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that never before had he spent such a weary, lonesome day as this
Thanksgiving day had been. Having finished this letter, he sat for a long
time gazing idly into the open fire that snapped cinders all over the
hearthstone and sent its red forks dancing up the chimney to join the
winds that frolicked and gambolled across the Kansas prairies that raw
November night. It had rained hard all day, and was cold; and although the
open fire made every honest effort to be cheerful, Ezra, as he sat in
front of it in the wooden rocker and looked down into the glowing embers,
experienced a dreadful feeling of loneliness and homesickness.
plaguy country for goin' on a year, and -- yes, I'm sick of it, powerful
sick of it. What a miser'ble Thanksgivin' this has been! They don't know
what Thanksgivin' is out this way. I wish I was back in ol'
Mass'chusetts -- that's the country for _me_, and they hev the kind o'
Thanksgivin' I like!"
in Belchertown, with the Holyoke hills up north an' the Berkshire
mountains a-loomin' up gray an' misty-like in the western horizon. Seems
as if it wuz early mornin'; everything is still, and it is so cold when we
boys crawl out o' bed that, if it wuzn't Thanksgivin' mornin', we'd crawl
back again an' wait for Mother to call us. But it _is_ Thanksgivin'
mornin', an' we're goin' skatin' down on the pond. The squealin' o' the
pigs has told us it is five o'clock, and we must hurry; we're goin' to
call by for the Dickerson boys an' Hiram Peabody, an' we've got to hyper!
Brother Amos gets on 'bout half o' my clo'es, an' I get on 'bout half o'
his, but it's all the same; they are stout, warm clo'es, and they're big
enough to fit any of us boys, -- Mother looked out for that when she made
'em. When we go down-stairs we find the girls there, all bundled up nice
an' warm, -- Mary an' Helen an' Cousin Irene. They're goin' with us, an' we
all start out tiptoe and quiet-like so's not to wake up the ol' folks. The
ground is frozen hard; we stub our toes on the frozen ruts in the road.
When we come to the minister's house, Laura is standin' on the front
stoop, a-waitin' for us. Laura is the minister's daughter. She's a friend
o' Sister Helen's -- pretty as a dag'err'otype, an' gentle-like and tender.
Laura lets me carry her skates, an' I'm glad of it, although I have my
hands full already with the lantern, the hockies, and the rest. Hiram
Peabody keeps us waitin', for he has overslept himself, an' when he comes
trottin' out at last the girls make fun of him, -- all except Sister Mary,
an' she sort o' sticks up for Hiram, an' we're all so 'cute we kind o'
calc'late we know the reason why.
see the pond. The ice is like a black lookin'-glass, and Hiram Peabody
slips up the first thing, an' down he comes lickety-split, an' we all
laugh, -- except Sister Mary, an' _she_ says it is very imp'lite to
laugh at other folks' misfortunes. Ough! how cold it is, and how my
fingers ache with the frost when I take off my mittens to strap on Laura's
skates! But, oh, how my cheeks burn! And how careful I am not to hurt
Laura, an' how I ask her if that's 'tight enough,' an' how she tells me
'jist a little tighter,' and how we two keep foolin' along till the others
hev gone an' we are left alone! An' how quick I get my _own_ skates
strapped on, -- none o' your new-fangled skates with springs an' plates an'
clamps an' such, but honest, ol'-fashioned wooden ones with steel runners
that curl up over my toes an' have a bright brass button on the end! How I
strap 'em and lash 'em and buckle 'em on! An' Laura waits for me an' tells
me to be sure to get 'em on tight enough, -- why, bless me! after I once got
'em strapped on, if them skates hed come off, the feet w'u'd ha' come with
'em! An' now away we go, -- Laura an' me. Around the bend -- near the medder
where Si Barker's dog killed a woodchuck last summer -- we meet the rest.
all sorts o' didoes, an' we never mind the pick'rel weed that is froze in
on the ice an' trips us up every time we cut the outside edge; an' then we
boys jump over the airholes, an' the girls stan' by an' scream an' tell us
they know we're agoin' to drownd ourselves. So the hours go, an' it is
sun-up at last, an' Sister Helen says we must be gettin' home. When we
take our skates off, our feet feel as if they were wood. Laura has lost
her tippet; I lend her mine, an' she kind o' blushes. The old pond seems
glad to have us go, and the fire-hangbird's nest in the willer-tree waves
us good-by. Laura promises to come over to our house in the evenin', and
so we break up.
all at breakfast. The race on the pond has made us hungry, and Mother says
she never knew anybody else's boys that had such capac'ties as hers. It is
the Yankee Thanksgivin' breakfast, -- sausages an' fried potatoes, an'
buckwheat cakes an' syrup, -- maple syrup, mind ye, for Father has his own
sugar-bush, and there was a big run o' sap last season. Mother says, 'Ezry
an' Amos, won't you never get through eatin'? We want to clear off the
table, for there's pies to make, an' nuts to crack, and laws sakes alive!
the turkey's got to be stuffed yit! ' Then how we all fly round! Mother
sends Helen up into the attic to get a squash while Mary's makin' the
pie-crust. Amos an' I crack the walnuts, -- they call 'em hickory nuts out
in this pesky country of sage-brush and pasture land. The walnuts are
hard, and it's all we can do to crack 'em. Ev'ry once 'n a while one on
'em slips outer our fingers an' goes dancin' over the floor or flies into
the pan Helen is squeezin' pumpkin into through the col'nder. Helen says
we're shif'less an' good for nothin' but frivollin'; but Mother tells us
how to crack the walnuts so's not to let 'em fly all over the room, an'
so's not to be all jammed to pieces like the walnuts was down at the party
at the Peasleys' last winter. An' now here comes Tryphena Foster, with her
gingham gown an' muslin apron on; her folks have gone up to Amherst for
Thanksgivin', an' Tryphena has come over to help our folks get dinner. She
thinks a great deal o' Mother, 'cause Mother teaches her Sunday-school
class an' says Tryphena oughter marry a missionary. There is bustle
everywhere, the rattle of pans an' the clatter of dishes; an' the new
kitch'n stove begins to warm up an' git red, till Helen loses her wits an'
is flustered, an' sez she never could git the hang o' that stove's
dampers.
his voice, "I can see Father sittin' all by himself in the parlor.
Father's hair is very gray, and there are wrinkles on his honest old face.
He is lookin' through the winder at the Holyoke hills over yonder, and I
can guess he's thinkin' of the time when he wuz a boy like me an' Amos,
an' useter climb over them hills an' kill rattlesnakes an' hunt
partridges. Or doesn't his eyes quite reach the Holyoke hills? Do they
fall kind o' lovingly but sadly on the little buryin'-ground jest beyond
the village? Ah, Father knows that spot, an' he loves it, too, for there
are treasures there whose memory he wouldn't swap for all the world could
give. So, while there is a kind o' mist in Father's eyes, I can see he is
dreamin'-like of sweet an' tender things, and a-com-munin' with
memory, -- hearin' voices I never heard an' feelin' the tech of hands I
never pressed; an' seein' Father's peaceful face I find it hard to think
of a Thanksgivin' sweeter than Father's is.
wuz in the old frame meetin'-house. The meetin'-house is on the hill, and
meetin' begins at half-pas' ten. Our pew is well up in front, -- seems as if
I could see it now. It has a long red cushion on the seat, and in the
hymn-book rack there is a Bible an' a couple of Psalmodies. We walk up the
aisle slow, and Mother goes in first; then comes Mary, then me, then
Helen, then Amos, and then Father. Father thinks it is jest as well to
have one o' the girls set in between me an' Amos. The meetin'-house is
full, for everybody goes to meetin' Thanksgivin' day. The minister reads
the proclamation an' makes a prayer, an' then he gives out a psalm, an' we
all stan' up an' turn round an' join the choir. Sam Merritt has come up
from Palmer to spend Thanksgivin' with the ol' folks, an' he is singin'
tenor to-day in his ol' place in the choir. Some folks say he sings
wonderful well, but _I_ don't like Sam's voice. Laura sings soprano
in the choir, and Sam stands next to her an' holds the book.
melody, comin' from 'way up in his little round pulpit. He is tellin' us
why we should be thankful, an', as he quotes Scriptur' an' Dr. Watts, we
boys wonder how anybody can remember so much of the Bible. Then I get
nervous and worried. Seems to me the minister was never comin' to lastly,
and I find myself wonderin' whether Laura is listenin' to what the
preachin' is about, or is writin' notes to Sam Merritt in the back of the
tune-book. I get thirsty, too, and I fidget about till Father looks at me,
and Mother nudges Helen, and Helen passes it along to me with interest.
an' we stan' up ag'in an' join the choir, I am glad to see that Laura is
singin' outer the book with Miss Hubbard, the alto. An' goin' out o'
meetin' I kind of edge up to Laura and ask her if I kin have the pleasure
of seen' her home.
have come over, and, as all the Hampshire county folks know, they are
tough fellers to beat. Gorham Polly keeps tally, because he has got the
newest jack-knife, -- oh, how slick it whittles the old broom-handle Gorham
picked up in Packard's store an' brought along jest to keep tally on! It
is a great game of ball; the bats are broad and light, and the ball is
small and soft. But the Enfield boys beat us at last; leastwise they make
70 tallies to our 58, when Heman Fitts knocks the ball over into Aunt
Dorcas Eastman's yard, and Aunt Dorcas comes out an' picks up the ball an'
takes it into the house, an' we have to stop playin'. Then Phineas Owens
allows he can flop any boy in Belchertown, an' Moses Baker takes him up,
an' they wrassle like two tartars, till at last Moses tuckers Phineas out
an' downs him as slick as a whistle.
have been made into one, and one of the big tablecloths Gran'ma had when
she set up housekeepin' is spread over 'em both. We all set round, Father,
Mother, Aunt Lydia Holbrook, Uncle Jason, Mary, Helen, Tryphena Foster,
Amos, and me. How big an' brown the turkey is, and how good it smells!
There are bounteous dishes of mashed potato, turnip, an' squash, and the
celery is very white and cold, the biscuits are light an' hot, and the
stewed cranberries are red as Laura's cheeks. Amos and I get the
drumsticks; Mary wants the wish-bone to put overthe door for Hiram, but
Helen gets it. Poor Mary, she always _did_ have to give up to
'rushin' Helen,' as we call her. The pies, -- oh, what pies Mother makes; no
dyspepsia in 'em, but good-nature an' good health an' hospitality! Pumpkin
pies, mince an' apple too, and then a big dish of pippins an' russets an'
bellflowers, an', last of all, walnuts with cider from the Zebrina
Dickerson farm! I tell ye, there's a Thanksgivin' dinner for ye! that's
what we get in old Belchertown; an' that's the kind of livin' that makes
the Yankees so all-fired good an' smart.
best scene in all the pictur' is when evenin' comes, when the lamps are
lit in the parlor, when the neighbors come in, and when there is music
an' singin' an' games. An' it's this part o' the pictur' that makes me
homesick now and fills my heart with a longin' I never had before; an'
yet it sort o' mellows an' comforts me, too. Miss Serena Cadwell, whose
beau was killed in the war, plays on the melodeon, and we all sing, -- all
on us, men, womenfolks, an' children. Sam Merritt is there, an' he sings
a tenor song about love. The women sort of whisper round that he's goin'
to be married to a Palmer lady nex' spring, an' I think to myself I
never heard better singin' than Sam's. Then we play games, proverbs,
buzz, clap-in-clap-out, copenhagen, fox-an'-geese,
button-button-who's-got-the-button, spin-the-platter, go-to-Jerusalem,
my-ship's-come-in, and all the rest. The ol' folks play with the young
folks just as nat'ral as can be; and we all laugh when Deacon Hosea
Cowles hez to measure six yards of love ribbon with Miss Hepsy Newton,
and cut each yard with a kiss; for the deacon hez been sort o' purrin'
round Miss Hepsy for goin' on two years. Then, aft'r a while, when
Mary an' Helen bring in the cookies, nut-cakes, cider, an' apples,
Mother says: 'I don't b'lieve we're goin' to hev enough apples to go
round; Ezry, I guess I'll have to get you to go down-cellar for some
more.'
go along an' hold the candle. ' An' when I say this I look right at
Laura and she blushes. Then Helen, jest for meanness, says: 'Ezry, I
s'pose you ain't willin' to have your fav'rite sister go down-cellar
with you an' catch her death o' cold? ' But Mary, who hez been showin'
Hiram Peabody the phot'graph album for more 'n an hour, comes to the
rescue an' makes Laura take the candle, and she shows Laura how to
hold it so it won't go out.
an' everywhere else except on the shelves where Mother keeps the butter
an' eggs an' other things that would freeze in the butt'ry upstairs. The
apples are in bar'ls up against the wall, near the potater-bin. How fresh
an' sweet they smell! Laura thinks she sees a mouse, an' she trembles an'
wants to jump up on the pork-bar'l, but I tell her that there sha'n't no
mouse hurt her while I'm round; and I mean it, too, for the sight of Laura
a-tremblin' makes me as strong as one of Father's steers. 'What kind of
apples do you like best, Ezry? ' asks Laura, -- 'russets or greenin's or
crow-eggs or bell-flowers or Baldwins or pippins? ' 'I like the Baldwins
best,' says I, ''coz they've got red cheeks jest like yours. ' 'Why, Ezry
Thompson! how you talk! ' says Laura. 'You oughter be ashamed of yourself! '
But when I get the dish filled up with apples there ain't a Baldwin in all
the lot that can compare with the bright red of Laura's cheeks. An' Laura
knows it, too, an' she sees the mouse ag'in, an' screams, and then the
candle goes out, and we are in a dreadful stew. But I, bein' almost a man,
contrive to bear up under it, and knowin' she is an orph'n, I comfort an'
encourage Laura the best I know how, and we are almost up-stairs when
Mother comes to the door and wants to know what has kep' us so long. Jest
as if Mother doesn't know! Of course she does; an' when Mother kisses
Laura good-by that night there is in the act a tenderness that speaks more
sweetly than even Mother's words.
influences, and its precious inspiration, -- mother. Dream on in the
far-away firelight; and as the angel hand of memory unfolds these sacred
visions, with thee and them shall abide, like a Divine comforter, the
spirit of thanksgiving.
