It was the morning of Thanksgiving Day, and Susan woke, sat up in bed,
and looked about her. Beside her, on the quilt, lay the black-and-white
shawl dolly, and, if you remember that she came out to play only when
Susan was ailing, then you will know, without being told, that Susan had
been ill.
Yes, for three whole days Susan had been in bed. But to-day she meant
not only to be up and dressed, but to go downstairs as well, for to-day
was Thanksgiving Day, and to stay in bed on such an occasion was
something Susan didn't intend to do.
Four days ago Susan and Grandfather had come home from Banbury. They had
arrived late in the evening, and Susan, tired out, had fallen asleep in
her chair at the dinner-table, and had been carried up to bed without
telling Grandmother a single word about her visit or even presenting her
with the stocking-darner which she had carried in her hand all the way
home from Letty's house.
Of the next two days all Susan could remember was a sharp pain and a big
black bottle of medicine, with occasional glimpses of Grandmother and
Grandfather tiptoeing about the darkened room.
But yesterday Susan had felt more like herself. She had enjoyed cuddling
the shawl baby, she had eaten a plate of milk toast for her dinner, and
she had given Grandmother a complete history of her visit from the
moment she left Featherbed Lane until her return.
She had asked to see Flip, but Grandmother had said mysteriously that
Flip, in her turn, had gone visiting, and that she wouldn't be back
until dinner-time Thanksgiving Day.
"When is Thanksgiving Day?" Susan had asked.
"To-morrow," Grandmother had answered, and Susan had sprung up in bed
with a cry.
"Won't I be well to-morrow?" she asked imploringly. "Won't I be well for
Thanksgiving Day?"
Grandmother at this moment was shaking the big black medicine bottle. It
did seem to Susan that it was always medicine time, though Grandmother
said it was marked on the bottle "To be taken every two hours."
Mrs. Whiting smiled at her tone of despair.
"I think so," said she encouragingly. "That is, if you take your
medicine nicely," she added, approaching the bed with a large spoon in
one hand and the bottle in the other.
Susan shut her eyes and opened her mouth. Down went the medicine, and,
without a whimper and with only a wry face to tell how she really felt,
Susan smiled bravely up at Grandmother.
"A good child," said Grandmother approvingly. "I'm sure you will be
downstairs to-morrow."
Now to-morrow had come, and Susan, slipping out of bed and into her warm
rosy wrapper and slippers, trotted downstairs in search of some one.
She found Grandmother quite alone, save for a delicious smell in the air
of roasting turkey. Grandmother was busy baking, but she stopped long
enough to help Susan dress and to answer a few of the questions that
tumbled pell-mell from Susan's lips.
"Where is Grandfather? Gone to Thanksgiving service at church. You slept
late this morning, Susan. When will Phil be home? Not for two weeks.
They have all gone to his grandfather's for Thanksgiving, and they mean
to visit his Great-Uncle Fred, who gave him his electric train, on their
way back."
"Is any one coming here for Thanksgiving, Grandmother?" asked Susan,
delicately eating a bowl of bread and milk for breakfast from one end of
the table on which Mrs. Whiting was stirring up a cake.
"Miss Liza is coming," answered Mrs. Whiting, stopping her work and
putting down her spoon. "I may as well tell you now, Susan, I suppose.
Miss Lunette is married."
Susan looked at Grandmother for a moment without speaking. How unkind of
Miss Lunette to have a wedding while she was away!
"Didn't she save me any cake?" she asked at length. "Did Phil go to the
wedding?"
"There wasn't any wedding, Susan, or any cake," answered Mrs. Whiting.
"No one was invited but Miss Liza. They stood up in the parlor and Mr.
Drew married them. Then they went off to Green Valley, where her husband
lives."
"Maybe she will ask me to come to see her there," said Susan hopefully.
"Perhaps she will," said Grandmother. "It may be the making of her,
Susan," she went on, half to herself. "She certainly was full of whims
and crotchets, and would try the patience of any one but a saint like
Miss Liza. Your Grandfather always said that all she needed was hard
work, and I think she will have it now, for her husband was a widower
with three children and an old mother, too. It may make a woman of her.
I hope so, I'm sure. I know things won't be so hard for Miss Liza, and
I'm glad of that."
And Grandmother beat her batter with such determination that her cheeks
grew pink and her little white curls bobbed up and down in time with the
beating.
"Is Flip coming with Miss Liza?" asked Susan.
"Um-um," was all Grandmother answered.
So Susan put away her little bowl and went into the front hall to call
upon her friend the newel post.
"You ought to be dressed up for Thanksgiving," decided Susan, stroking
her friend's bulky form. "Which do you like best, pink or blue? Pink,
did you say? Then Snowball shall wear a blue ribbon and you shall have a
pink one on your neck to celebrate the day."
Susan spent some time selecting and arranging the ribbons to suit the
taste of all concerned. She then found the table set for Thanksgiving
dinner, so she posted herself in the front window where she could look
all the way down the lane to the gate and report to Grandmother the
moment old Nero's Roman nose was visible.
She watched and watched, and at last they came jogging along, Miss Liza
well wrapped up against the cold November air that had a "feel" of snow
in it, and Grandfather wearing his fur-lined gloves for the first time
this season, Susan observed.
In came Miss Liza, while Grandfather drove on to the barn, and to
Susan's delight Miss Liza carried a big bundle which she placed in the
little girl's outstretched arms.
"It's Flip," Susan repeated joyfully. "I know it's Flip. It's my Flip."
Yes, it was Flip, but a Flip so changed, so beautified, so transformed
that only the members of her own family would have known her.
In the first place, her face and hands, which had grown a dingy brown,
had become several shades lighter, producing a fresh, youthful
appearance heretofore sorely lacking. Her bald head had blossomed out in
a beautiful crop of worsted hair, in color a rich garnet-brown.
"Miss Lunette always used that color for her worsted hens," Miss Liza
explained, "and I thought it would make real pretty-looking hair for
Flip."
Susan was delighted with the effect. She smiled radiantly at Miss Liza.
But when she examined her child's complete new wardrobe, she put Flippy
down on the couch, and flung her arms first around Miss Liza and then
about Grandmother's neck.
For Flippy wore a new set of underwear, even to a red flannel petticoat
trimmed with red crocheted lace. She wore a brown cloth dress,
elaborately decorated with yellow feather-stitching. But, most beautiful
of all, about her sloping shoulders was a dark-blue cape, lined with
scarlet satin and edged with narrow black fur; upon her head was tied a
dark-blue fur-trimmed cap to match, from under which her garnet worsted
hair peeped coyly; and, oh, crowning touch! about her neck upon a ribbon
hung a black fur muff.
Susan's excitement and delight were such that even Thanksgiving dinner
seemed of little importance compared with this unexpected trousseau of
Flippy Whiting. Susan did manage to sit still in her chair at the table,
but she turned every moment or two to smile happily upon Flip, who
returned her glances with proud and conscious looks.
"One square inch of turkey for Miss Susan Whiting," announced
Grandfather, when at last her turn came to be served, "and a thimbleful
of mashed potato, one crumb of bread, and an acorn cup of milk. And that
is all the dinner you get, if I have anything to say about it."
And Grandfather brandished the carving knife and looked so severe that
Susan went off into a fit of laughter in which every one joined.
"Were there many out at church this morning?" asked Grandmother. "Was
Mr. Drew's sermon good?"
"Oh, that reminds me," said Grandfather, "that I have to go out this
afternoon. I promised Parson Drew that I would take something to eat
down to the Widow Banks. The Young People's Society gave her five
dollars to buy a Thanksgiving dinner for herself and her six children,
and if she didn't go spend the five dollars on a crepe veil and a
Bible."
Grandfather gave a chuckle as he thought of the surprise that the Widow
Banks had given the Young People.
"I don't blame her," said he stoutly. "She probably takes more pride and
pleasure in what she bought than we can imagine. The neighbors won't let
her starve. You fix up a good basket for her, won't you, Grandmother?"
And that Mrs. Whiting did, though she shook her head over what she
termed "extravagance and shiftlessness."
A little later, Susan and Mr. Whiting, who carried a large basket, the
contents of which would mean far more to the six hungry Banks orphans
than would a crepe veil and a Bible, started down Featherbed Lane on
their charitable errand.
"The air will do Susan good," Grandfather declared. "And if she is
tired, I will carry her home. It isn't far, anyway."
Susan enjoyed both the walk and the short call they made at the dingy
little white house in the Hollow.
Mrs. Banks, a thin, tearful wisp of a woman, with pale-blue eyes and
untidy hair, gratefully accepted their offering; and the six sorrowful
little Banks cheered up immediately when word went round as to what the
basket held, so their visitors made haste to be gone, that they might be
kept no longer from their Thanksgiving feast.
While Mr. Whiting talked to Mrs. Banks, Susan gazed round the poor
little room, and eyed the Banks orphans standing in a row like steps,
who, to do them justice, quite as frankly eyed her in return. The crepe
veil was not in evidence, but on the mantelpiece lay the new Bible,
black and shiny, and smelling powerfully of leather.
"Yes, six of them," said Mrs. Banks in her melancholy voice, waving her
hand at the line, which looked more dejected than ever when attention
was thus directed to it. "And not one of them old enough to do a stroke
of work or to earn a penny."
"This is Richie," she went on, pointing to the tallest son of Banks, who
dug his bare toes into the floor in an agony of embarrassment. "He's the
flower of the family. He will amount to something. He never opens his
mouth for a word. He's like me.
"And this is Mervin. He eats like a fish. And his brother Claudius is
not far behind him. I gave them their names, for I do like a
rich-sounding name. Mr. Banks wasn't of my way of thinking. He was all
for plain, commonsense names. He named the next two,--Maria and Also
Jane."
"'Also,' did you say?" inquired Mr. Whiting, who was thoroughly enjoying
his call. "That is a name new to me."
"It was a mistake," explained Mrs. Banks dolefully. "The two girls were
christened together, and, after Maria was baptized, the minister turned
to Jane and, says he, 'Also Jane Banks,' and 'Also Jane' she has been to
this day, for her father wouldn't go against the minister's word for
anything in the world."
"What is the baby's name?" asked Mr. Whiting, preparing to depart.
"Her name is a compromise," answered Mrs. Banks, pulling out her damp
handkerchief to wipe the baby's eyes which had instantly overflowed at
hearing herself called a "mean name," as she whimpered into her mother's
ear. "To please me we named her Cleopatra, but we always call her Pat,
her father was such a one for plain names."
When Mr. Whiting and Susan reached home they found Grandmother and Miss
Liza rocking placidly before a roaring fire, and room was made for
Grandfather's chair with Susan on a cricket at his feet.
"Now, we will tell what we are most thankful for," said Grandmother,
when the story of the call at the Banks' had been related, and a way of
helping Mrs. Banks support her six children had been discussed. "You
begin, Miss Liza."
"I'm thankful," said Miss Liza, without a moment's hesitation, "for good
friends, for health, and a home."
"I'm most thankful," said Grandmother, "for Grandfather, and Susan, and
a peaceful life. I couldn't live in strife with any one."
Grandfather thrust his boots out toward the fire and pulled his silk
handkerchief from his pocket.
"I'm thankful," said he, carefully spreading his handkerchief over his
head, "I'm thankful for my home, and that means Grandmother and Susan,
and I'm thankful, too, that I have my own teeth. I mean it, I'm not
joking." And he soberly snapped his strong white teeth together without
a smile.
"I'm thankful," piped up Susan, glad her turn had come, "for
Grandfather, and Grandmother, and Miss Liza, and Snuff, and Flip, and
Nero, and--"
Grandfather caught her up from the cricket and held her in his arms.
"My black-eyed Susan," said he, tenderly.
Susan looked round with a smile.
"I think," said she,--"I think I'm thankful--why, I think I'm thankful
for just everything."
THE END