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