Thirty-six months. That's not so long a run in daily affairs, and this
Branton Hills history finds Thanksgiving Day dawning. In Branton Hill's
locality it is not, customarily, what you would call a cold day. Many a
Thanksgiving has had warm, balmy air, and without snow; though, also,
without all that vast army of tiny chirping, singing, buzzing things
on lawn or branch. But contrast has its own valuation; for, through
it, common sights, vanishing annually, show up with a happy joy, upon
coming back. Ah! That first faint coloring of grass, in Spring! That
baby bud, on shrub or plant, shyly asking our loving South Wind if
it's all right to pop out, now. That sprouting of big brown limbs on
oak and birch; that first "blush of Spring" in orchards; that first
furry, fuzzy, cuddly spray of pussy willows! Spring and Fall; two big
points in your trip along your Pathway. Fall with its rubbish from
months of labor: cornstalks, brown, dry grass, old twigs lying around,
wilting plants; bright colorings blazing in distant woodlands; chill
winds crawling in through windows, at night. And Spring! Pick-up,
paint-up, wash-up Spring!! So, as I said, Branton Hills got around to
Thanksgiving Day; that day on which as many of a family as possibly can
should sit around a common board; coming from afar, or from only a door
or two away.
Gadsby's dining-room was not big; it had always sat but six in his
family. But, on _this_ Thanksgiving Day,--hmmm! "Wait, now--uh-huh,
that's it. Just run that pair of sliding doors back, put that parlor
lamp upstairs; and that piano? Why not roll it out into my front hall?
I know it will look odd, but you can't go through a Thanksgiving 'soup
to nuts' standing up. _Got_ to jam in chairs, any old way!"
But who is all this mob that will turn His Honor's dining-room into a
thirty-foot hall? I'll look around, as our happy, laughing, singing,
clapping group sits down to Gadsby's Thanksgiving party.
I find _two_ "posts of honor;" (My gracious! _so_ far apart!); His
Honor, with carving tools filling dish, dish, and dish.
"Atta boy! Atta girl! Pass up your chow-dish! This bird has but two
drum-sticks, but six of his cousins wait, out in our cook-shop! Lots of
grub! What's that, Julius? A bit of dark? Want any gravy?"
At Post Two sits "Ma;" again in that good old buxom condition, so
familiar to all Branton Hills:--
"Right this way, folks, for potato, squash, onions, carrots and
turnip!!"
_What_ a happy bunch! Following around from Gadsby, sit Bill, Lucy and
Addison. But whoa! Who's this Addison? Oh, pardon; I forgot all about
it. Lucy's baby; and his first Thanksgiving. Hi, you! Tut-tut! Mustn't
grab raisins! Naughty, naughty! On Lucy's right sit Mary, Julius
and Norman; following along, I find Nancy, Frank and Baby Lillian,
Kathlyn, John, Lady Standish, Priscilla and Hubby Arthur Rankin; Nina
Adams,--Oh! A _thousand_ pardons!!--Nina _Simpkins!_ and Old Bill. Say!
You wouldn't know Bill! Bright, happy, laughing, singing, and tapping
a cup with his spoon; spick-span suit, and that now famous "Broadway
carnation." Hulloa, Bill; you old sport!! Glad to find you looking so
happy! _What?_ _Two_ whacks at that bird? Why Bill!! On Bill's right
sits Pastor Brown, old Doctor Wilkins, Harold, Virginia, and Patricia.
Oh, pardon again! Patricia, Virgina's baby; just six months old, today,
and valiantly trying to swallow a half-pound candy cow! Following
around I find Old Tom Young, Sarah, and Paul. No, I don't find a
high-chair by Sarah; but Sarah sits just rocking, rocking, rocking,
now-a-days. Following on, again, is Old Tom Donaldson, Clancy Dowd,
_and_--Old Lady Flanagan, with "this dom thing I calls hoosband!" And
lastly, Marian and old Pat Ryan from our railway station's trunk room.