbert," said the little old man, "I'm glad to have made your
acquaintance. The pie was excellent--not any more, thank you--and I
hope you'll come and see me. You'll find me in very humble quarters;
but you are not aristocratic, you say. Now won't you let me pay for my
dinner? I believe I have money enough. Let me see."
Bert would not hear of such a thing, but walked up to the desk and
settled the bill with the air of a person who did not regard a
trifling expense.
When he looked around again the little old man was gone.
"Never mind, I'll go and see him the first chance I have," said Bert,
as he looked at the pencilled strip of newspaper margin again before
putting it into his pocket.
He then went round to his miserable quarters, in the top of a cheap
lodging-house, where he made himself ready, by means of soap and water
and a broken comb, to walk five miles into the suburbs and get a
sight, if only for five minutes, of his mother.
On the following Monday Bert, having a leisure hour, went to call on
his new acquaintance in Devonshire Street.
Having climbed the two flights, he found the door of the back room at
the right ajar, and looking in, saw Mr. Crooker at a desk, in the act
of receiving a roll of money from a well-dressed visitor.
Bert entered unnoticed and waited till the money was counted and a
receipt signed. Then, as the visitor departed, old Mr. Crooker looked
round and saw Bert. He offered him a chair, then turned to lock up the
money in a safe.
"So this is your place of business?" said Bert, glancing about the
plain office room. "What do you do here?"
"I buy real estate sometimes--sell--rent--and so forth."
"Who for?" asked Bert.
"For myself," said little old Mr. Crooker, with a smile.
Bert stared, perfectly aghast at the situation. This, then, was the
man whom he had invited to dinner, and treated so patronizingly the
preceding Thursday!
"I--I thought--you was a poor man."
"I _am_ a poor man," said Mr. Crooker, locking his safe. "Money
doesn't make a man rich. I've money enough. I own houses in the city.
They give me something to think of, and so keep me alive. I had truer
riches once, but I lost them long ago."
From the way the old man's voice trembled and eyes glistened, Bert
thought he must have meant by these riches friends he had lost--wife
and children, perhaps.
"To think of _me_ inviting _you_ to dinner!" the boy cried, abashed
and ashamed.
"It _was_ odd." And Mr. Crooker showed his white front teeth with a
smile. "But it may turn out to have been a lucky circumstance for both
of us. I like you; I believe in you; and I've an offer to make to you:
I want a trusty, bright boy in this office, somebody I can bring up to
my business, and leave it with, as I get too old to attend to it
myself. What do you say?"
What _could_ Bert say?
Again that afternoon he walked--or rather, ran--to his mother, and
after consulting with her, joyfully accepted Mr. Crooker's offer.
Interviews between his mother and his employer soon followed,
resulting in something for which at first the boy had not dared to
hope. The lonely, childless old man, who owned so many houses, wanted
a home; and one of these houses he offered to Mrs. Hampton, with ample
support for herself and her children, if she would also make it a home
for him.
Of course this proposition was accepted; and Bert soon had the
satisfaction of seeing the great ambition of his youth accomplished.
He had employment which promised to become a profitable business (as
indeed it did in a few years, he and the old man proved so useful to
each other); and, more than that, he was united once more with his
mother and sisters in a happy home where he has since had a good many
Thanksgiving dinners.
A THANKSGIVING STORY[15]
BY MISS L. B. PINGREE.
A three-minute story for the littlest boys and girls.
It was nearly time for Thanksgiving Day. The rosy apples and golden
pumpkins were ripe, and the farmers were bringing them into the
markets.
[Footnote 15: From "Boston Collection of Kindergarten Stories," J. L.
Hammett Company.]
One day when two little children, named John and Minnie, were going to
school, they saw the turkeys and chickens and pumpkins in the window
of a market, and they exclaimed, "Oh, Thanksgiving Day! Oh,
Thanksgiving Day!" After school was over, they ran home to their
mother, and asked her when Thanksgiving Day would be. She told them in
about two weeks; then they began to talk about what they wanted for
dinner, and asked their mother a great many questions. She told them
she hoped they would have turkey and even the pumpkin pie they wanted
so much, but that Thanksgiving Day was not given us so that we might
have a good dinner, but that God had been a great many days and weeks
preparing for Thanksgiving. He had sent the sunshine and the rain and
caused the grains and fruits and vegetables to grow. And Thanksgiving
Day was for glad and happy thoughts about God, as well as for good
things to eat.
Not long after, when John and Minnie were playing, John said to
Minnie, "I wish I could do something to tell God how glad I am about
Thanksgiving." "I wish so, too," said Minnie. Just then some little
birds came flying down to the ground, and Minnie said: "Oh, I know."
Then she told John, but they agreed to keep it a secret till the day
came. Now what do you think they did? Well, I will tell you.
They saved their pennies, and bought some corn, and early Thanksgiving
Day, before they had their dinner, they went out into the street near
their home, and scattered corn in a great many places. What for? Why,
for the birds. While they were doing it, John said, "I know, Minnie,
why you thought of the birds: because they do not have any papas and
mammas after they are grown up to get a dinner for them on
Thanksgiving Day." "Yes, that is why," said Minnie.
By and by the birds came and found such a feast, and perhaps they knew
something about Thanksgiving Day and must have sung and chirped
happily all day.
JOHN INGLEFIELD'S THANKSGIVING
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
A sad Thanksgiving story is a rarity indeed. But the one
which follows reminds us that the Puritans, although they
originated our Thanksgiving festival, were after all a
sombre people, seldom free from a realizing sense of the
imminence of sin. Nathaniel Hawthorne, a genuine product of
Puritanism, inherited a full share of his forefathers'
constitutional melancholy and preoccupation with the darker
aspects of life--as this story bears witness.
On the evening of Thanksgiving Day, John Inglefield, the blacksmith,
sat in his elbow-chair among those who had been keeping festival at
his board. Being the central figure of the domestic circle, the fire
threw its strongest light on his massive and sturdy frame, reddening
his rough visage so that it looked like the head of an iron statue,
all aglow, from his own forge, and with its features rudely fashioned
on his own anvil. At John Inglefield's right hand was an empty chair.
The other places round the hearth were filled by the members of the
family, who all sat quietly, while, with a semblance of fantastic
merriment, their shadows danced on the wall behind them. One of the
group was John Inglefield's son, who had been bred at college, and was
now a student of theology at Andover. There was also a daughter of
sixteen, whom nobody could look at without thinking of a rosebud
almost blossomed. The only other person at the fireside was Robert
Moore, formerly an apprentice of the blacksmith, but now his
journeyman, and who seemed more like an own son of John Inglefield
than did the pale and slender student.
Only these four had kept New England's festival beneath that roof. The
vacant chair at John Inglefield's right hand was in memory of his
wife, whom death had snatched from him since the previous
Thanksgiving. With a feeling that few would have looked for in his
rough nature, the bereaved husband had himself set the chair in its
place next his own; and often did his eye glance hitherward, as if he
deemed it possible that the cold grave might send back its tenant to
the cheerful fireside, at least for that one evening. Thus did he
cherish the grief that was dear to him. But there was another grief
which he would fain have torn from his heart; or, since that could
never be, have buried it too deep for others to behold, or for his own
remembrance. Within the past year another member of his household had
gone from him, but not to the grave. Yet they kept no vacant chair for
her.
While John Inglefield and his family were sitting round the hearth
with the shadows dancing behind them on the wall, the outer door was
opened, and a light footstep came along the passage. The latch of the
inner door was lifted by some familiar hand, and a young girl came in,
wearing a cloak and hood, which she took off and laid on the table
beneath the looking-glass. Then, after gazing a moment at the fireside
circle, she approached, and took the seat at John Inglefield's right
hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her.
"Here I am, at last, father," said she. "You ate your Thanksgiving
dinner without me, but I have come back to spend the evening with
you."
Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield. She wore the same neat and maidenly
attire which she had been accustomed to put on when the household work
was over for the day, and her hair was parted from her brow in the
simple and modest fashion that became her best of all. If her cheek
might otherwise have been pale, yet the glow of the fire suffused it
with a healthful bloom. If she had spent the many months of her
absence in guilt and infamy, yet they seemed to have left no traces on
her gentle aspect. She could not have looked less altered had she
merely stepped away from her father's fireside for half an hour, and
returned while the blaze was quivering upward from the same brands
that were burning at her departure. And to John Inglefield she was the
very image of his buried wife, such as he remembered on the first
Thanksgiving which they had passed under their own roof. Therefore,
though naturally a stern and rugged man, he could not speak unkindly
to his sinful child, nor yet could he take her to his bosom.
"You are welcome home, Prudence," said he, glancing sideways at her,
and his voice faltered. "Your mother would have rejoiced to see you,
but she has been gone from us these four months."
"I know, father, I know it," replied Prudence quickly. "And yet, when
I first came in, my eyes were so dazzled by the firelight that she
seemed to be sitting in this very chair!"
By this time, the other members of the family had begun to recover
from their surprise, and became sensible that it was no ghost from the
grave, nor vision of their vivid recollections, but Prudence, her own
self. Her brother was the next that greeted her. He advanced and held
out his hand affectionately, as a brother should; yet not entirely
like a brother, for, with all his kindness, he was still a clergyman
and speaking to a child of sin.
"Sister Prudence," said he, earnestly, "I rejoice that a merciful
Providence hath turned your steps homeward in time for me to bid you a
last farewell. In a few weeks, sister, I am to sail as a missionary to
the far islands of the Pacific. There is not one of these beloved
faces that I shall ever hope to behold again on this earth. Oh, may I
see all of them--yours and all--beyond the grave!"
A shadow flitted across the girl's countenance.
"The grave is very dark, brother," answered she, withdrawing her hand
somewhat hastily from his grasp. "You must look your last at me by the
light of this fire."
While this was passing, the twin girl--the rosebud that had grown on
the same stem with the castaway--stood gazing at her sister, longing
to fling herself upon her bosom, so that the tendrils of their hearts
might intertwine again. At first she was restrained by mingled grief
and shame, and by a dread that Prudence was too much changed to
respond to her affection, or that her own purity would be felt as a
reproach by the lost one. But, as she listened to the familiar voice,
while the face grew more and more familiar, she forgot everything save
that Prudence had come back. Springing forward she would have clasped
her in a close embrace. At that very instant, however, Prudence
started from her chair and held out both her hands with a warning
gesture.
"No, Mary, no, my sister," cried she, "do not you touch me! Your bosom
must not be pressed to mine!"
Mary shuddered and stood still, for she felt that something darker
than the grave was between Prudence and herself, though they seemed so
near each other in the light of their father's hearth, where they had
grown up together. Meanwhile Prudence threw her eyes around the room
in search of one who had not yet bidden her welcome. He had withdrawn
from his seat by the fireside and was standing near the door, with his
face averted so that his features could be discerned only by the
flickering shadow of the profile upon the wall. But Prudence called to
him in a cheerful and kindly tone:
"Come, Robert," said she, "won't you shake hands with your old
friend?"
Robert Moore held back for a moment, but affection struggled
powerfully and overcame his pride and resentment; he rushed toward
Prudence, seized her hand, and pressed it to his bosom.
"There, there, Robert," said she, smiling sadly, as she withdrew her
hand, "you must not give me too warm a welcome."