THANKSGIVING.
Thanksgiving! How many reminiscences of the olden time does that
word call up, when sons and daughters, they who had wandered far and
wide, whose locks, once brown and shining with the sunlight of youth,
now give tokens that the autumnal frosts of life are falling slowly
upon them, return once more to the old hearthstone, and, for a brief
space, grow young again amid the festive scenes of Thanksgiving Day.
To you, who, like me, drew your first breath among the New England
hills, and who have strayed away from your early home, in the busy
world in which you are now mingling, comes there not occasionally
pleasant memories of the olden time, when with eager haste you hied
you back to the roof-tree which sheltered your infancy? And though,
perchance, the snows of many a winter may have drifted across the
graves of the gray-haired man you called your father, and the
mild-eyed woman who bore the blessed name of mother, can you not
recall them to mind, as when with tears of joy and words of love,
they welcomed their children home, thanking God that as yet not one
of their household treasures was missing? And if, after the lapse of
years, there came a time when the youngest of you all was gone, when
the childish prattle you loved so well to hear was hushed, when
through the house was no more heard the patter of little, busy feet,
when there was naught left of the lost one, save a curl of golden
hair, or a tiny shoe, soiled and bent, but looking still so much like
him who wore it once, that you preserve it as your choicest treasure:
if, I say, there came to you a time like this, do you not remember
how, amid all the social cheer, there was still an aching void, which
nothing around you could fill?
But, lest I make this chapter too sad, I shall not speak of our
feelings as we missed our baby brother, for they who have lost from
their fireside an active, playful child understand, far better than I
can describe, the loneliness, the longing for something gone, which
becomes almost a part of their being, although at times they may seem
to forget. Children's grief is seldom as lasting as that of mature
years; and hence it is not strange if I sometimes forgot my sorrow in
the joyous anticipation of Thanksgiving Day, which was then to me but
another name for plum puddings, chicken pies, meeting dresses,
morocco shoes, city cousins, a fire in the parlor, and last, though
not least, the privilege of sitting at the first table, and using
grandma's six tiny silver spoons, with the initials of her maiden
name, "P.S." marked upon them.
On such occasions my thoughts invariably took a leap backward, and
looking at grandma's wrinkled face and white, shining hair, I would
wonder if she ever were young like me; and if, being young, she swung
on gates or climbed trees, and walked the great beams, as I did.
Then, with another bound, my thoughts would penetrate the future,
when I, a dignified grandmother, should recline in my armchair,
stately and stiff, in my heavy satin and silver gray, while my oldest
son, a man just my father's size, should render me all the homage and
respect due to one of my age. By myself, too, I had several times
tried on grandma's clothes, spectacles, cap and all; and then, seated
in her chair, with the big Bible in my lap, I had expounded scripture
to the imaginary children around me, frequently reprimanding _Rosa_
for her inattention, asking her what "she thought would become of
her, if she didn't stop wriggling so in her chair, and learn 'the
chief end of man.'" Once, in the midst of my performance, grandma
herself appeared, and as a natural consequence, I was divested of my
fixings in a much shorter space of time than it had taken me to don
them. From that day up to the period of my illness, I verily believe
grandma looked upon me as "given over to hardness of heart and
blindness of mind."
But I am wandering from my subject, which was, I believe, the
Thanksgiving succeeding Jamie's death and my own recovery from
sickness. For this occasion great preparations were made, it being
confidently expected that my father's brother, who lived in Boston,
would be with us together with his wife, a lady whose reputation for
sociability and suavity of manners was, with us, rather below par.
She was my uncle's second wife, and rumor said that neither himself
nor his home were as comfortable as they once had been. From the
same reliable source, too, we learned that she breakfasted in her own
room at ten, dined at three, made or received calls until six, went
to parties, soirées, or the theater in the evening, and seldom got to
bed until two o'clock in the morning; a mode of living which was
pronounced little better than heathenish by grandma, who had long
been anxious for an opportunity of "giving Charlotte Ann a piece of
her mind."
Mother, who was more discreet, very wisely advised her not to
interfere with the arrangements of her daughter-in-law. "It would do
no good," she said, "and might possibly make matters worse." Unlike
most old people, grandma was not very much set in her own way, and to
mother's suggestion, she replied that "Mebby she shouldn't say
anything--'twould depend on how many airs Charlotte put on."
To me the expected visit was a sore trial; for, notwithstanding my
cheeks and neck were rounder and fuller than they had ever been, my
head, with its young crop of short, stiff hair, was a terrible
annoyance, and more than once I had cried as I saw in fancy the
derisive smile with which my dreaded Aunt Charlotte was sure to greet
me. At last sister Anna, who possessed a great deal of taste in such
matters, and who ought to have been a milliner, contrived for the
"picked chicken," as she called me, a black lace cap, which fitted me
so well, and was so vastly becoming, that I lost all my fears, and
childlike, began to count the days which must elapse before I could
wear it.
Meantime, in the kitchen there was a loud rattling of dishes, a
beating of eggs, and calling for wood, with which to heat the great
brick oven, grandma having pronounced the stove unfit for baking a
Thanksgiving dinner. From the cornfield, behind the barn, a golden
pumpkin, four times larger than my head and about the same color, was
gathered, and after being brought to the house, was pared, cut open,
scraped, and sliced into a little tin kettle with a copper bottom,
where for hours it stewed and sputtered, filling the atmosphere with
a faint, sickly odor, which I think was the main cause of the severe
headache I took to bed with me. Mother, on the contrary, differed
from me, she associated it in some way with the rapid disappearance
of the raisins, cinnamon, sugar, and so forth, which in sundry brown
papers, lay open upon the table. She was generally right when she
made up her mind, so I shall not dispute the point, for, let the
cause have been what it would, it was a very sick little girl which,
the night before Thanksgiving, was put early to bed by Sally, who
remarked as she undressed me, that "I was _slimpsy_ as a rag, and she
wouldn't wonder if I had a _collapse_," adding, as she tucked the
clothes around me, that "if I did, it would be mighty apt to go hard
with me."
The next morning, just as the first gray streaks of daylight were
appearing in the east, I awoke, finding, to my great joy, that my
headache was gone. Rising upon my elbow and leaning far out of bed,
I pushed aside the striped curtain which shaded the window, and
looking out upon the ground below, saw, to my utter dismay, that it
was covered with snow. To me there is nothing pleasant in a snow
storm, a snow bank, or a snow cloud; and when a child, I used to
think that with the fall of the first flake, there came over my
spirits a chill, which was not removed until the springtime, when,
with its cause, it melted away: and even now, when, with my rubber
boots, I dare brave any drift, not more than five feet four inches
high, I cannot say that I have any particular love for snow; and as
from my window I watch the descent of the feathery flakes, I always
feel an irresistible desire to make at them wry faces, my favorite
method of showing my dislike. On the morning of which I have spoken,
I vented my displeasure in the usual way, and then I fell into a deep
sleep, from which I was at last awakened by the loud shouts of my
brothers, who, in the meadow across the road, were pelting each other
with balls, occasionally rolling over in the pure, white snow, which
they hailed as an old and well loved friend.
Not long after breakfast was over, Anna commenced dressing Lizzie and
Carrie, and as she had herself to beautify before the arrival of the
train which was to bring my uncle and aunt, it is not surprising that
she hurried rather faster than was wholly agreeable to the little
girls, who could see no good cause for such haste, even if Herbert
Langley, my aunt's son and a youth of seventeen, was to accompany
her. I, however, who was older, read things differently, and when
Anna pulled Lizzie's curly hair, and washed Carrie's nose up instead
of down, until they both cried, and when she herself stood before the
glass a whole half hour arranging just in front of her ears two _spit
curls_, sometimes called "_beau catchers_," I shrugged my shoulders,
wondering if she thought a city boy would care for her.
The morning train from Boston was due about ten o'clock, and as
Meadow Brook did not then boast a daily omnibus, it was necessary
that some one should be at the dépôt in order to meet our expected
guests. In New England it is almost an unheard-of thing for an
entire family to remain away from church on Thanksgiving Day, but
considering all the circumstances, it was, on this occasion, decided
orthodox for us to do so, and accordingly at nine o'clock father and
old sorrel started for the dépôt, which was distant about two and a
half miles. Long and wearisome to us children was that waiting for
his return; for stiff and prim, as starched white aprons, best gowns,
and hemstitched pantalets could make us, we sat in a row like so many
automatons, scarcely daring to move, lest we should displace some
article of dress. In the best chamber, the room which Aunt Charlotte
was to occupy, a cheerful wood fire was burning, and at least a dozen
times did grandma go up there to see if all were right, now smoothing
the clean, linen pillow-case, now moving the large easy-chair a
little more to the center of the room, and again wiping from the
mirror some imaginary specks of dust.
As she was coming down the twelfth time, the sound of sleigh-bells
took us all to the window, where, instead of the costly furs and rich
velvet wrappings of Aunt Charlotte, we saw the coarse plaid shawl and
dark delaine hood of Aunt Betsey, while at her side was the shaggy
overcoat and sealskin cap of her better half, Uncle Jason. This
worthy couple, good enough in their way, lived in Union, about nine
miles from Meadow Brook, where, for the last ten years, they had been
in the habit of spending Thanksgiving, without ever seeming to think
it possible for them to return the compliment. Although we had never
seen Aunt Charlotte, we knew full well that there was nothing in
common between her and Aunt Betsey, and after a long consultation it
had been decided not to invite the latter, who, as it proved, did not
deem an invitation necessary.
Uncle Jason was my father's half-brother, and the stepson of grandma,
who, the moment she saw them was actually guilty of the exclamation,
"Good Lord! what sent them here?" Before any of us could reply, the
door burst open, and the loud, boisterous laugh of Uncle Jason
greeted our ears, intermingled with the squeaky tones of Aunt Betsey,
who, addressing my mother, said, "How d'ye dew, Fanny. You pretty
well? I s'pose you're lookin' for us, though you didn't send us no
invite? Jason kinder held off about comin', but I telled him 'twas
enough sight easier to eat dinner here than to cook it to hum."
With as good a grace as she could possibly assume, mother returned
her greeting, and then, taking her into her own bedroom, asked her to
remove her bonnet, at the same time telling her she was expecting
Uncle Joseph and Aunt Charlotte from Boston.
"Now, you don't 'say it," exclaimed Aunt Betsey, stopping for a
moment in the adjustment of her cap, the fashion of which was
wonderful, having been devised by herself, as were all her articles
of dress. "Now, dew tell if that puckerin' thing is a comin'! How
nipped up we shall have to be! I'm so glad I wore this gown!" she
continued, looking complacently at her blue and white plaid, the
skirt of which was very short and scanty, besides being trimmed at
the bottom with two narrow ruffles.
With her other peculiarities Aunt Betsey united that of jealousy, and
after getting herself warm, and looking round, as was her custom, she
commenced with, "Now, if I won't give up--a fire in the parlor
chamber. I s'pose Charlotte's too good to pull off her things in the
bedroom, as I do. Wall, it's the luck of some to be born with a
silver spoon in their mouth."
Grandma, who was the only person present except myself, made no
answer, and after a moment Aunt Betsey continued, "Now I think on't,
Miss Lee (she never addressed her as 'mother,' for, from the first, a
mutual dislike had existed between them), now I think on't, Miss Lee,
mebby Fanny meant to slight me."
"Fanny never slighted anybody," was grandma's reply, while her
polished knitting-needles rattled with a vengeance.
"Wall, I guess she thought Jo's wife and I wouldn't hitch hosses
exactly, but the land knows that I don't care the snap of my finger
for her. I'm as good as anybody, if I don't keep a hired maid and
have a carpet on every floor."
Here she was interrupted by the sound of horses' feet, and rising up,
grandma said, "I guess they've come. Will you go and meet them?"
"Not _I_; I'm the last one to creep, I can tell you," was Aunt
Betsey's reply, while grandma and I quitted the room, leaving her
sitting bolt upright, with her feet on the fender and her lips pursed
up as they always were when she was indignant.
Uncle Joseph, Aunt Charlotte, Herbert Langley, had all come, and as
the latter leaped upon the ground and I caught a sight of his tall,
slender figure, I involuntarily exclaimed, "Long-legs," a cognomen,
which he ever after retained in our family. Shaking down his pants,
he went through with a kind of shuffle not wholly unlike the Highland
fling, ending his performance by kissing his hand to the group of
noses pressed close against the window-pane.
"I shall like him," was my mental comment, as I turned from him
towards the bundle of clothes which Uncle Joseph lifted from the
sleigh and deposited upon the steps, and which we supposed to be our
dreaded aunt.
"This is perfectly horrible," were the first words which issued from
under the folds of her veil; but to what she referred I never knew.
We all knew and loved Uncle Joseph, and for his sake my mother
conquered whatever of prejudice she felt towards his wife, who
returned her cordial welcome with the extreme end of her forefinger,
saying, when asked to sit down, "I'll go to my room immediately, if
you please."
"Speak to the children first," suggested my uncle, and with a
muttered, "It doesn't matter," the haughty lady bowed coldly to us,
as one by one we were presented.
When it came my turn, her small, black eyes rested longer upon me,
and the faintest derisive smile imaginable curled the corners of her
mouth. I knew that either my cap or my face had provoked that smile,
and with tears in my eyes I was turning away, when Herbert Langley
caught me in his long arms, exclaiming, "And so, this is Rosa, the
poetess. I mean to call you little 'Crop-head,' may I?"
He referred, I suppose, to a letter which I had once written in rhyme
to my Uncle Joseph, but before I could frame any reply, his mother
said scornfully, "Don't be flattered, child--Herbert calls everything
poetry that rhymes. He'll learn to discriminate better as he grows
older," and with a stately sweep she left the room, saying as she
reached the rather steep and narrow staircase, "Dear me--how
funny--it's like mounting a ladder."
While she was making her toilet we had an opportunity of learning
something of Herbert, who, whether he were so or not, seemed much
pleased with everything around him. Occasionally, however, I doubted
his sincerity, for when Aunt Betsey was presented to him, he appeared
quite as much delighted with her as with anything else, drawing his
chair closely to her side, and asking her numberless questions about
the best modes of making cheese and raising chickens, while all the
time there was a peculiarly quizzical expression in his eyes, which
were dark and very handsome, saving that the lids were too red to
suit my ideas of beauty. To Anna and her _spit-curls_ he took
kindly, and ere his lady mother made her appearance a second time he
had put his arm around her twice, telling her she should come to
Boston sometime and go to school. A rustle of silk upon the stairs
announced the descent of Aunt Charlotte, and with her nose slightly
elevated, ready for any emergency, she entered the parlor, where she
was introduced to Aunt Betsey, who, courtesying straight down, "hoped
to see her well," adding, that she "s'posed she'd come to the country
to see how poor folks lived."
Falling back into the rocking-chair which Anna brought for her, Aunt
Charlotte made no particular reply, save an occasional attack upon
her hartshorn. Aunt Betsey, however, nothing daunted, endeavored to
engage her in conversation by asking if "she knew Liza Ann Willcott,
a tailoress girl, that boarded with a Miss Johnson, who used to live
in Union, but who now lived in Boston."
Frowning majestically, Aunt Charlotte replied that she had not the
honor of Miss Willcott's acquaintance, whereupon Aunt Betsey advised
her to make it by all means, assuring her that "Liza Ann was a
first-rate girl, and that Miss Johnson was the best kind of a
neighbor, always willin' to _lend_, or do a good turn"----
Here, with a haughty toss of her head, Aunt Charlotte turned away and
began talking in a low tone to Herbert, he being the only one who,
she seemed to think, was at all worth noticing. It is strange how
much constraint one person can sometimes throw over a room full. On
this occasion, had an ogress suddenly alighted in our midst, we could
not have been more silent or less at ease than we were with that
Boston lady, sitting there so starched and stiff, her fat hands
folded one over the other, and the tips of her satin gaiters just
visible from beneath the ample folds of her rich silk dress. Even
Uncle Joseph, whose genial nature usually shed so much sunlight over
our circle, was grave and reserved, rarely venturing a remark, or, if
he did, glancing at his wife to see if she approved it. Uncle Jason,
who painfully felt his own awkwardness, sat tipped back in his chair
against the wall, with his feet on the rounds, while his fingers kept
time to a tune, which he was evidently whistling to himself. Glad
were we all when finally called to dinner, the savory smell of which
had long been whetting our appetites.
"What! dinner so soon?" said Aunt Charlotte, consulting her gold
watch, which pointed to half-past two. "I don't believe I can force
down a mouthful."
But, spite of her belief, she _did_ manage to make way with the
contents of her well-filled plate, which was passed back a second
time to be replenished. So eager were we all to serve her that we
partially forgot Aunt Betsey, who, after waiting a while for a
potato, at last arose, and reaching half-way across the table,
secured one for herself; saying by way of apology, that "she believed
in looking out for Number One, for if she didn't nobody else would."
So incensed was she with what she termed our neglect, that the moment
dinner was over she insisted upon going home, saying, as she bade us
good-by, that "when she went again where she wasn't wanted, she
guessed she should know it;" and adding, while two big tears dropped
from the end of her nose, that "she never s'posed she should be so
misused by folks that she'd done so much for."
The sight of _her_ tears brought forth answering ones from me, for,
with all her peculiarities, I loved Aunt Betsey, and I remembered
that when sickness and death were among us, she had left her own home
to stay with us, ministering as far as she was able to our comfort.
Many a night had she watched with me, and though she invariably
placed the lamp so that its rays glared full in my face, though she
slept three-fourths of the time, _snoring_ so loudly as to keep me
awake, and though at the slightest change for the worse in my
symptoms she always routed the whole household, telling them, "Rosa
was lyin' now, if she ever was," thereby almost frightening me to
death, I knew that she meant well, and in my heart I liked her far
better than I did my Boston aunt, who, after bidding her
sister-in-law good-by, went back to the parlor, saying to her husband
in a tone loud enough for us to hear, "What a vulgar creature! Did
you notice her hands? Why, they are as coarse and black as a servant
girl's."
"And she's none the worse for that," interposed grandma, warming up
in the defense of her son's wife. "She has now and then an odd
streak, but on the whole she's better than they'll average."
After this, Aunt Charlotte relapsed into silence, which she did not
break until she overheard Herbert proposing to Anna a ride on the
morrow. Then she roused up, and while her little black eyes snapped,
she said, "I am going home to-morrow afternoon, and so are you.
Consequently, there'll be no time for a ride."
In a twinkling, Herbert's thumb and finger went up to his nose, a
gesture which I did not then understand, but it struck me
disagreeably, and had also the effect of silencing Aunt Charlotte,
who made no further remark on the subject until they chanced to be
alone, when I, who was in the hall, heard her say, "What can induce
you to talk so much with that raw country girl? Your city friends
would laugh well if they knew it."
Consigning his "city friends" to the care of the old gentleman
supposed to preside over the lower regions, Herbert walked off in
quest of the "raw country girl," by whose side he sat the remainder
of the evening, talking to her so low that Lizzie whispered to me her
private opinion that "they were courting."
The next morning Aunt Charlotte did not appear at breakfast, it being
so much earlier than her usual hour of rising that she felt wholly
unequal to the task. Accordingly, though we did not wait, the table
did until ten o'clock, when, pale and languid, she came down, seeming
much disturbed to find that Herbert had coaxed Anna into going with
him to call on Aunt Betsey, to whom he had taken quite a fancy, and
who had asked him to visit her "if he didn't feel too smart."
Darting an angry glance at her husband, she said, "How could you
suffer it?" asking at the same time if there was a hotel on the road.
Being told that there was one at Union and another half-way between
that and Meadow Brook, she seemed more disturbed than ever, eating
little or no breakfast, and announcing her intention of staying over
that day, or, at all events, until Herbert returned. Seating herself
at the window, she watched and waited, while the hours crept on and
the clock in grandma's room struck four ere the head of "old Sorrel"
was visible far down the road. Then with an eagerness wholly
incomprehensible to me, she started up, straining her eyes anxiously
in the direction of the fast approaching cutter. As it came nearer
we all observed something rather singular in the position of Herbert,
who seemed lying almost across Anna's lap, while she was driving!
"Merciful Heavens! it's as I feared!" was Aunt Charlotte's
exclamation, as she sank upon the lounge, moaning bitterly, and
covering her face with the cushion, that she might not see the
disgrace of her only son--for Herbert was _drunk_!
Lifting him out, my father and uncle laid him upon the settee in the
sitting-room, just where little Jamie had been laid, and my mother,
as she looked upon the senseless inebriate resting where once had
lain the beautiful, inanimate form of her youngest born, thought how
far less bitter was her cup of sorrow than was that of the half
fainting woman, who would rather, far rather, her boy had died with
the dew of babyhood upon his brow than to have seen him thus debased
and fallen.
The story was soon told, my uncle supplying all points which Anna
could not. It seems that early in life Herbert had acquired a love
for the wine and porter which daily graced his mother's dinner-table.
As he grew older his taste increased for something stronger, until
now nothing save brandy could satisfy the cravings of his appetite.
More than once had he been brought home in a state of entire
unconsciousness, for he was easily intoxicated, it usually taking but
one glass to render him perfectly foolish, while a second was
generally sure to finish the work. These drunken fits were always
followed by resolutions of amendment, and it was now so long since he
had drank that his mother began to have strong hopes of his reform,
but these, alas! were now dashed to the ground. Unfortunately, Uncle
Jason had offered the young man a glass of cider, which immediately
awoke in its full vigor his old love for ardent spirits. Just across
the road, creaking in the November wind, hung the sign of the "Golden
Fleece," and in that direction, soon after dinner, Herbert bent his
steps, taking down at one time a tumbler two thirds full of raw
brandy. This made him very talkative and very affectionate, insomuch
that he kissed Aunt Betsey, who, as soon as she could, started him
for home. When the half-way house, called in opposition to its
neighbor "Silver Skin," was reached, Herbert insisted upon stopping
and taking another glass, which ere long rendered him so helpless
that Anna was obliged to take charge of Sorrel herself, while her
companion fell asleep, leaning his head upon her shoulder and
gradually sinking lower and lower until he rested in her lap.
All that night he remained in the sitting-room, which in the morning
presented so sorry and disgusting an appearance that when Aunt
Charlotte for the hundredth time wished she had never come to Meadow
Brook, our whole family mentally responded a fervent Amen. Herbert,
when fully restored to consciousness, seemed heartily ashamed of
himself, crying like a girl, and winding his arms around his mother's
neck so affectionately that I did not blame her when she forgave him
and wiped away her tears.
She might not have had much faith in his sincerity could she have
heard his conversation with Anna, whom he managed to withdraw from
the family to the recess of a distant window. Alone with her, his
manner changed, and with flashing eyes, he charged it to his mother,
who, he said, first taught him to love it by allowing him, when a
little boy, to drink the bottom of the wine glasses after dinner.
"And if I fill a drunkard's grave," said he, "she will be to blame;
but," he added, as he saw Anna involuntarily shudder, "it shall not
be. I can reform. I _will_ reform, and you must help me do it."
Anna looked wonderingly at him, while he continued, taking her hand
and removing from it a plain gold ring, which grandma had given her
on her fifteenth birthday, "You must let me wear this as a talisman
to protect me from evil. Whenever I am tempted I shall look at it
and be saved."
Anna hesitated awhile, but the soft, handsome eyes of Herbert Langley
had woven around her a spell she could not break, and at last she
consented, receiving from him in return a diamond ring, which he told
her was worth two hundred dollars. When this became known to mother
she very wisely insisted on Anna's returning it, and together with
the note explaining the why and the wherefore it went back to its
owner, who immediately replied by a letter, the contents of which
were carefully kept from us all. The effect, however, was plainly
visible; for, from the time of its receipt we lost our merry,
light-hearted sister, and in her place there moved among us a sober,
listless girl, whom grandma called foolish, and whom Charlie
pronounced "lovesick."
Herbert's letter was soon answered, but when Anna requested my father
to put it in the P.O. he refused, telling her "she should not
correspond with such a _drunken dog_." Possibly it was wrong in him
thus to address her, for kind words and persuasive arguments might
have won her to reason, but now a spirit of opposition was
roused--"Herbert was wronged--misunderstood"--so Anna thought, and
the letter which father refused to take, was conveyed by other hands,
a postscript longer than the letter itself being first added.
After this there was no more trouble. Anna wrote regularly to
Herbert, who promptly responded; his missives always being directed
to one of Anna's schoolmates, who was just romantic enough to think
her companion _persecuted_! Gradually I was let into the secret, and
was occasionally employed to carry Anna's notes to and from the house
of her friend. I did not then consider the great wrong I was doing,
but since I have shed many a bitter tear to think that I in any way
helped to work my sister's ruin.