complained that never before had he spent such a weary, lonesome day
as this Thanksgiving Day had been. Having finished this letter, he sat
for a long time gazing idly into the open fire that snapped cinders
all over the hearthstone and sent its red forks dancing up the chimney
to join the winds that frolicked and gambolled across the Kansas
prairies that raw November night. It had rained hard all day, and was
cold; and although the open fire made every honest effort to be
cheerful, Ezra, as he sat in front of it in the wooden rocker and
looked down into the glowing embers, experienced a dreadful feeling of
loneliness and homesickness.
[Footnote 21: From "A Little Book of Profitable Tales," copyright,
1889, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.]
"I'm sick o' Kansas," said Ezra to himself. "Here I've been in this
plaguey country for goin' on a year, and--yes, I'm sick of it,
powerful sick of it. What a miser'ble Thanksgivin' this has been!
They don't know what Thanksgivin' is out this way. I wish I was back
in ol' Mass'chusetts--that's the country for _me_, and they hev the
kind o' Thanksgivin' I like!"
Musing in this strain, while the rain went patter-patter on the
windowpanes, Ezra saw a strange sight in the fireplace--yes, right
among the embers and the crackling flames Ezra saw a strange,
beautiful picture unfold and spread itself out like a panorama.
"How very wonderful!" murmured the young man. Yet he did not take his
eyes away, for the picture soothed him and he loved to look upon it.
"It is a pictur' of long ago," said Ezra softly. "I had like to forgot
it, but now it comes back to me as nat'ral-like as an ol' friend. An'
I seem to be a part of it, an' the feelin' of that time comes back
with the pictur', too."
Ezra did not stir. His head rested upon his hand, and his eyes were
fixed upon the shadows in the firelight.
"It is a pictur' of the ol' home," said Ezra to himself. "I am back
there in Belchertown, with the Holyoke hills up north an' the
Berkshire Mountains a-loomin' up gray an' misty-like in the western
horizon. Seems as if it wuz early mornin'; everything is still, and it
is so cold when we boys crawl out o' bed that, if it wuzn't
Thanksgivin' mornin', we'd crawl back again an' wait for Mother to
call us. But it _is_ Thanksgivin' mornin', and we're goin' skatin'
down on the pond. The squealin' o' the pigs has told us it is five
o'clock, and we must hurry; we're goin' to call by for the Dickerson
boys an' Hiram Peabody, an' we've got to hyper! Brother Amos gets on
about half o' my clothes, and I get on 'bout half o' his, but it's all
the same; they are stout, warm clo'es, and they're big enough to fit
any of us boys--Mother looked out for that when she made 'em. When we
go downstairs, we find the girls there, all bundled up nice an'
warm--Mary an' Helen an' Cousin Irene. They're going with us, an' we
all start out tiptoe and quiet-like so's not to wake up the ol' folks.
The ground is frozen hard; we stub our toes on the frozen ruts in the
road. When we come to the minister's house, Laura is standin' on the
front stoop a-waitin' for us. Laura is the minister's daughter. She's
a friend o' Sister Helen's--pretty as a dagerr'otype, an' gentle-like
and tender. Laura lets me carry her skates, an' I'm glad of it,
although I have my hands full already with the lantern, the hockies,
and the rest. Hiram Peabody keeps us waitin', for he has overslept
himself, an' when he comes trottin' out at last the girls make fun of
him--all except Sister Mary, an' she sort o' sticks up for Hiram, an'
we're all so 'cute we kind o' calc'late we know the reason why.
"And now," said Ezra softly, "the pictur' changes: seems as if I could
see the pond. The ice is like a black lookin'-glass, and Hiram Peabody
slips up the first thing, an' down he comes, lickety-split, an' we all
laugh--except Sister Mary, an' _she_ says it is very imp'lite to
laugh at other folks' misfortunes. Ough! how cold it is, and how my
fingers ache with the frost when I take off my mittens to strap on
Laura's skates! But, oh, how my cheeks burn! And how careful I am not
to hurt Laura, an' how I ask her if that's 'tight enough,' an' how she
tells me 'jist a little tighter' and how we two keep foolin' along
till the others hev gone an' we are left alone! An' how quick I get my
_own_ skates strapped on--none o' your new-fangled skates with springs
an' plates an' clamps an' such, but honest, ol'-fashioned wooden ones
with steel runners that curl up over my toes an' have a bright brass
button on the end! How I strap 'em and lash 'em and buckle 'em on! An'
Laura waits for me an' tells me to be sure to get 'em on tight
enough--why, bless me! after I once got 'em strapped on, if them
skates hed come off, the feet wud ha' come with 'em! An' now away we
go--Laura and me. Around the bend--near the medder where Si Barker's
dog killed a woodchuck last summer--we meet the rest. We forget all
about the cold. We run races an' play snap the whip, an' cut all sorts
o' didoes, an' we never mind the pick'rel weed that is froze in on the
ice an' trips us up every time we cut the outside edge; an' then we
boys jump over the air holes, an' the girls stan' by an' scream an'
tell us they know we're agoin' to drownd ourselves. So the hours go,
an' it is sun-up at last, an' Sister Helen says we must be gettin'
home. When we take our skates off, our feet feel as if they were wood.
Laura has lost her tippet; I lend her mine, and she kind o' blushes.
The old pond seems glad to have us go, and the fire-hangbird's nest
in the willer tree waves us good-bye. Laura promises to come over to
our house in the evenin', and so we break up.
"Seems now," continued Ezra musingly, "seems now as if I could see us
all at breakfast. The race on the pond has made us hungry, and Mother
says she never knew anybody else's boys that had such capac'ties as
hers. It is the Yankee Thanksgivin' breakfast--sausages an' fried
potatoes, an' buckwheat cakes, an' syrup--maple syrup, mind ye, for
Father has his own sugar bush, and there was a big run o' sap last
season. Mother says, 'Ezry an' Amos, won't you never get through
eatin'? We want to clear off the table, fer there's pies to make, and
nuts to crack, and laws sakes alive! The turkey's got to be stuffed
yet!' Then how we all fly around! Mother sends Helen up into the attic
to get a squash while Mary's makin' the pie crust. Amos an' I crack
the walnuts--they call 'em hickory nuts out in this pesky country of
sagebrush and pasture land. The walnuts are hard, and it's all we can
do to crack 'em. Ev'ry once'n a while one on 'em slips outer our
fingers and goes dancin' over the floor or flies into the pan Helen is
squeezin' pumpkin into through the col'nder. Helen says we're
shif'less an' good for nothin' but frivolin'; but Mother tells us how
to crack the walnuts so's not to let 'em fly all over the room, an'
so's not to be all jammed to pieces like the walnuts was down at the
party at the Peasleys' last winter. An' now here comes Tryphena
Foster, with her gingham gown an' muslin apron on; her folks have gone
up to Amherst for Thanksgivin', an' Tryphena has come over to help our
folks get dinner. She thinks a great deal o' Mother, 'cause Mother
teaches her Sunday-school class an' says Tryphena oughter marry a
missionary. There is bustle everywhere, the rattle uv pans an' the
clatter of dishes; an' the new kitchen stove begins to warm up an' git
red, till Helen loses her wits and is flustered, an' sez she never
could git the hang o' that stove's dampers.
"An' now," murmured Ezra gently, as a tone of deeper reverence crept
into his voice, "I can see Father sittin' all by himself in the
parlour. Father's hair is very gray, and there are wrinkles on his
honest old face. He is lookin' through the winder at the Holyoke hills
over yonder, and I can guess he's thinkin' of the time when he wuz a
boy like me an' Amos, an' uster climb over them hills an' kill
rattlesnakes an' hunt partridges. Or doesn't his eyes quite reach the
Holyoke hills? Do they fall kind o' lovingly but sadly on the little
buryin' ground jest beyond the village? Ah, Father knows that spot,
an' he loves it, too, for there are treasures there whose memory he
wouldn't swap for all the world could give. So, while there is a kind
o' mist in Father's eyes, I can see he is dreamin'-like of sweet an'
tender things, and a-communin' with memory--hearin' voices I never
heard, an' feelin' the tech of hands I never pressed; an' seein'
Father's peaceful face I find it hard to think of a Thanksgivin'
sweeter than Father's is.
"The pictur' in the firelight changes now," said Ezra, "an' seems as
if I wuz in the old frame meetin'-house. The meetin'-house is on the
hill, and meetin' begins at half-pas' ten. Our pew is well up in
front--seems as if I could see it now. It has a long red cushion on
the seat, and in the hymn-book rack there is a Bible an' a couple of
Psalmodies. We walk up the aisle slow, and Mother goes in first; then
comes Mary, then me, then Helen, then Amos, and then Father. Father
thinks it is jest as well to have one o' the girls set in between me
an' Amos. The meetin'-house is full, for everybody goes to meetin'
Thanksgivin' Day. The minister reads the proclamation an' makes a
prayer, an' then he gives out a psalm, an' we all stan' up an' turn
'round an' join the choir. Sam Merritt has come up from Palmer to
spend Thanksgivin' with the ol' folks, an' he is singin' tenor to-day
in his ol' place in the choir. Some folks say he sings wonderful well,
but _I_ don't like Sam's voice. Laura sings soprano in the choir, and
Sam stands next to her an' holds the book.
"Seems as if I could hear the minister's voice, full of earnestness
an' melody, comin' from way up in his little round pulpit. He is
tellin' us why we should be thankful, an', as he quotes Scriptur' an'
Dr. Watts, we boys wonder how anybody can remember so much of the
Bible. Then I get nervous and worried. Seems to me the minister was
never comin' to lastly, and I find myself wonderin' whether Laura is
listenin' to what the preachin' is about, or is writin' notes to Sam
Merritt in the back of the tune book. I get thirsty, too, and I
fidget about till Father looks at me, and Mother nudges Helen, and
Helen passes it along to me with interest.
"An' then," continues Ezra in his revery, "when the last hymn is given
out an' we stan' up agin an' join the choir, I am glad to see that
Laura is singin' outer the book with Miss Hubbard, the alto. An' goin'
out o' meetin' I kind of edge up to Laura and ask her if I kin have
the pleasure of seein' her home.
"An' now we boys all go out on the Common to play ball. The Enfield
boys have come over, and, as all the Hampshire county folks know, they
are tough fellers to beat. Gorham Polly keeps tally, because he has
got the newest jackknife--oh, how slick it whittles the old broom
handle Gorham picked up in Packard's store an' brought along jest to
keep tally on! It is a great game of ball; the bats are broad and
light, and the ball is small and soft. But the Enfield boys beat us at
last; leastwise they make 70 tallies to our 58, when Heman Fitts
knocks the ball over into Aunt Dorcas Eastman's yard, and Aunt Dorcas
comes out an' picks up the ball an' takes it into the house, an' we
have to stop playin'. Then Phineas Owen allows he can flop any boy in
Belchertown, an' Moses Baker takes him up, an' they wrassle like two
tartars, till at last Moses tuckers Phineas out an' downs him as slick
as a whistle.
"Then we all go home, for Thanksgivin' dinner is ready. Two long
tables have been made into one, and one of the big tablecloths Gran'ma
had when she set up housekeepin' is spread over 'em both. We all set
round--Father, Mother, Aunt Lydia Holbrook, Uncle Jason, Mary, Helen,
Tryphena Foster, Amos, and me. How big an' brown the turkey is, and
how good it smells! There are bounteous dishes of mashed potato,
turnip, an' squash, and the celery is very white and cold, the
biscuits are light and hot, and the stewed cranberries are red as
Laura's cheeks. Amos and I get the drumsticks; Mary wants the wishbone
to put over the door for Hiram, but Helen gets it. Poor Mary, she
always _did_ have to give up to 'rushin' Helen,' as we call her. The
pies--oh, what pies Mother makes; no dyspepsia in 'em, but good nature
an' good health an' hospitality! Pumpkin pies, mince, an' apple, too,
and then a big dish of pippins an' russets an' bellflowers, an', last
of all, walnuts with cider from the Zebrina Dickerson farm! I tell ye,
there's a Thanksgivin' dinner for ye! that's what we get in old
Belchertown; an' that's the kind of livin' that makes the Yankees so
all-fired good an' smart.
"But the best of all," said Ezra very softly to himself, "oh, yes, the
best scene in all the pictur' is when evenin' comes, when all the
lamps are lit in the parlour, when the neighbours come in, and when
there is music and singing an' games. An' it's this part o' the
pictur' that makes me homesick now and fills my heart with a longin' I
never had before; an' yet it sort o' mellows and comforts me, too.
Miss Serena Cadwell, whose beau was killed in the war, plays on the
melodeon, and we all sing--all on us: men, womenfolks, an' children.
Sam Merritt is there, and he sings a tenor song about love. The women
sort of whisper round that he's goin' to be married to a Palmer lady
nex' spring, an' I think to myself I never heard better singin' than
Sam's. Then we play games--proverbs, buzz, clap-in-clap-out,
copenhagen, fox-an'-geese, button-button-who's-got-the-button,
spin-the-platter, go-to-Jerusalem, my-ship's-come-in; and all the
rest. The ol' folks play with the young folks just as nat'ral as can
be; and we all laugh when Deacon Hosea Cowles hez to measure six yards
of love ribbon with Miss Hepsey Newton, and cut each yard with a kiss;
for the deacon hez been sort o' purrin' round Miss Hepsey for goin' on
two years. Then, aft'r a while, when Mary and Helen bring in the
cookies, nutcakes, cider, an' apples, Mother says: 'I don't believe
we're goin' to hev enough apples to go round; Ezry, I guess I'll have
to get you to go down cellar for some more.' Then I says: 'All right,
Mother, I'll go, providin' some one 'll go along an' hold the candle.'
An' when I say this I look right at Laura, an' she blushes. Then
Helen, jest for meanness, says: 'Ezry, I s'pose you ain't willin' to
have your fav'rite sister go down cellar with you and catch her death
o' cold?' But Mary, who hez been showin' Hiram Peabody the phot'graph
album for more'n an hour, comes to the rescue an' makes Laura take the
candle, and she shows Laura how to hold it so it won't go out.
"The cellar is warm an' dark. There are cobwebs all between the
rafters an' everywhere else except on the shelves where Mother keeps
the butter an' eggs an' other things that would freeze in the butt'ry
upstairs. The apples are in bar'ls up against the wall, near the
potater bin. How fresh an' sweet they smell! Laura thinks she sees a
mouse, an' she trembles an' wants to jump up on the pork bar'l, but I
tell her that there shan't no mouse hurt her while I'm around; and I
mean it, too, for the sight of Laura a-tremblin' makes me as strong as
one of Father's steers. 'What kind of apples do you like best, Ezry?'
asks Laura, 'russets or greenin's or crow-eggs or bellflowers or
Baldwins or pippins?' 'I like the Baldwins best,' says I, ''coz they
got red cheeks just like yours.' 'Why, Ezry Thompson! how you talk!'
says Laura. 'You oughter be ashamed of yourself!' But when I get the
dish filled up with apples there ain't a Baldwin in all the lot that
can compare with the bright red of Laura's cheeks. An' Laura knows it,
too, an' she sees the mouse again, an' screams, and then the candle
goes out, and we are in a dreadful stew. But I, bein' almost a man,
contrive to bear up under it, and knowin' she is an orph'n, I comfort
an' encourage Laura the best I know how, and we are almost upstairs
when Mother comes to the door and wants to know what has kep' us so
long. Jest as if Mother doesn't know! Of course she does; an' when
Mother kisses Laura good-bye that night there is in the act a
tenderness that speaks more sweetly than even Mother's words.
"It is so like Mother," mused Ezra; "so like her with her gentleness
an' clingin' love. Hers is the sweetest picture of all, and hers the
best love."
Dream on, Ezra; dream of the old home with its dear ones, its holy
influences, and its precious inspiration!--Mother. Dream on in the
faraway firelight; and as the angel hand of memory unfolds these
sacred visions, with thee and them shall abide, like a Divine
Comforter, the spirit of Thanksgiving.
CHIP'S THANKSGIVING[22]
BY ANNIE HAMILTON DONNELL.
Chip had plenty of nuts on Thanksgiving Day. The little lady
called Heart's Delight saw to that. Can you guess who Chip
was?
They had got "way through," as Terry said, to the nuts. It had been a
beautiful Thanksgiving dinner "so far." Grandmother's sweet face
beamed down the length of the great table, over all the little crinkly
grandheads, at grandfather's face. Everybody felt very thankful.
[Footnote 22: From the _Youth's Companion_, November 26, 1903.]
"I wish all the children this side o' the north pole had had some
turkey, too, and squash and cram'bry--and things," said Silence
quietly. Silence was always wishing beautiful things like that.
"An' some nuts," added Terry, setting his small white teeth into the
meat of a big fat walnut. "It wouldn't seem Thanksgivingy 'thout
nuts."
"I know somebody who would be thankful with just nuts," smiled
grandfather. "Indeed, I think he'd rather have them for all the
courses of his Thanksgiving dinner!"
"Just nuts! No turkey, nor puddin', nor anything?"
The crinkly grandheads all bobbed up from their plates and
nut-pickers in amazement. Just nuts!
"Yes. Guess who he is?" Grandfather's laughing eyes twinkled up the
long table at grandmother.
"I'll give you three guesses apiece, beginning with Heart's Delight.
Guess number one, Heart's Delight."
"Chip," gravely. Heart's Delight had guessed it the very first guess.
"Chip!" laughed all the little grand girls and boys. Why, of course!
Chip! He would rather have just nuts for Thanksgiving dinner!
"I wish he had some o' mine!" cried Silence.
"An' mine!" cried Terry; and all the others wished he had some of
theirs. What a Thanksgiving dinner little Chip would have had!
"He's got plenty, thank you." It was the shy little voice of Heart's
Delight. A soft pink colour had come into her round cheeks. Everybody
looked at her inquiringly, for how did Heart's Delight know Chip had
plenty of nuts? Then Terry remembered something.
"Oh, that's where her nuts went to!" he cried. "Heart's Delight gave
'em to Chip! We couldn't think what she'd done with 'em all."
The pink colour was growing pinker--very pink indeed.
"Yes, that's where," said Silence, leaning over to squeeze one of
Heart's Delight's little hands. And sure enough, it was. In the
beautiful nut month of October, when the children went after their
winter's supply of nuts, little Heart's Delight had left all her
little rounded heap just where bright-eyed, nut-loving squirrel Chip
would be sure to find them and hurry them away to his winter hole. And
Chip had found them, she was sure, for not one was left when she went
back to see, the next day.
"Why, maybe this very minute--right now--Chip's cracking his
Thanksgiving dinner!" Terry laughed.
"Same as we are! Maybe he's got to the nut cour--oh, they're all nut
courses! But maybe he's sittin' up to his table with the rest of the
folks, thanksgiving to Heart's Delight," Silence said.
Heart's Delight's little shy face nearly hid itself over her plate.
This was dreadful! It was necessary to change the subject at once, and
a dear little thought came to her aid.
"But I'm afraid he hasn't got any gran'father and gran'mother to his
Thanksgiving," she said softly. "I shouldn't think anybody could
thanksgive 'thout a gran'mother and gran'father."
THE MASTER OF THE HARVEST[23]
BY MRS. ALFRED GATTY.
A good old-fashioned story for the older boys and girls to
read on the Sunday before Thanksgiving Day.
The Master of the Harvest walked by the side of his cornfields in the
early year, and a cloud was over his face, for there had been no rain
for several weeks, and the earth was hard from the parching of the
cold east winds, and the young wheat had not been able to spring up.
[Footnote 23: From "Parables from Nature."]
So, as he looked over the long ridges that lay stretched in rows
before him, he was vexed, and began to grumble, and say, "The harvest
would be backward, and all things would go wrong." At the mere thought
of which he frowned more and more, and uttered words of complaint
against the heavens, because there was no rain; against the earth,
because it was so dry and unyielding; against the corn, because it had
not sprung up.
And the man's discontent was whispered all over the field, and all
along the long ridges where the corn seeds lay; and when it reached
them they murmured out, "How cruel to complain! Are we not doing our
best? Have we let one drop of moisture pass by unused, one moment of
warmth come to us in vain? Have we not seized on every chance, and
striven every day to be ready for the hour of breaking forth? Are we
idle? Are we obstinate? Are we indifferent? Shall we not be found
waiting and watching? How cruel to complain!"
Of all this, however, the Master of the Harvest heard nothing, so the
gloom did not pass away from his face. On the contrary, he took it
with him into his comfortable home, and repeated to his wife the dark
words that all things were going wrong; that the drought would ruin
the harvest, for the corn was not yet sprung.
And still thinking thus, he laid his head on his pillow, and presently
fell asleep.
But his wife sat up for a while by the bedside, and opened her Bible,
and read, "The harvest is the end of the world, and the reapers are
the angels."
Then she wrote this text in pencil on the flyleaf at the end of the
book, and after it the date of the day, and after the date the words,
"Lord, the husbandman, Thou waitest for the precious fruit Thou hast
sown, and hast long patience for it! Amen, O Lord, Amen!"
After which the good woman knelt down to pray, and as she prayed she
wept, for she knew that she was very ill.
But what she prayed that night was heard only in heaven.
And so a few days passed on as before, and the house was gloomy with
the discontent of its master; but at last one evening the wind
changed, the sky became heavy with clouds, and before midnight there
was rain all over the land; and when the Master of the Harvest came in
next morning, wet from his early walk by the cornfields, he said it
was well it had come at last, and that, at last, the corn had sprung
up.
On which his wife looked at him with a smile, and said, "How often
things came right, about which one had been anxious and disturbed." To
which her husband made no answer, but turned away and spoke of
something else.
Meantime, the corn seeds had been found ready and waiting when the
hour came, and the young sprouts burst out at once; and very soon all
along the long ridges were to be seen rows of tender blades, tinting
the whole field with a delicate green. And day by day the Master of
the Harvest saw them and was satisfied; but because he was satisfied,
and his anxiety was gone, he spoke of other things, and forgot to
rejoice.
And a murmur arose among them: "Should not the Master have welcomed us
to life? He was angry but lately, because the seed he had sown had not
yet brought forth; now that it has brought forth, why is he not glad?
What more does he want? Have we not done our best? Are we not doing it
minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day? From the morning and
evening dews, from the glow of the midday sun, from the juices of the
earth, from the breezes which freshen the air, even from clouds and
rain, are we not taking in food and strength, warmth and life,
refreshment and joy; so that one day the valleys may laugh and sing,
because the good seed hath brought forth abundantly? Why does he not
rejoice?"
As before, however, of all they said the Master of the Harvest heard
nothing; and it never struck him to think of the young corn blades'
struggling life. Nay, once, when his wife asked him if the wheat was
doing well, he answered, "Very fairly," and nothing more. But she
then, because the evening was fine and the fairer weather had revived
her failing powers, said she would walk out by the cornfields herself.
And so it came to pass that they went out together. And together they
looked all along the long green ridges of wheat, and watched the
blades as they quivered and glistened in the breeze which sprang up
with the setting sun. Together they walked, together they looked;
looking at the same things and with the same human eyes; even as they
had walked, and looked, and lived together for years, but with a world
dividing their hearts; and what was ever to unite them?