Part 13

“So we could, sonny, so we could. It takes you to think of things,” and Mrs. Moxon affectionately patted the little brown hand on her knee. “It never would ’a’ come to me that we might have turkey stuffing even if we didn’t have any turkey.”

Ben beamed with delight at this praise. “And was there anything else besides the turkey and the stuffing, Gran’ma?”

“Land, yes, child. There was turnips, and mashed potatoes and mince pie, and your pa got two pounds of grapes, though grapes was expensive at that time o’ year. Yes, nobody could ask for a better dinner than that was.”

“We could have one just like it, all but the turkey and the mince pie and the grapes,” said Ben hopefully.

“So we can, and will, too, child,” answered the old woman. “Trust you for making the best of things,” and the two smiled at each other happily.

Next morning Ben watched his grandmother add an egg, some sage and chopped onion to a bowlful of dry bread, pour boiling water over it, and put the mixture in the oven.

“Your father said I made the best turkey stuffing he ever ate,” she said with satisfaction. “We’ll see how it comes out, Benny.”

“I can’t hardly wait till dinner-time,” Ben said, with an excited skip. “I b’lieve I’ll go down to the beach, and pick up driftwood for a while. You call me when the things are most cooked, Gran’ma.”

The storm of the day before had left many a bit of board or end of a log on the beach that would be just the thing for Mrs. Moxon’s stove. Ben worked so hard that he did not notice a big barge that was coming slowly down the river, towing two other boats behind it, until he heard a voice ask:

“Hullo, kid! What makes you work so hard on Thanksgiving day?”

Then he straightened up, to see the boat’s captain standing near its pilot house, and shouting through a great trumpet.

“I’m waiting for dinner to cook,” Ben answered in his piping voice.

“Can’t hear you!” roared the captain. “Run home and get your horn, and talk to me.”

Ben ran up the little hill to Mrs. Ross’s, and borrowed her trumpet, or megaphone. One’s voice sounds much louder when these are used, and they are to be found at every house on the shores of the St. Mary’s, boats, and those on the land, often want to say, “How do you do?” to each other. It was all Ben could do to hold the great tin trumpet on straight, for it was nearly as long as he was.

“I’m waiting for dinner to cook,” the boy shouted again, and this time the captain heard him.

“Going to have turkey, I suppose?” the captain asked.

“No, but we’re going to have turkey stuffing,” answered Ben with pride.

“Turkey stuffing, but no turkey! If that isn’t the best I ever heard!” The captain had dropped his trumpet, and doubled up with sudden laughter. Luckily Ben did not hear. “What else are you going to have?” he called when he had repeated the joke about him. “Mince pie without any mince meat?”

“No, sir!” Ben’s voice was shrill, but clear. “My father had mince pie for Thanksgiving dinner once, though.”

“Did, did he?” The captain dropped his trumpet again. “That boy’s all right,” he said to the first mate. “He’s too plucky to be laughed at. I’m going to send him some turkey for his stuffing, Morgan. Tell the cook to get ready half a turkey and a mince pie, and say, Morgan, have him send up one of those small baskets of grapes. We’ll tie them to a piece of plank, and they’ll float ashore all right. Tell the cook to hurry, or we’ll be too far downstream for the boy to get the things.” Then he raised his trumpet again.

“Say, kid, can you row that boat that’s tied to your dock?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you hurry out into the river, and I’ll put off a float with some things for your Thanksgiving dinner. You’re going to have some turkey for that stuffing.”

You may be sure Ben lost no time in pushing the rowboat off into the stream, where the end of a plank and its delicious load were soon bobbing up and down on the water. How he did smack his lips when he lifted them into the boat, and how pleased he was for grandma!

“First the stuffing, and then the turkey! My, ain’t I lucky?” He did not know that the captain had said he was plucky, and that luck is very apt to follow pluck.

PUMPKIN PIE

Through sun and shower the pumpkin grew, When the days were long and the skies were blue.

And it felt quite vain when its giant size Was such that it carried away the prize

At the County Fair, when the people came, And it wore a ticket and bore a name.

Alas for the pumpkin’s pride! One day A boy and his mother took it away.

It was pared and sliced and pounded and stewed, And the way it was treated was hard and rude.

It was sprinkled with sugar and seasoned with spice, The boy and his mother pronounced it nice.

It was served in a paste, it was baked and browned, And at last on a pantry shelf was found.

And on Thursday John, Mary, and Mabel Will see it on aunty’s laden table.

For the pumpkin grew ’neath a summer sky Just to turn at Thanksgiving into pie! MARY MAPES DODGE.

MRS. NOVEMBER’S DINNER PARTY[1]

BY AGNES CARR

The Widow November was very busy indeed this year. What with elections and harvest homes, her hands were full to overflowing; for she takes great interest in politics, besides being a social body, without whom no apple bee or corn husking is complete.

Still, worn out as she was, when her thirty sons and daughters clustered round, and begged that they might have their usual family dinner on Thanksgiving day, she could not find it in her hospitable heart to refuse, and immediately invitations were sent to her eleven brothers and sisters, old Father Time, and Mother Year, to come with all their families and celebrate the great American holiday.

Then what a busy time ensued! What a slaughter of unhappy barnyard families--turkeys, ducks, and chickens! What a chopping of apples and boiling of doughnuts! What a picking of raisins and rolling of pie crust, until every nook and corner of the immense storeroom was stocked with “savoury mince and toothsome pumpkin pies,” while so great was the confusion that even the stolid redhued servant, Indian Summer, lost his head, and smoked so continually he always appeared surrounded by a blue mist, as he piled logs upon the great bonfires in the yard, until they lighted up the whole country for miles around.

But at length all was ready; the happy days had come, and all the little Novembers, in their best “bib and tucker,” were seated in a row, awaiting the arrival of their uncles, aunts, and cousins, while their mother, in russet-brown silk trimmed with misty lace, looked them over, straightening Guy Fawkes’ collar, tying Thanksgiving’s neck ribbon, and settling a dispute between two little presidential candidates as to which should sit at the head of the table.

Soon a merry clashing of bells, blowing of horns, and mingling of voices were heard outside, sleighs and carriages dashed up to the door, and in came, “just in season,” Grandpa Time, with Grandma Year leaning on his arm, followed by all their children and grandchildren, and were warmly welcomed by the hostess and her family.

“Oh, how glad I am we could all come to-day!” said Mr. January, in his crisp, clear tones, throwing off his great fur coat, and rushing to the blazing fire. “There is nothing like the happy returns of these days.”

“Nothing, indeed,” simpered Mrs. February, the poetess. “If I had had time I should have composed some verses for the occasion; but my son Valentine has brought a sugar heart, with a sweet sentiment on it, to his cousin Thanksgiving. I, too, have taken the liberty of bringing a sort of adopted child of mine, young Leap Year, who makes us a visit every four years.”

“He is very welcome, I am sure,” said Mrs. November, patting Leap Year kindly on the head. “And, Sister March, how have you been since we last met?”

“Oh! we have had the North, South, East, and West Winds all at our house, and they have kept things breezy, I assure you. But I really feared we should not get here to-day; for when we came to dress I found nearly everything we had was lent; so that must account for our shabby appearance.”

“He! he! he!” tittered little April Fool. “What a sell!” And he shook until the bells on his cap rang; at which his father ceased for a moment showering kisses on his nieces and nephews, and boxed his ears for his rudeness.

“Oh, Aunt May! do tell us a story,” clamoured the younger children, and dragging her into a corner she was soon deep in such a moving tale that they were all melted to tears, especially the little Aprils, who cry very easily.

Meanwhile, Mrs. June, assisted by her youngest daughter, a “sweet girl graduate,” just from school, was engaged in decking the apartment with roses and lilies and other fragrant flowers that she had brought from her extensive gardens and conservatories, until the room was a perfect bower of sweetness and beauty; while Mr. July draped the walls with flags and banners, lighted the candles, and showed off the tricks of his pet eagle, Yankee Doodle, to the great delight of the little ones.

Madam August, who suffers a great deal with the heat, found a seat on a comfortable sofa, as far from the fire as possible, and waved a huge feather fan back and forth, while her thirty-one boys and girls, led by the two oldest, Holiday and Vacation, ran riot through the long rooms, picking at their Aunt June’s flowers, and playing all sorts of pranks, regardless of tumbled hair and torn clothes, while they shouted, “Hurrah for fun!” and behaved like a pack of wild colts let loose in a green pasture, until their Uncle September called them, together with his own children, into the library, and persuaded them to read some of the books with which the shelves were filled, or play quietly with the game of Authors and the Dissected Maps.

“For,” said Mr. September to Mrs. October, “I think Sister August lets her children romp too much. I always like improving games for mine, although I have great trouble in making Equinox toe the line as he should.”

“That is because you are a schoolmaster,” laughed Mrs. October, shaking her head, adorned with a wreath of gaily tinted leaves; “but where is my baby?”

At that moment a cry was heard without, and Indian Summer came running in to say that little All Hallows had fallen into a tub of water while trying to catch an apple that was floating on top, and Mrs. October, rushing off to the kitchen, returned with her youngest in a very wet and dripping condition, and screaming at the top of his lusty little lungs. He could only be consoled by a handful of chestnuts, which his nurse, Miss Frost, cracked open for him.

The little Novembers, meanwhile, were having a charming time with their favourite cousins, the Decembers, who were always so gay and jolly, and had such a delightful papa. He came with his pockets stuffed full of toys and sugarplums, which he drew out from time to time, and gave to his best-loved child, Merry Christmas, to distribute amongst the children, who gathered eagerly around their little cousin, saying:

“Christmas comes but once a year, But when she comes she brings good cheer.”

At which Merry laughed gaily, and tossed her golden curls, in which were twined sprays of holly and clusters of brilliant scarlet berries.

At last the great folding-doors were thrown open. Indian summer announced that dinner was served, and a long procession of old and young was quickly formed, and led by Mrs. November and her daughter Thanksgiving, whose birthday it was. They filed into the spacious dining-room, where stood the long table, groaning beneath its weight of good things, while four servants ran continually in and out bringing more substantials and delicacies to grace the board and please the appetite. Winter staggered beneath great trenchers of meat and poultry, pies, and puddings; Spring brought the earliest and freshest vegetables; Summer, the richest creams and ices; while Autumn served the guests with fruit, and poured the sparkling wine.

All were gay and jolly, and many a joke was cracked as the contents of each plate and dish melted away like snow before the sun, and the great fires roared in the wide chimneys as though singing a glad Thanksgiving song.

New Year drank everybody’s health, and wished them “many returns of the day,” while Twelfth Night ate so much cake he made himself quite ill, and had to be put to bed.

Valentine sent mottoes to all the little girls, and praised their bright eyes and glossy curls. “For,” said his mother, “he is a sad flatterer, and not nearly so truthful, I am sorry to say, as his brother, George Washington, who never told a lie.”

At which Grandfather Time gave George a quarter, and said he should always remember what a good boy he was.

After dinner the fun increased, all trying to do something for the general amusement. Mrs. March persuaded her son, St. Patrick, to dance an Irish Jig, which he did to the tune of the “Wearing of the Green,” which his brothers, Windy and Gusty, blew and whistled on their fingers.

Easter sang a beautiful song, the little Mays, “tripped the light fantastic toe” in a pretty fancy dance, while the Junes sat by so smiling and sweet it was a pleasure to look at them.

Independence, the fourth child of Mr. July, who is a bold little fellow, and a fine speaker, gave them an oration he had learned at school; and the Augusts suggested games of tag and blindman’s buff, which they all enjoyed heartily.

Mr. September tried to read an instructive story aloud, but was interrupted by Equinox, April Fool, and little All Hallows, who pinned streamers to his coat tails, covered him with flour, and would not let him get through a line; at which Mrs. October hugged her tricksy baby, and laughed until she cried, and Mr. September retired in disgust.

“That is almost too bad,” said Mrs. November, as she shook the popper vigorously in which the corn was popping and snapping merrily; “but, Thanksgiving, you must not forget to thank your cousins for all they have done to honour your birthday.”

At which the demure little maiden went round to each one, and returned her thanks in such a charming way it was quite captivating.

Grandmother Year at last began to nod over her teacup in the chimney corner.

“It is growing late,” said Grandpa Time.

“But we must have a Virginia Reel before we go,” said Mr. December.

“Oh, yes, yes!” cried all the children.

Merry Christmas played a lively air on the piano, and old and young took their positions on the polished floor with grandpa and grandma at the head.

Midsummer danced with Happy New Year, June’s Commencement with August’s Holiday, Leap Year with May Day, and all “went merry as a marriage bell.”

The fun was at its height when suddenly the clock in the corner struck twelve. Grandma Year motioned all to stop, and Grandfather Time, bowing his head, said softly, “Hark! my children, Thanksgiving Day is ended.”

[1] From _Harper’s Young People_, November, 1883.

THE DEBUT OF “DAN’L WEBSTER”

ISABEL GORDON CURTIS

Used by permission of _St. Nicholas_.

“I guess you can get the ell roof shingled now, ’most any old time,” cried Homer Tidd. He bounced in at the kitchen door. A blast of icy wind followed him.

“Gracious! shet the door, Homer, an’ then tell me your news.” His mother shivered and pulled a little brown shawl tighter about her shoulders. The boy planted himself behind the stove and laid his mittened hands comfortably around the pipe. “Oh, I’ve made a great deal, Mother.” Homer’s freckled face glowed with satisfaction.

“What?” asked Mrs. Tidd.

“Did you see the man that jest druv out o’ the yard?”

“No, I didn’t, Homer.”

“Well, ’twas Mr. Richards--the Mr. Richards o’ Finch & Richards, the big market folks over in the city.”

“Has he bought your Thanksgivin’ turkeys?”

“He hain’t bought ’em for Thanksgivin’.”

“Well, what are you so set up about, boy?”

“He’s rented the hull flock. He’s to pay me three dollars a day for them, then he’s goin’ to buy them all for Christmas.”

“Land sakes! Three dollars a day.” Mrs. Tidd dropped one side of a pan of apples she was carrying, and some of them went rolling about the kitchen floor.

Homer nodded.

“For how long?” she asked eagerly.

“For a week.” Homer’s freckles disappeared in the crimson glow of enthusiasm that overspread his face.

“Eighteen dollars for nothin’ but exhibitin’ a bunch o’ turkeys! Seems to me some folks must have money to throw away.” Mrs. Tidd stared perplexedly over the top of her glasses.

“I’ll tell you all about it, Mother.” Homer took a chair and planted his feet on the edge of the oven. “Mr. Richards is goin’ to have a great Thanksgivin’ food show, an’ he wants a flock o’ live turkeys. He’s been drivin’ round the country lookin’ for some. The postmaster sent him here. He told him about Dan’l Webster’s tricks.”

“They don’t make Dan’l any better eatin’,” objected his mother.

“Maybe not. But don’t you see? Well!”

Homer’s laugh was an embarrassed one. “I’m goin’ to put Dan’l an’ Gettysburg through their tricks right in the store window.”

“You ben’t?” and the mother looked in rapt admiration at her clever son.

“I be!” answered Homer, triumphantly.

“I don’t know, boy, jest what I think o’ it,” said his mother, slowly. “’Tain’t exactly a--a gentlemanly sort o’ thing to do; be it?”

“I reckon I ben’t a gentleman, Mother,” replied Homer, with his jolly laugh.

“Tell me all about it.”

“Well, I was feedin’ the turkeys when Mr. Richards druv in. He said he heered I had some trick turkeys, an’ he’d like to see ’em. Lucky enough, I hadn’t fed ’em; they was awful hungry, an’ I tell you they never did their tricks better.”

“What did Mr. Richards say?”

“He thought it was the most amazin’ thing he’d ever seen in his life. He said he wouldn’t have believed turkeys had enough gumption in them to learn a trick o’ any kind.”

“Did you tell him how you’d fussed with them ever since they was little chicks?”

“I did. He wuz real interested, an’ he offered me three dollars to give a show three times a day. He’s got a window half as big as this kitchen. He’ll have it wired in, an’ the turkeys’ll stay there at his expense. Along before Christmas he’ll give me twenty-two cents a pound for ’em.”

“Well, I vow, Homer, it’s pretty good pay.”

“Mr. Richards give me a commutation on the railroad. He’s to send after the turkeys an’ bring ’em back, so I won’t have any expense.”

Homer rose and sauntered about the kitchen, picking up the apples that had rolled in all directions over the floor.

A week before Thanksgiving, the corner in front of Finch & Richard’s great market looked as it was wont to look on circus day: only the eyes of the crowds were not turned expectantly up Main Street; they were riveted on a window in the big store. Passers-by tramped out into the snowy street when they reached the mob at the corner. The front of the store was decorated with a fringe of plump turkeys. One window had held a glowing mountain of fruit and vegetables arranged by someone with a keen eye to colour--monstrous pumpkins, splendid purple cabbages, rosy apples and russet pears, green and purple grapes, snowy stalks of celery, and corn ears yellow as sunshine. Crimson beets neighboured with snowy parsnips, scarlet carrots, and silk-wrapped onions. Egg-plants, gleaming like deep-hued amethysts, circled about magnificent cauliflowers, while red and yellow bananas made gay mosaic walks through the fruit mountain. Wherever a crack or a cranny had been left was a mound of ruby cranberries, fine raisin bunches, or brown nuts.

It was a remarkable display of American products; yet, after the first “Ah” of admiration, people passed on to the farther window, where six plump turkeys, supremely innocent of a feast-day fête, flapped their wings or gobbled impertinently when a small boy laid his nose flat against the window. Three times a day the crowd grew twenty deep. It laughed and shouted and elbowed one another good-naturedly, for the Thanksgiving spirit was abroad. Men tossed children up on their stalwart shoulders, then small hands clapped ecstatically, and small legs kicked with wild enthusiasm.

The hero of the hour was a freckled, redhaired boy, who came leaping through a wire door with an old broom over his shoulders. Every turkey waited for him eagerly, hungrily! They knew that each old, familiar trick--learned away back in chickhood--would earn a good feed. When the freckled boy began to whistle, or when his voice rang out in a shrill order, it was the signal for Dan’l Webster, for Gettysburg, for Amanda Ann, Mehitable, Nancy, or Farragut to step to the center of the stage and do some irresistibly funny turn with a turkey’s bland solemnity. None of the birds had attacks of stage fright--their acting was as self-possessed as if they were in the old farm yard with no audience present but Mrs. Tidd to lean smiling over the fence with a word of praise, and the coveted handful of golden corn.

With every performance the crowd grew more dense, the applause more uproarious, and the Thanksgiving trade at Finch & Richard’s bigger than it had been in years. Each night Homer took the last train home, tired but happy, for three crisp greenbacks were added to the roll in his small, shabby wallet.

Two days before Thanksgiving, Homer, in his blue overalls and faded sweater, was busy at work. The gray of the dawn was just creeping into the east, while the boy went hurrying through his chores. There was still a man’s work to be done before he took the ten o’clock train to town; besides, he had promised to help his mother about the house. His grandfather, an uncle, an aunt, and three small cousins were coming to eat their Thanksgiving feast at the old farmhouse. Homer whistled gaily, while he bedded the creatures with fresh straw. The whistle trailed into an indistinct trill; the boy felt a pang of loneliness as he glanced into the turkey-pen. There was nobody there but old Mother Salvia. Homer tossed her a handful of corn. “Poor old lady, I s’pose you’re lonesome, ain’t you, now? Never mind; when spring comes you’ll be scratchin’ around with a hull raft of nice little chickies at your heels. We’ll teach them a fine trick or two, won’t we, old Salvia?”

Salvia clucked over the corn appreciatively.

“Homer, Homer, come here quick.”

Down the frozen path through the yard came Mrs. Tidd, with the little brown shawl wrapped tightly about her head. She fluttered a yellow envelope in her hand.

“Homer boy, it’s a telegraph come. I can’t read it; I’ve mislaid my glasses.”

Homer was by her side in a minute, tearing open the flimsy envelope.

“It’s from Finch & Richards, Mother,” he cried excitedly. “They say, ‘Take the first train to town without fail.’”

“What do you s’pose they want you for?” asked Mrs. Tidd, with a very anxious face.

“P’r’aps the store’s burned down,” gasped Homer. He brushed one rough hand across his eyes. “Poor Dan’l Webster an’ Gettysburg! I didn’t know anybody could set so much store by turkeys.”

“Maybe ’t ain’t nothin’ bad, Homer,” Mrs. Tidd laid her hand upon his shoulder. “Maybe they want you to give an extra early show or somethin’.” She suggested it cheerfully.

“Maybe,” echoed Homer. “But, Mother, I’ve got to hurry to catch that 7:30 train.”

“Let me go with you, Homer.”

“You don’t need to,” cried the boy. “It probably ain’t nothin’ serious.”

“I’m goin’,” cried Mrs. Tidd decisively; “you don’t s’pose I could stay here doin’ nothin’ but waitin’ an’ wond’rin’?”

Mrs. Tidd and Homer caught a car at the city depot. Five minutes later they stood in front of Finch & Richards’ big market.

“Mother,” whispered the boy, as he stepped off the car, “Mother, my turkeys! They’re not there! Something’s happened. See the crowd.”