Part 14

They pushed their way through a mob that was peering in at the windows, and through the windows of locked doors. The row of plump turkeys was not hung this morning under the big sign; the magnificent window display of fruit and vegetables had been ruthlessly demolished.

“What do you s’pose can have happened?” whispered Mrs. Tidd, while they waited for a clerk to come hurrying down the store and unlock the door.

Homer shook his head.

Mr. Richards himself came to greet them.

“Well, young man,” he cried, “I’ve had enough of your pesky bird show. There’s a hundred dollars’ worth of provisions gone, to say nothing of the trade we are turning away. Two days before Thanksgiving, of all times in the year!”

“Good land!” whispered Mrs. Tidd. Her eyes were wandering about the store. It was scattered from one end to the other with wasted food. Sticky rivers trickled here and there across the floor. A small army of clerks was hard at work sweeping and mopping.

“Where’s my turkeys?” asked Homer.

“Your turkeys, confound them!” snarled Mr. Richards. “They’re safe and sound in their crate in my back store, all but that blasted old gobbler you call Dan’l Webster. He’s doing his stunts on a top shelf. We found him there tearing cereal packages into shreds. For mercy’s sake, go and see if you can’t get him down. He has almost pecked the eyes out of every clerk who has tried to lay a finger on him. I’d like to wring his ugly neck.”

Mr. Richard’s face grew red as the comb of Dan’l Webster himself.

Homer and his mother dashed across the store. High above their heads strutted Dan’l Webster with a slow, stately tread. Occasionally he peered down at the ruin and confusion below, commenting upon it with a lordly, satisfied gobble.

“Dan’l Webster,” called Homer, coaxingly, “good old Dan’l, come an’ see me.”

The boy slipped cautiously along to where a step-ladder stood.

“Dan’l,” he called persuasively, “wouldn’t you like to come home, Dan’l?”

Dan’l perked down with pleased recognition in his eyes. Homer crept up the ladder. He was preparing to lay a hand on one of Dan’l’s black legs when the turkey hopped away with a triumphant gobble, and went racing gleefully along the wide shelf. A row of bottles filled with salad-dressing stood in Dan’l’s path. He cleared them out of the way with one energetic kick. They tumbled to a lower shelf; their yellow contents crept in a sluggish stream toward the mouth of a tea-box.

“I’ll have that bird shot!” thundered Mr. Richards. “That’s all there is about it.”

“Wait a minute, sir,” pleaded Mrs. Tidd. “Homer’ll get him.”

Dan’l Webster would neither be coaxed nor commanded. He wandered up and down the shelf, gobbling vociferously into the faces of the excited mob.

“Henry, go and get a pistol,” cried Mr. Richards, turning to one of his clerks.

“Homer,”--Mrs. Tidd clutched the boy’s arm,--“why don’t you make b’lieve you’re shootin’ Dan’l? Maybe he’ll lie down, so you can git him.”

Homer called for a broom. He tossed it, gun fashion, across his shoulder, and crept along slowly, sliding a ladder before him to the spot where the turkey stood watching with intent eyes. He put one foot upon the lowest step, then he burst out in a spirited whistle. It was “Marching through Georgia.” The bird stared at him fixedly.

“Bang!” cried Homer, and he pointed the broom straight at the recreant turkey.

Dan’l Webster dropped stiff. A second later Homer had a firm grasp of the scaly legs. Dan’l returned instantly to life, but the rebellious head was tucked under his master’s jacket. Dan’l Webster thought he was being strangled to death.

“There!” cried Homer, triumphantly. He closed the lid of the poultry crate, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “There! I guess you won’t get out again.”

He followed Mr. Richards to the front of the store to view the devastation.

“Who’d have thought turkeys could have ripped up strong wire like that?” cried the enraged market man, pointing to the shattered door.

“I guess Dan’l began the mischief,” said Homer soberly; “he’s awful strong.”

“I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on Dan’l!” exclaimed Mr. Richards. “I’ll hate to see Finch. He’ll be in on the 4.20 train. He’s conservative; he never had any use for the turkey show.”

“When did you find out that they--what had happened?” asked Homer timidly.

“At five o’clock. Two of the men got here early. They telephoned me. I never saw such destruction in my life. Your turkeys had sampled most everything in the store, from split peas to molasses. What they didn’t eat they knocked over or tore open. I guess they won’t need feeding for a week. They’re chuckful of oatmeal, beans, crackers, peanuts, pickles, toothpicks, prunes, soap, red herrings, cabbage--about everything their crops can hold.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” faltered Homer.

“So am I,” said Mr. Richards resolutely. “Now, the best thing you can do is to take your flock and clear out. I’ve had enough of performing turkeys.”

Homer and his mother waited at the depot for the 11 o’clock train. Beside them stood a crate filled with turkeys that wore a well-fed, satisfied expression. Somebody tapped Homer on the shoulder.

“You’re the boy who does the stunts with turkeys, aren’t you?” asked a well-dressed man with a silk hat, and a flower in his buttonhole.

“Yes,” answered the boy, wonderingly.

“I’ve been hunting for you. That was a great rumpus you made at Finch & Richards’. The whole town’s talking about it.”

“Yes,” answered Homer again, and he blushed scarlet.

“Taking your turkeys home?”

Homer nodded.

“I’ve come to see if we can keep them in town a few days longer.”

The boy shook his head vigorously. “I don’t want any more turkey shows.”

“Not if the price is big enough to make it worth your while?”

“No!” said Homer sturdily.

“Let us go into the station and talk it over.”

* * * * *

On Thanksgiving afternoon the Colonial Theater, the best vaudeville house in the city, held a throng that was dined well, and was happy enough to appreciate any sort of fun. The children--hundreds of them--shrieked with delight over every act. The women laughed, the men applauded with great hearty hand-claps. A little buzz of excitement went round the house when, at the end of the fourth turn, two boys, instead of setting up the regulation big red number, displayed a brand new card. It read: “Extra Number--Homer Tidd and his Performing Turkeys.” A shout of delighted anticipation went up from the audience. Every paper in town had made a spectacular story of the ruin at Finch & Richards’. Nothing could have been so splendid a surprise. Everybody broke into applause, everybody except one little woman who sat in the front row of the orchestra. Her face was pale, her hands clasped, and unclasped each other tremulously. “Homer, boy,” she whispered to herself.

The curtain rolled up. The stage was set for a realistic farmyard scene. The floor was scattered with straw, an old pump leaned over in one corner, hay tumbled untidily from a barn-loft, a coop with a hen and chickens stood by the fence. From her stall stared a white-faced cow; her eyes blinked at the glare of the footlights. The orchestra struck up a merry tune; the cow uttered an astonished moo; then in walked a sturdy lad with fine, broad shoulders, red hair, and freckles. His boots clumped, his blue overalls were faded, his sweater had once been red. At his heels stepped six splendid turkeys, straight in line, every one with its eyes on the master. Homer never knew how he did it. Two minutes earlier he had said to the manager, desperately: “I’ll cut an’ run right off as soon as I set eyes on folks.” Perhaps he drew courage from the anxious gaze in his mother’s eyes. Hers was the only face he saw in the great audience. Perhaps it was the magnificent aplomb of the turkeys that inspired him. They stepped serenely, as if walking out on a gorgeously lighted stage was an every-day event in their lives. Anyhow, Homer threw up his head, and led the turkey march round and round past the footlights, till the shout of applause dwindled into silence. The boy threw back his head and snapped his fingers. The turkeys retreated to form in line at the back of the stage.

“Gettysburg,” cried Homer, pointing to a stately, plump hen. Gettysburg stepped to the center of the stage. “How many kernels of corn have I thrown you, Getty?” he asked.

The turkey turned to count them, with her head cocked reflectively on one side. Then she scratched her foot on the floor.

“One, two, three, four, five!”

“Right. Now you may eat them, Getty.”

Gettysburg wore her new-won laurels with an excellent grace. She jumped through a row of hoops, slid gracefully about the stage on a pair of miniature roller-skates; she stepped from stool to chair, from chair to table, in perfect time with Homer’s whistle, and a low strain of melody from the orchestra. She danced a stately jig on the table, then, with a satisfied cluck, descended on the other side to the floor. Amanda Ann, Mehitable, Nancy, and Farragut achieved their triumphs in a slow dance made up of dignified hops and mazy turns. They stood in a decorous line awaiting the return of their master, for Homer had dashed suddenly from the stage. He reappeared, holding his head up proudly. Now he wore the blue uniform and jaunty cap of a soldier boy; a gun leaned on his shoulder.

The orchestra put all its vigor, patriotism, and wind into “Marching through Georgia.”

Straight to Homer’s side when they heard his whistle, wheeled the turkey regiment, ready to keep step, to fall in line, to march and countermarch. Only one feathered soldier fell. It was Dan’l Webster. At a bang from Homer’s rifle he dropped stiff and stark. From children here and there in the audience came a cry of horror. They turned to ask in frightened whispers if the turkey was “truly shooted.” As if to answer the question, Dan’l leaped to his feet. Homer pulled a Stars and Stripes from his pocket, and waved it enthusiastically; then the orchestra dashed into “Yankee Doodle.” It awoke some patriotic spirit in the soul of Dan’l Webster. He left his master, and, puffing himself to his stateliest proportions, stalked to the footlights to utter one glorious, soul-stirring gobble. The curtain fell, but the applause went on and on and on! At last, out again across the stage came Homer, waving “Old Glory.” Dan’l Webster, Gettysburg, Amanda Ann, Nancy, Mehitable and Farragut followed in a triumphal march. Homer’s eyes were bent past the footlights, searching for the face of one little woman. This time the face was one radiant flush, and her hands were adding their share to the deafening applause.

“Homer, boy,” she said fondly. This time she spoke aloud, but nobody heard it. An encore for the “Extra Turn” was so vociferous, it almost shook the plaster from the ceiling.

THE GREEN CORN DANCE

FRANCES JENKINS OLCOTT

The first Thanksgiving Dinner in America, where was it eaten? Why, of course, we think of its being eaten in old Plymouth Town, when the Pilgrim Fathers spread their board with fish, wild turkey, geese, ducks, venison, barley bread, Indian maize, and other good things, and invited the Indian King Massasoit and his braves to the feast. It was a time of rejoicing and thanksgiving for the fine harvest God had given the Pilgrims.

But that was not the first Thanksgiving Dinner eaten in America! For many, many years before the Pilgrims came to this land, Thanksgiving Dinners had been given. The Red Men, the first owners of America, held their Thanksgiving Festivals every autumn. These were in celebration of the ripening of the corn, and in honour of their Manitos, as they called their gods. For, until the white men came, the Indians never heard of the all-good “Great Spirit” of Heaven. They held other feasts, too, among them a New Year one, a Maple Sugar Feast, a Strawberry Festival, a Bean Dance, and a Corn-gathering Feast.

Even to-day, some Indians keep their heathen Thanksgiving at the time of the ripening of the corn. It is called the Green Corn Dance. Many Indians are Christians, but numbers still worship the Manitos of the sun, moon, stars, wind, rain, thunder, and other things in Nature. Though some of these heathen Red Men speak reverently of the Great Spirit, they seem scarcely to understand who He is, and confuse Him with their Manitos, as may be seen in the hymn that introduces the Feather Dance.

Among some tribes of the Iroquois Family, in New York State, the Green Corn Dance is still celebrated. And this is how a visitor saw the dance at the Cattaraugus Reservation.

As the time for the Festival approached, certain men and women of the tribe, called the “Keepers of the Faith,” began to prepare for the dance. Every morning at sunrise, the women went to the cornfield and picked a few ears, and took them to the Head Man at the Council House. When he decided that the corn was sufficiently ripe, the Feast was called.

Summons were sent to the Indians at the Tonawanda and Allegany Reservations, bidding all meet at sunrise on the tenth of September, in the Council House of the Cattaraugus Reservation.

On the morning of the feast, the men, “Keepers of the Faith,” arose at sunrise, and built a fire, on which they threw an offering of tobacco and corn, and they prayed to the Great Spirit to bless the tribes. They then extinguished the fire, and later the women “Keepers of the Faith” built another in the same spot.

Then the people began to arrive, all in their best clothes. While they were waiting for the ceremonies to begin, the young men played ball, and the girls walked about, talking with each other. Meanwhile, the women “Keepers of the Faith,” hastened to prepare soup and succotash, which were soon boiling in large kettles suspended over huge, flaming logs.

After a little while the people began to move toward the Council House, a long, low, wooden building, with a door at the northeast end, and another at the southwest. The people entered in two lines, the women through one door, and the men through the other. All took their seats on benches arranged on three sides of the room. In the centre of the room sat the singers, and the musicians with their turtle-shell rattles.

When all was quiet, the speaker began the ceremonies by a prayer to the Great Spirit, while the men, with bowed, uncovered heads,--Indians do not kneel,--listened reverently.

After the prayer was finished, the speaker, lifting his voice, addressed the Indians.

“My friends,” he said, “we are here to worship the Great Spirit. As by our old custom, we give the Great Spirit His dance, the Great Feather Dance. We must have it before noon. The Great Spirit sees to everything in the morning, afterwards he rests. He gives us land and things to live on, so we must thank Him for His ground, and for the things it brought forth. He gave us the thunder to wet the land, so we must thank the thunder. We must thank Ga-ne-o-di-o[2] that we know he is in the happy land. It is the wish of the Great Spirit that we express our thanks in dances as well as prayer. The cousin clans are here from Tonawanda; we are thankful to the Great Spirit to have them here, and to greet them with the rattles and singing. We have appointed one of them to lead the dances.”

When the speaker finished, there was a pause, then a shout outside the Council House told that the Feather Dancers were coming. They entered the room, a long, gracefully swaying line of fifty men, clad in Indian costume, gay with colour and nodding plumes, and with bells adorning their leggings. Slowly and majestically they entered, and stood for a moment near the entrance. Then the speaker began in a high voice, the hymn of thanksgiving to the Great Spirit, while the dancers, in single file, commenced walking slowly around the room, keeping step with the beating of the musicians’ rattles.

Each verse of the hymn thanked the Great Spirit for some benefit,--for water, for the animals, for the trees, for the light, for the fruits, for the stars, and among other good things, for the “Supporters,” the three Manito-sisters, the guardians of the Corn, Bean, and Squash.

After each verse, the dancers quickened their steps, and danced rapidly around the room. When the hymn was finished, the speaker ordered the real dance to start. Then, still in single file, the dancers began the great Feather Dance.

Erect in body, yet gracefully swaying, they moved around and around the Council House, keeping time with the rhythmic beat of the rattles, that sounded now slow and now fast. Lifting each foot alternately from the floor, every dancer brought his heel down with such force that all the legging-bells rang in time with the music. At times the movement grew very swift, and the many lithesome twistings and bendings of the dancers, their shouts to one another, and the cries of the spectators, filled all with keen excitement. During the slower movements, some of the women arose, and joined the dance, forming an inner circle.

Then the dancers sang a weird chant, in company with the singers, “Ha-ho!--Ha-ho!--Ha-ho!” they sang; then all present joined in the quick refrain, “Way-ha-ah! Way-ha-ah! Way-ha-ah!” ending in a loud, guttural shout, as the dancers bowed their heads, “Ha-i! Ha-i!”

When the noon hour came, the great Feather Dance was over, and two huge kettles were brought in to the Council House, one full of soup, and the other of succotash. One of the men “Keepers of the Faith,” said a prayer of thanksgiving, in which all joined, and the food was poured into vessels brought by the women. It was then carried to the homes, where the Indians enjoyed eating it by their own firesides.

The feast was over for that day, but it lasted two days more, during which the tribes gambled, danced, ate, and beat their drums. The visitor who saw this Green Corn Festival, wrote afterward about the closing scene, the great Snake Dance:

“The nodding plumes, the tinkling bells, the noisy rattles, the beats of the high-strung drums, the shuffling feet and weird cries of the dancers, and the approving shouts of the spectators, all added to the spell of a strangeness that seemed to invest the quaint old Council House with the supernaturalness of a dream!

“As the sun neared its setting, the dancers stopped in a quiet order, and the speaker of the day bade farewell to the clans ... and, after invoking the blessing of the Great Spirit, declared the Green Corn Festival of 1890 ended.”

[2] A prophet of the Indians.

THANKSGIVING

“Have you cut the wheat in the blowing fields, The barley, the oats, and the rye, The golden corn and the pearly rice? For the winter days are nigh.”

“We have reaped them all from shore to shore, And the grain is safe on the threshing floor.”

“Have you gathered the berries from the vine, And the fruit from the orchard trees? The dew and the scent from the roses and thyme, In the hive of the honeybees?”

“The peach and the plum and the apple are ours, And the honeycomb from the scented flowers.”

“The wealth of the snowy cotton field And the gift of the sugar cane, The savoury herb and the nourishing root---- There has nothing been given in vain.”

“We have gathered the harvest from shore to shore, And the measure is full and brimming o’er.”

“Then lift up the head with a song! And lift up the hand with a gift! To the ancient Giver of all The spirit in gratitude lift! For the joy and the promise of spring, For the hay and the clover sweet, The barley, the rye, and the oats, The rice, and the corn, and the wheat, The cotton, and sugar, and fruit, The flowers and the fine honeycomb, The country so fair and so free, The blessings and glory of home.” AMELIA E. BARR.

THE TWO ALMS OR THE THANKSGIVING DAY GIFT

Translated by special permission from Guerber’s Contes et Legendes, I^{ère} Partie. Copyright by American Book Company.

Once upon a time a poor old beggar woman stood shivering by the side of a road which led to a prosperous village. She hoped some traveler would be touched by her misery, and would give her a few pennies with which to buy food and fuel.

It had been snowing since early morning, and a sharp east wind made the evening air bitterly cold. At the sound of approaching footsteps the old woman’s face brightened with expectancy, but the next moment her eager expression changed to disappointment, for the traveler passed without giving her anything.

“Poor old woman,” he said to himself. “This is a bitter cold night to be begging on the roadside. It is, indeed. I am truly sorry for her.”

And as his footsteps became fainter, the beggar woman whispered, “I must not give up. Perhaps the next traveler will help me.”

In a little while she heard the sound of wheels. It happened to be the carriage of the mayor, who was on his way to a Thanksgiving banquet. When his excellency saw the miserable old woman, he ordered the carriage to stop, lowered the window, and took a piece of money from his pocket.

“Here you are, he called, holding out a coin.

The woman hurried to the window as fast as she could. Before she reached it, however, the mayor noticed that he had taken a gold piece instead of a silver one out of his pocket.

“Wait a moment,” he said. “I’ve made a mistake.”

He intended to exchange the coin for one of less value, but he caught his sleeve on the window fastening, and dropped the gold piece in the snow. The woman had come up to the carriage window, and he noticed that she was blind.

“I’ve dropped the money, my good woman,” he said, “but it lies near you there in the snow. No doubt you’ll find it.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” said the beggar, kneeling down to search for the coin.

On rolled the mayor to the banquet. “It was foolish to give her gold,” he thought, “but I’m a rich man, and I seldom make such a mistake.”

That night after the banquet when the mayor sat before a blazing fire in his comfortable chair, the picture of the beggar woman, kneeling in the snow, and fumbling around for the gold piece, came before his eyes.

“I hope she will make good use of my generous gift,” he mused. “It was entirely too much to give, but no doubt I shall be rewarded for my charity.”

The first traveler hurried on his way until he came to the village inn, where a great wood fire crackled merrily in the cheery dining room. He took off his warm coat, and sat down to wait for dinner to be served. But he could not forget the picture of the old beggar woman standing on the snowy roadside.

Suddenly he rose, put on his coat, and said to the host, “Prepare dinner for two. I shall be back presently.”

He hastened back to the place where he had seen the poor old woman, who was still on her knees in the snow searching for the mayor’s gold piece.

“My good woman, what are you looking for?” he asked.

“A piece of money, sir. The gentleman who gave it to me dropped it in the snow.”

“Do not search any longer,” said the traveler, “but come with me to the village inn. There you may warm yourself before the great fire, and we shall have a good dinner. Come, you shall be my Thanksgiving guest.”

He helped her to her feet, and then, for the first time, he saw that she was blind. Carefully he took her arm, and led her along the road to the inn.

“Sit here and warm yourself,” he said, placing her gently in a comfortable chair. In a few moments he led her to the table, and gave her a good dinner.

On that Thanksgiving Day an angel took up her pen, and struck out all account of the gold piece from the book where the mayor recorded his good deeds. Another angel wrote in the traveler’s book of deeds an account of the old beggar woman’s Thanksgiving dinner at the village inn.--Adapted.

A THANKSGIVING PSALM

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness: Come unto his presence with singing.