Grandpa Davis to visit again the old hunting-ground which had been so
dear to him in bygone days, which was so rich in hallowed memories. It
seemed almost a desecration of the happy past to hunt there now alone.
The first cold streaks of dawn were just stealing into the sky the
next morning when, accoutred with shot-pouch, powder-flask, and his
old double-barrelled gun, Grandpa Davis made his way toward the
branch. A medley of bird notes filled the air, long streamers of gray
moss floated out from the swaying trees, and showers of autumn leaves
fluttered down to earth. Some of the cows were grazing outside the
pen, up to their hocks in lush, fresh grass, while others lay on the
ground contentedly chewing their cuds. All of them raised their heads
and looked at him as he passed them by.
How like old times it was to be up at daybreak for a hunt! The long
years seemed suddenly to have rolled away, leaving him once more a
boy. He almost wondered why Dick had not whistled to him as he used to
do. Dick was an early riser, and somehow always got ready before he
did.
There was an alertness in the old man's face and a spring in his step
as he lived over in thought the joyous days of his childhood. The
clouds were flushed with pink when he came in sight of the big water
oak on the margin of the stream, and recollected how he and Dick had
loved to go swimming in the deep, clear water beneath its shade.
"We used to run every step of the way," he soliloquized, laughing,
"unbuttonin' as we went, chuck our clothes on the bank, and 'most
break our necks tryin' to git in the water fust. I've got half a
notion to take a dip this mornin', if it wasn't quite so cool," he
went on, but a timely twinge of rheumatism brought him to his senses,
and he seated himself on the roots of a convenient tree.
Cocking his gun, he laid it across his knees, and waited there
motionless, imitating the yelp of a turkey the while. Three or four
small canes, graduated in size, and fitted firmly one into the other,
enabled him to make the note, and so expert had he become by long
practice that the deception was perfect.
After a pause he repeated the call; then came another pause, another
call, and over in the distance there sounded an answer. How the blood
coursed through the old man's veins as he listened! There it was
again. It was coming nearer, but very slowly. He wondered how many
were in the flock, and called once more. This time, to his surprise,
an answer came from a different direction--a long, rasping sound, a
sort of cross between a cock's crow and a turkey's yelp.
He started involuntarily, and very cautiously peeped around. Hardly
twenty steps from him another gray head protruded itself from the hole
of another tree, and Grandpa Davis and Grandpa Dun looked into each
other's eyes.
"I'll be double-jumped-up if that ain't Dick!" cried Grandpa Davis,
under his breath. "And there ain't a turkey as ever wore a feather
that he could fool. A minute more, and he'll spile the fun. Dick," he
commanded, "stop that racket, and sneak over here by me," beckoning
mysteriously. "Sh-h-h! they are answerin' ag'in. Down on your
marrow-bones whilst I call."
Flattening himself upon the ground as nearly as he could, and creeping
behind the undergrowth, Grandpa Dun made his way laboriously to the
desired spot. He had never excelled in calling turkeys, but he was a
far better shot than Grandpa Davis.
Without demur the two old boys fell naturally into the _rôle_ of
former days. Breathless and excited, they crouched there, waiting for
the fateful moment. Their nerves were tense, their eyes dilated, and
their hearts beating like trip-hammers.
Grandpa Davis had continued to call, and now the answer was very near.
"Gimme the first shot, Billy," whispered Grandpa Dun. "I let you do
the callin'; and, besides, you know you never could hit nothin' that
wasn't as big as the side of a meetin'-house."
Before Grandpa Davis had time to reply, there came the "put-put-put"
which signals possible danger. A stately gobbler raised his head to
reconnoitre; two guns were fired almost simultaneously, and, with a
whir and a flutter, the flock disappeared in the cane brake.
The two old boys bounded over the intervening sticks and stumps with
an agility that Walter himself might have envied, and bending over the
prostrate gobbler exclaimed in concert: "Ain't he a dandy, though!"
They examined him critically, cutting out his beard as a trophy, and
measured the spread of his wings.
"But he's yourn, after all, Dick," said Grandpa Davis ruefully. "These
here ain't none of my shot, so I reckon I must have missed him."
"I knowed you would, Billy, afore your fired," Grandpa Dun replied,
with mock gravity, "but that don't cut no figger. He's big enough for
us to go halvers and both have plenty. More'n that, you done the
callin' anyhow."
Then they laughed, and as they looked into one another's faces, each
seemed to realize for the first time that his quondam chum was an old
man.
A moment before they had been two rollicking boys off on a lark
together--playing hooky, perhaps--and in the twinkling of an eye some
wicked fairy had waved her wand and metamorphosed them into Walter's
two grandfathers, who had not spoken to each other since years before
the lad was born.
Yet the humour of the situation was irresistible after all, and,
without knowing just how it happened, or which made the first advance,
Dick and Billy found themselves still laughing until the tears coursed
down their furrowed cheeks, and shaking hands with as much vigour as
though each one had been working a pump handle.
"I'll tell you what it is, Billy," said Dick at last; "you all come
over to my house, and we'll eat him together on Thanksgivin'."
"See here, Dick," suggested Billy, abstracting a nickel from his
trousers' pocket; "heads at your house, and tails at mine."
"All right," came the hearty response.
Billy tossed the coin into the air: it struck a twig and hid itself
among the fallen leaves, where they sought it in vain.
"'Tain't settled yet," announced Dick; "but lemme tell you what let's
do. S'posin' we all go over to-morrow--it'll be Thanksgivin', you
know--and eat him at John's house."
"Good!" cried Billy, with beaming face. "You always did have a head
for thinkin' up things, Dick, and this here'll sorter split the
difference, and ease matters so as--"
"Yes, and our two old women can draw straws, if they've got a mind to,
and see which of them is obligated to make the fust call," interrupted
Dick.
"Jist heft him, old feller," urged one of them.
"Ain't he a whopper, though!" exclaimed the other.
"Have a chaw, Dick?" asked Billy, offering his plug of tobacco.
"Don't keer if I do," acquiesced Dick, biting off a goodly mouthful.
Seating themselves upon a fallen hickory log, they chewed and
expectorated, recalling old times, and enjoying their laugh with the
careless freedom of their childhood days.
"Dick, do your ricolleck the fight you and a coon had out on the limb
of that tree over yonder, one night?" queried Billy, nudging his
companion in the ribs. "He come mighty nigh gittin' the best of you."
"He tore one sleeve out of my jacket, and mammy gimme a beatin'
besides," giggled Dick. "And say, Billy, wasn't it fun the day we
killed old man Lee's puddle ducks for wild ones? I don't believe I
ever run as fast in my life."
"And, Dick, do you remember the night your pappy hung the saddle up on
the head of the bed to keep you from ridin' the old gray mare to
singin' school, and you rid her, bareback, anyway? You ricolleck you
was stoopin' over, blowin' the fire, next mornin', when he seen the
hairs on your britches, an' come down on you with the leather strop
afore you knowed it."
Thus one adventure recalled another, and the two old boys laughed
uproariously, clapping their hands and holding their sides, while the
sun climbed up among the treetops.
"Ain't we ben two old fools to stay mad all this time?" asked one of
them, and the other readily agreed that they had, as they once more
grasped hands before parting.
Walter had arranged the Thanksgiving surprise for his parents, but
when he brought home the big gobbler he was unable longer to keep the
secret, and divulged his share in what had happened.
"I didn't really believe either one of them could hit a turkey," he
confided to his father, "but I wanted to have them meet once more, for
I knew if they did they would make friends."
The parlour was odorous with late fall roses next morning, the table
set, and Walter and his parents in gala attire, when two couples,
walking arm in arm, appeared upon the stretch of white road leading up
to the front gate.
One couple was slightly in advance of the other, and Grandpa Davis,
who was behind, whispered to his wife:
"Listen, Mary, Dick is actually tryin' to sing, and he never could
turn a tune, but somehow it does warm up my heart to hear him: seems
like old times ag'in."
After dinner was over--and such a grand dinner it was--Grandpa Davis
voiced the sentiment of the rest of the happy family party when he
announced, quite without warning:
"Well, this here has ben the thankfulles' Thanksgivin' I ever seen,
and I hope the good Lord will spar' us all for yet a few more."
A THANKSGIVING DINNER THAT FLEW AWAY[26]
BY HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
A Cape Cod story about a wise old gander whose adventure on
the sea insured him against the perils of the Thanksgiving
hatchet. For boys or girls.
There is one sound that I shall always remember. It is "Honk!"
[Footnote 26: From "Zigzag Journeys in Acadia and New France,"
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company.]
I spun around like a top, one summer day when I heard it, looking
nervously in every direction.
I had just come down from the city to the Cape with my sister Hester
for my third summer vacation. I had left the cars with my arms full of
bundles, and hurried toward Aunt Targood's.
The cottage stood in from the road. There was a long meadow in front
of it. In the meadow were two great oaks and some clusters of lilacs.
An old, mossy stone wall protected the grounds from the road, and a
long walk ran from the old wooden gate to the door.
It was a sunny day, and my heart was light. The orioles were flaming
in the old orchards; the bobolinks were tossing themselves about in
the long meadows of timothy, daisies, and patches of clover. There
was a scent of new-mown hay in the air.
In the distance lay the bay, calm and resplendent, with white sails
and specks of boats. Beyond it rose Martha's Vineyard, green and cool
and bowery, and at its wharf lay a steamer.
I was, as I said, light-hearted. I was thinking of rides over the
sandy roads at the close of the long, bright days; of excursions on
the bay; of clambakes and picnics.
I was hungry, and before me rose visions of Aunt Targood's fish
dinners, roast chickens, and berry pies. I was thirsty, but ahead was
the old well sweep, and behind the cool lattice of the dairy window
were pans of milk in abundance.
I tripped on toward the door with light feet, lugging my bundles, and
beaded with perspiration, but unmindful of all discomforts in the
thought of the bright days and good things in store for me.
"Honk! honk!"
My heart gave a bound!
_Where_ did that sound come from?
Out of a cool cluster of innocent-looking lilac bushes I saw a dark
object cautiously moving. It seemed to have no head. I knew, however,
that it had a head. I had seen it; it had seized me once in the
previous summer, and I had been in terror of it during all the rest of
the season.
I looked down into the irregular grass, and saw the head and a very
long neck running along on the ground, propelled by the dark body,
like a snake running away from a ball. It was coming toward me, and
faster and faster as it approached.
I dropped my bundles.
In a few flying leaps I returned to the road again, and armed myself
with a stick from a pile of cordwood.
"Honk! honk! honk!"
It was a call of triumph. The head was high in the air now. My enemy
moved grandly forward, as became the monarch of the great meadow
farmyard.
I stood with beating heart, after my retreat.
It was Aunt Targood's gander.
How he enjoyed his triumph, and how small and cowardly he made me
feel!
"Honk! honk! honk!"
The geese came out of the lilac bushes, bowing their heads to him in
admiration. Then came the goslings--a long procession of awkward,
half-feathered things; they appeared equally delighted.
The gander seemed to be telling his admiring audience all about it:
how a strange lad with many bundles had attempted to cross the yard;
how he had driven him back, and had captured his bundles, and now was
monarch of the field. He clapped his wings when he had finished his
heroic story, and sent forth such a "Honk!" as might have startled a
major-general.
Then he, with an air of great dignity and coolness, began to examine
my baggage.
Among my effects were several pounds of chocolate caramels done up in
brown paper. Aunt Targood liked caramels, and I brought her a large
supply.
He tore off the wrappers quickly. He bit one. It was good. He began to
distribute the bonbons among the geese, and they, with much liberality
and good-will, among the goslings.
This was too much. I ventured through the gate, swinging my cordwood
stick.
"Shoo!"
He dropped his head on the ground, and drove it down the walk in a
lively waddle toward me.
"Shoo!"
It was Aunt Targood's voice at the door.
He stopped immediately.
His head was in the air again.
"Shoo!"
Out came Aunt Targood with her broom.
She always corrected the gander with her broom. If I were to be
whipped I should choose a broom--not the stick.
As soon as he beheld the broom he retired, although with much offended
pride and dignity, to the lilac bushes; and the geese and goslings
followed him.
"Hester, you dear child," she said to my sister, "come here. I was
expecting you, and had been looking out for you, but missed sight of
you. I had forgotten all about the gander."
We gathered up the bundles and the caramels. I was light-hearted
again.
How cool was the sitting-room, with the woodbine falling about the
open window!
Aunt brought me a pitcher of milk, and some strawberries, some bread
and honey, and a fan.
While I was resting and taking my lunch, I could hear the gander
discussing the affairs of the farmyard with the geese. I did not
greatly enjoy the discussion. His tone of voice was very proud, and he
did not seem to be speaking well of me.
I was suspicious that he did not think me a very brave lad. A young
person likes to be spoken well of, even by the gander.
Aunt Targood's gander had been the terror of many well-meaning people,
and of some evildoers, for many years. I have seen tramps and pack
peddlers enter the gate, and start on toward the door, when there
would sound that ringing warning like a war blast, "Honk, honk!" and
in a few minutes these unwelcome people would be gone. Farmhouse
boarders from the city would sometimes enter the yard, thinking to
draw water by the old well sweep; in a few minutes it was customary to
hear shrieks, and to see women and children flying over the walls,
followed by air-rending "Honks!" and jubilant cackles from the
victorious gander and his admiring family.
Aunt Targood sometimes took summer boarders. Among those that I
remember was the Rev. Mr. Bonney, a fervent-souled Methodist preacher.
He put the gander to flight with the cart whip, on the second day
after his arrival, and seemingly to aunt's great grief; but he never
was troubled by the feathered tyrant again.
Young couples sometimes came to Father Bonney to be married; and one
summer afternoon there rode up to the gate a very young couple, whom
we afterward learned had "run away," or rather, had attempted to get
married without their parents' approval. The young bridegroom hitched
the horse, and helped from the carriage the gayly dressed miss he
expected to make his wife. They started up the walk upon the run, as
though they expected to be followed and haste was necessary to prevent
the failure of their plans.
"Honk!"
They stopped. It was a voice of authority.
"Just look at him!" said the bride. "Oh, oh!"
The bridegroom cried "Shoo!" but he might as well have said "Shoo" to
a steam engine. On came the gander, with his head and neck upon the
ground. He seized the lad by the calf of his leg, and made an
immediate application of his wings. The latter seemed to think he had
been attacked by dragons. As soon as he could shake him off he ran. So
did the bride, but in another direction; and while the two were thus
perplexed and discomfited, the bride's father appeared in a carriage,
and gave her a most forcible invitation to ride home with him. She
accepted it without discussion. What became of the bridegroom, or how
the matter ended, we never knew.
"Aunt, what makes you keep that gander year after year?" said I one
evening, as we were sitting on the lawn before the door. "Is it
because he is a kind of watchdog, and keeps troublesome people away?"
"No, child, no; I do not wish to keep most people away--not
well-behaved people--nor to distress nor annoy any one. The fact is,
there is a story about that gander that I do not like to speak of to
every one--something that makes me feel tender toward him; so that if
he needs a whipping I would rather do it. He knows something that no
one else knows. I could not have him killed or sent away. You have
heard me speak of Nathaniel, my oldest boy?"
"Yes."
"That is his picture in my room, you know. He was a good boy to me. He
loved his mother. I loved Nathaniel--you cannot think how much I loved
Nathaniel. It was on my account that he went away.
"The farm did not produce enough for us all--Nathaniel, John, and me.
We worked hard, and had a hard time. One year--that was ten years
ago--we were sued for our taxes.
"'Nathaniel,' said I, 'I will go to taking boarders.'
"Then he looked up to me and said--oh, how noble and handsome he
appeared to me:
"'Mother, I will go to sea.'
"'Where?' asked I, in surprise.
"'In a coaster.'
"I turned white. How I felt!
"'You and John can manage the place,' he continued. 'One of the
vessels sails next week--Uncle Aaron's; he offers to take me.'
"It seemed best, and he made preparations to go.
"The spring before Skipper Ben--you have met Skipper Ben--had given me
some goose eggs; he had brought them from Canada, and said that they
were wild goose eggs.
"I set them under hens. In four weeks I had three goslings. I took
them into the house at first, but afterward made a pen for them out in
the yard. I brought them up myself, and one of those goslings is that
gander.
"Skipper Ben came over to see me the day before Nathaniel was to sail.
Aaron came with him.
"I said to Aaron:
"'What can I give Nathaniel to carry to sea with him to make him think
of home? Cake, preserves, apples? I haven't got much; I have done all
I can for him, poor boy.'
"Brother looked at me curiously, and said:
"'Give him one of those wild geese, and we will fatten it on shipboard
and will have it for our Thanksgiving dinner.'
"What Brother Aaron said pleased me. The young gander was a noble
bird, the handsomest of the lot; and I resolved to keep the geese to
kill for my own use, and to give _him_ to Nathaniel.
"The next morning--it was late in September--I took leave of
Nathaniel. I tried to be calm and cheerful and hopeful. I watched him
as he went down the walk with the gander struggling under his arms. A
stranger would have laughed, but I did not feel like laughing; it was
true that the boys who went coasting were usually gone but a few
months, and came home hardy and happy. But when poverty compels a
mother and son to part, after they have been true to each other, and
shared their feelings in common, it seems hard, it seems hard--though
I do not like to murmur or complain at anything allotted to me.
"I saw him go over the hill. On the top he stopped and held up the
gander. He disappeared; yes, my own Nathaniel disappeared. I think of
him now as one who disappeared.
"November came. It was a terrible month on the coast that year. Storm
followed storm; the sea-faring people talked constantly of wrecks and
losses. I could not sleep on the nights of those high winds. I used to
lie awake thinking over all the happy hours that I had lived with
Nathaniel.
"Thanksgiving week came.
"It was full of an Indian-summer brightness after the long storms. The
nights were frosty, bright, and calm.
"I could sleep on those calm nights.
"One morning I thought I heard a strange sound in the woodland
pasture. It was like a wild goose. I listened; it was repeated. I was
lying in bed. I started up--I thought I had been dreaming.
"On the night before Thanksgiving I went to bed early, being very
tired. The moon was full; the air was calm and still. I was thinking
of Nathaniel, and I wondered if he would indeed have the gander for
his Thanksgiving dinner, if it would be cooked as well as I would have
cooked it, and if he would think of me that day.
"I was just going to sleep when suddenly I heard a sound that made me
start up and hold my breath.
"'_Honk_!'
"I thought it was a dream followed by a nervous shock.
"'_Honk! honk!_'
"There it was again, in the yard, I was surely awake and in my senses.
"I heard the geese cackle.
"'_Honk! honk! honk!_'
"I got out of bed and lifted the curtain. It was almost as light as
day.
"Instead of two geese there were three. Had one of the neighbours'
geese stolen away?
"I should have thought so, and should not have felt disturbed, but for
the reason that none of the neighbours' geese had that peculiar
call--that hornlike tone that I had noticed in mine.
"I went out of the door.
"The _third_ goose looked like the very gander I had given Nathaniel.
Could it be?
"I did not sleep. I rose early and went to the crib for some corn.
"It _was_ a gander--a 'wild gander'--that had come in the night. He
seemed to know me.
"I trembled all over as though I had seen a ghost. I was so faint that
I sat down on the meal chest.
"As I was in that place, a bill pecked against the door. The door
opened. The strange gander came hobbling over the crib stone and went
to the corn bin. He stopped there, looked at me, and gave a sort of
glad 'Honk' as though he knew me and was glad to see me.
"I was certain that he was the gander I had raised and that Nathaniel
had lifted into the air when he gave me his last recognition from the
top of the hill.
"It overcame me. It was Thanksgiving. The church bell would soon be
ringing as on Sunday. And here was Nathaniel's Thanksgiving dinner and
Brother Aaron's--had it flown away? Where was the vessel?
"Years have passed--ten. You know I waited and waited for my boy to
come back. December grew dark with its rainy seas; the snows fell; May
lighted up the hills, but the vessel never came back. Nathaniel--my
Nathaniel--never returned.
"That gander knows something he could tell me if he could talk. Birds
have memories. _He_ remembered the corncrib--he remembered something
else. I wish he _could_ talk, poor bird! I wish he could talk. I will
never sell him, nor kill him, nor have him abused. He _knows_!"
MON-DAW-MIN, OR THE ORIGIN OF INDIAN CORN[27]
BY H. R. SCHOOLCRAFT.
This is the real Indian fairy tale of the birth of
Mon-daw-min. Readers of Longfellow will remember his
treatment of the same subject in "Hiawatha."