From An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving and Other
Stories by Louisa May Alcott, Penguin Books, 1995.
November, 1881
SIXTY
YEARS AGO, up among the New Hampshire hills, lived
Farmer Bassett, with a houseful of sturdy sons and
daughters growing up about him. They were poor in
money, but rich in land and love, for the wide acres of
wood, corn, and pasture land fed, warmed, and clothed
the flock, while mutual patience, affection, and courage
made the old farmhouse a very happy home.
November had come; the crops were in, and barn,
buttery, and bin were overflowing with the harvest that
rewarded the summer's hard work. The big kitchen was a
jolly place just now, for in the great fireplace roared a
cheerful fire; on the walls hung garlands of dried apples,
onions, and corn; up aloft from the beams shone
crook-necked squashes, juicy hams, and dried venison--for in
those days deer still haunted the deep forests, and hunters
flourished. Savory smells were in the air; on the crane
hung steaming kettles, and down among the red embers
copper saucepans simmered, all suggestive of some
approaching feast.
A white-headed baby lay in the old blue cradle that had
rocked six other babies, now and then lifting his head to
look out, like a round, full moon, then subsided to kick
and crow contentedly, and suck the rosy apple he had no
teeth to bite. Two small boys sat on the wooden settle
shelling corn for popping, and picking out the biggest
nuts from the goodly store their own hands had gathered
in October. Four young girls stood at the long dresser,
busily chopping meat, pounding spice, and slicing apples;
and the tongues of Tilly, Prue, Roxy, and Rhody went as
fast as their hands. Farmer Bassett, and Eph, the oldest
boy, were "chorin' 'round" outside, for Thanksgiving was
at hand, and all must be in order for that time-honored
day.
To and fro, from table to hearth, bustled buxom Mrs.
Bassett, flushed and floury, but busy and blithe as the
queen bee of this busy little hive should be.
"I do like to begin seasonable and have things to my
mind. Thanksgivin' dinners can't be drove, and it does
take a sight of victuals to fill all these hungry stomicks,"
said the good woman, as she gave a vigorous stir to the
great kettle of cider applesauce, and cast a glance of
housewifely pride at the fine array of pies set forth on the
buttery shelves.
"Only one more day and then it will be the time to eat.
I didn't take but one bowl of hasty pudding this morning,
so I shall have plenty of room when the nice things
come," confided Seth to Sol, as he cracked a large
hazelnut as easily as a squirrel.
"No need of my starvin' beforehand. I always have
room enough, and I'd like to have Thanksgiving every
day," answered Solomon, gloating like a young ogre over
the little pig that lay near by, ready for roasting.
"Sakes alive, I don't, boys! It's a marcy it don't come
but once a year. I should be worn to a thread paper with
all this extra work atop of my winter weavin' and
spinnin'," laughed their mother, as she plunged her
plump arms into the long bread trough and began to
knead the dough as if a famine were at hand.
Tilly, the oldest girl, a red-cheeked, black-eyed lass of
fourteen, was grinding briskly at the mortar, for spices
were costly, and not a grain must be wasted. Prue kept
time with the chopper, and the twins sliced away at the
apples till their little brown arms ached, for all knew how
to work, and did so now with a will.
"I think it's real fun to have Thanksgiving at home. I'm
sorry Gran'ma is sick, so we can't go there as usual, but
I like to mess 'round here, don't you, girls?" asked Tilly,
pausing to take a sniff at the spicy pestle.
"It will be kind of lonesome with only our own folks."
"I like to see all the cousins and aunts, and have games,
and sing," cried the twins, who were regular little romps,
and could run, swim, coast, and shout as well as their
brothers.
"I don't care a mite for all that. It will be so nice to eat
dinner together, warm and comfortable at home," said
quiet Prue, who loved her own cozy nooks like a cat.
"Come, girls, fly 'round and get your chores done, so
we can clear away for dinner jest as soon as I clap my
bread into the oven," called Mrs. Bassett presently, as she
rounded off the last loaf of brown bread which was to
feed the hungry mouths that seldom tasted any other.
"Here's a man comin' up the hill lively!" "Guess it's
Gad Hopkins. Pa told him to bring a dezzen oranges, if
they warn't too high!" shouted Sol and Seth, running to
the door, while the girls smacked their lips at the thought
of this rare treat, and Baby threw his apple overboard, as
if getting ready for a new cargo.
But all were doomed to disappointment, for it was not
Gad, with the much-desired fruit. It was a stranger, who
threw himself off his horse and hurried up to Mr. Bassett
in the yard, with some brief message that made the
farmer drop his ax and look so sober that his wife guessed
at once some bad news had come; and crying, "Mother's
wuss! I know she is!" Out ran the good woman, forgetful
of the flour on her arms and the oven waiting for its most
important batch.
The man said old Mr. Chadwick, down to Keene,
stopped him as he passed, and told him to tell Mrs.
Bassett her mother was failin' fast, and she'd better come
today. He knew no more, and having delivered his errand
he rode away, saying it looked like snow and he must be
jogging, or he wouldn't get home till night.
"We must go right off, Eldad. Hitch up, and I'll be
ready in less'n no time," said Mrs. Bassett, wasting not a
minute in tears and lamentations, but pulling off her
apron as she went in, with her head in a sad jumble of
bread, anxiety, turkey, sorrow, haste, and cider applesauce.
A few words told the story, and the children left their
work to help her get ready, mingling their grief for
"Gran'ma" with regrets for the lost dinner.
"I'm dreadful sorry, dears, but it can't be helped. I
couldn't cook nor eat no way now, and if that blessed
woman gets better sudden, as she has before, we'll have
cause for thanksgivin', and I'll give you a dinner you
won't forget in a hurry," said Mrs. Bassett, as she tied on
her brown silk pumpkin-hood, with a sob for the good old
mother who had made it for her.
Not a child complained after that, but ran about
helpfully, bringing moccasins, heating the footstone, and
getting ready for a long drive, because Gran'ma lived twenty
miles away, and there were no railroads in those parts
to whisk people to and fro like magic. By the time the
old yellow sleigh was at the door, the bread was in the
oven, and Mrs. Bassett was waiting, with her camlet cloak
on, and the baby done up like a small bale of blankets.
"Now, Eph, you must look after the cattle like a man
and keep up the fires, for there's a storm brewin', and'
neither the children nor dumb critters must suffer," said
Mr. Bassett, as he turned up the collar of his rough coat
and put on his blue mittens, while the old mare shook her
bells as if she preferred a trip to Keene to hauling wood all day.
"Tilly, put extry comfortables on the beds to-night, the
wind is so searchin' up chamber. Have the baked beans
and Injun-puddin' for dinner, and whatever you do, don't
let the boys get at the mince-pies, or you'll have them
down sick. I shall come back the minute I can leave
Mother. Pa will come to-morrer anyway, so keep snug and
be good. I depend on you, my darter; use your jedgment,
and don't let nothin' happen while Mother's away."
"Yes'm, yes'm--good-bye, good-bye!" called the
children, as Mrs. Bassett was packed into the sleigh and
driven away, leaving a stream of directions behind her.
Eph, the sixteen-year-old boy, immediately put on his
biggest boots, assumed a sober, responsible manner and
surveyed his little responsibilities with a paternal air,
drolly like his father's. Tilly tied on her mother's bunch
of keys, rolled up the sleeves of her homespun gown, and
began to order about the younger girls. They soon forgot
poor Granny, and found it great fun to keep house all
alone, for Mother seldom left home, but ruled her family
in the good old-fashioned way. There were no servants,
for the little daughters were Mrs. Bassett's only maids,
and the stout boys helped their father, all working happily
together with no wages but love; learning in the best
manner the use of the heads and hands with which they
were to make their own way in the world.
The few flakes that caused the farmer to predict bad
weather soon increased to a regular snowstorm, with gusts
of wind, for up among the hills winter came early and
lingered long. But the children were busy, gay, and warm
indoors, and never minded the rising gale nor the whirling
white storm outside.
Tilly got them a good dinner, and when it was over the
two elder girls went to their spinning, for in the kitchen
stood the big and little wheels, and baskets of wool rolls
ready to be twisted into yarn for the winter's knitting, and
each day brought its stint of work to the daughters, who
hoped to be as thrifty as their mother.
Eph Kept up a glorious fire, and superintended the
small boys, who popped corn and whittled boats on the
hearth; while Roxy and Rhody dressed corncob dolls in
the settle corner, and Bose, the brindled mastiff, lay on
the braided mat, luxuriously warming his old legs. Thus
employed, they made a pretty picture, these rosy boys and
girls, in their homespun suits, with the rustic toys or tasks
which most children nowadays would find very poor or
tiresome.
Tilly and Prue sang, as they stepped to and fro,
drawing out the smoothly twisted threads to the musical hum
of the great spinning wheels. The little girls chattered like
magpies over their dolls and the new bedspread they were
planning to make, all white dimity stars on a blue calico
ground, as a Christmas present to Ma. The boys roared at
Eph's jokes, and had rough and tumble games over Bose,
who didn't mind them in the least; and so the afternoon
wore pleasantly away.
At sunset the boys went out to feed the cattle, bring in
heaps of wood, and lock up for the night, as the lonely
farmhouse seldom had visitors after dark. The girls got
the simple supper of brown bread and milk, baked apples,
and a doughnut all 'round as a treat. Then they sat before
the fire, the sisters knitting, the brothers with books or
games, for Eph loved reading, and Sol and Seth never
failed to play a few games of Morris with barley corns, on
the little board they had themselves at one corner of the
dresser.
"Read out a piece," said Tilly from Mother's chair,
where she sat in state, finishing off the sixth woolen sock
she had knit that month.
"It's the old history book, but here's a bit you may like,
since it's about our folks," answered Eph, turning the
yellow page to look at a picture of two quaintly dressed
children in some ancient castle.
"Yes, read that. I always like to hear about the Lady
Matildy I was named for, and Lord Bassett, Pa's
great-great-great grandpa. He's only a farmer now, but it's nice
to know we were somebody two or three hundred years
ago," said Tilly, bridling and tossing her curly head as she
fancied the Lady Matilda might have done.
"Don't read the queer words, 'cause we don't
understand 'em. Tell it," commanded Roxy, from the cradle,
where she was drowsily cuddled with Rhody.
"Well, a long time ago, when Charles the First was in
prison, Lord Bassett was a true friend to him," began
Eph, plunging into his story without delay. "The lord had
some papers that would have hung a lot of people if the
king's enemies got hold of 'em, so when he heard one day,
all of a sudden, that soldiers were at the castle gate to
carry him off, he had just time to call his girl to him and
say: 'I may be going to my death, but I won't betray my
master. There is no time to burn the papers, and I can not
take them with me; they are hidden in the old leathern
chair where I sit. No one knows this but you, and you
must guard them till I come or send you a safe messenger
to take them away. Promise me to be brave and silent, and
I can go without fear.' You see, he wasn't afraid to die, but
he was to seem a traitor. Lady Matildy promised solemnly,
and the words were hardly out of her mouth when the
men came in, and her father was carried away a prisoner
and sent off to the Tower."
"But she didn't cry; she just called her brother, and sat
down in that chair, with her head leaning back on those
papers, like a queen, and waited while the soldiers hunted
the house over for 'em: wasn't that a smart girl?" cried
Tilly, beaming with pride, for she was named for this
ancestress, and knew the story by heart.
"I reckon she was scared, though, when the men came
swearin in and asked her if she knew anything about it.
The boy did his part then, for he didn't know, and fired
up and stood before his sister; and he says, says he, as
bold as a lion: 'If my lord had told us where the papers
be, we would die before we would betray him. But we are
children and know nothing, and it is cowardly of you to
try to fight us with oaths and drawn swords!'"
As Eph quoted from the book, Seth planted himself
before Tilly, with the long poker in his hand, saying, as he
flourished it valiantly:
"Why didn't the boy take his father's sword and lay
about him? I would, if any one was ha'sh to Tilly."
"You bantam! He was only a bit of a boy, and couldn't
do anything. Sit down and hear the rest of it,"
commanded Tilly, with a pat on the yellow head, and a
private resolve that Seth should have the largest piece of pie
at dinner next day, as reward for his chivalry.
"Well, the men went off after turning the castle out of
window, but they said they should come again; so faithful
Matildy was full of trouble, and hardly dared to leave the
room where the chair stood. All day she sat there, and at
night her sleep was so full of fear about it, that she often
got up and went to see that all was safe. The servants
thought the fright had hurt her wits, and let her be, but
Rupert, the boy, stood by her and never was afraid of her
queer ways. She was 'a pious maid,' the book says, and
often spent the long evenings reading the Bible, with her
brother by her, all alone in the great room, with no one
to help her bear her secret, and no good news of her
father. At last, word came that the king was dead and his
friends banished out of England. Then the poor children
were in a sad plight, for they had no mother, and the
servants all ran away, leaving only one faithful old man to
help them."
"But the father did come?" cried Roxy, eagerly.
"You'll see," continued Eph, half telling, half reading.
"Matilda was sure he would, so she sat on in the big
chair, guarding the papers, and no one could get her away,
till one day a man came with her father's ring and told
her to give up the secret. She knew the ring, but would
not tell until she had asked many questions, so as to be
very sure, and while the man answered all about her
father and the king, she looked at him sharply. Then she
stood up and said, in a tremble, for there was something
strange about the man: 'Sir, I doubt you in spite of the
ring, and I will not answer till you pull off the false beard
you wear, that I may see your face and know if you are my
father's friend or foe.' Off came the disguise, and Matilda
found it was my lord himself, come to take them with him
out of England. He was very proud of that faithful girl, I
guess, for the old chair still stands in the castle, and the I
name keeps in the family, Pa says, even over here, where
some of the Bassetts came along with the Pilgrims."
"Our Tilly would have been as brave, I know, and she
looks like the old picter down to Gran' ma's, don't she,
Eph?" cried Prue, who admired her bold, bright sister
very much.
"Well, I think you'd do the settin' part best, Prue, you
are so patient. Till would fight like a wild cat, but she
can't hold her tongue worth a cent" answered Eph;
whereat Tilly pulled his hair, and the story ended with a
general frolic.
When the moon-faced clock behind the door struck
nine, Tilly tucked up the children under the "extry
cornfortables," and having kissed them all around, as Mother
did, crept into her own nest, never minding the little
drifts of snow that sifted in upon her coverlet between the
shingles of the roof, nor the storm that raged without.
As if he felt the need of unusual vigilance, old Bose lay
down on the mat before the door, and pussy had the
warm hearth all to herself. If any late wanderer had
looked in at midnight, he would have seen the fire blazing
up again, and in the cheefful glow the old cat blinking her
yellow eyes, as she sat bolt upright beside the spinning
wheel, like some sort of household goblin, guarding the
children while they slept.
When they woke, like early birds, it still snowed, but
up the little Bassetts jumped, broke the ice in their jugs,
and went down with cheeks glowing like winter apples,
after a brisk scrub and scramble into their clothes. Eph was
off to the barn, and Tilly soon had a great kettle of mush
ready, which, with milk warm from the cows made a
wholesome breakfast for the seven hearty children.
"Now about dinner," said the young housekeeper, as
the pewter spoons stopped clattering, and the earthen
bowls stood empty.
"Ma said, have what we liked, but she didn't expect us
to have a real Thanksgiving dinner, because she won't be
here to cook it, and we don't know how," began Prue,
doubtfully.
"I can roast a turkey and make a pudding as well as
anybody, I guess. The pies are all ready, and if we can't
boil vegetables and so on, we don't deserve any dinner,"
cried Tilly, burning to distinguish herself, and bound to
enjoy to the utmost her brief authority.
"Yes, yes!" cried all the boys, "let's have a dinner
anyway; Ma won't care, and the good victuals will spoil if
they ain't eaten right up."
"Pa is coming tonight, so we won't have dinner till late;
that will be real genteel and give us plenty of time,"
added Tilly, suddenly realizing the novelty of the task she
had undertaken.
"Did you ever roast a turkey?" asked Roxy, with an air
of deep interest.
"Should you darst to try?" said Rhody, in an
awe-stricken tone.
"You will see what I can do. Ma said I was to use my
judgment about things, and I'm going to. All you children
have got to do is to keep out of the way, and let Prue and
me work. Eph, I wish you'd put a fire in the best room,
so the little ones can play in there. We shall want the
settin-room for the table, and I won t have them pickin'
round when we get things fixed," commanded Tilly,
bound to make her short reign a brilliant one.
"I don't know about that. Ma didn't tell us to," began
cautious Eph who felt that this invasion of the sacred best
parlor was a daring step.
"Don't we always do it Sundays and Thanksgivings?
Wouldn't Ma wish the children kept safe and warm
anyhow? Can I get up a nice dinner with four rascals under
my feet all the time? Come, now, if you want roast turkey
and onions, plum-puddin' and mince-pie, you'll have to
do as I tell you, and be lively about it."
Tilly spoke with such spirit, and her suggestion was so
irresistible, that Eph gave in, and, laughing
good-naturedly, tramped away to heat up the best room,
devoutly hoping that nothing serious would happen to
punish such audacity.
The young folks delightedly trooped away to destroy
the order of that prim apartment with housekeeping
under the black horsehair sofa, "horseback-riders" on the
arms of the best rocking chair, and an Indian war dance
all over the well-waxed furniture. Eph, finding the society
of peaceful sheep and cows more to his mind than that of
two excited sisters, lingered over his chores in the barn as
long as possible, and left the girls in peace.
Now Tillyand Prue were in their glory, and as soon as
the breakfast things were out of the way, they prepared
for a grand cooking time. They were handy girls, though
they had never heard of a cooking school, never touched
a piano, and knew nothing of embroidery beyond the
samplers which hung framed in the parlor; one ornamented
with a pink mourner under a blue weeping willow, the
other with this pleasing verse, each word being done in a
different color, which gave the effect of a distracted
rainbow:
This sampler neat was worked by me,
In my twelfth year, Prudence B.
Both rolled up their sleeves, put on their largest aprons,
and got out all the spoons, dishes, pots, and pans they
could find, "so as to have everything handy," Prue said.
"Now, sister, we'll have dinner at five; Pa will be here
by that time, if he is coming tonight, and be so surprised
to find us all ready, for he won't have had any very nice
victuals if Gran'ma is so sick," said Tilly, importantly. "I
shall give the children a piece at noon" (Tilly meant
luncheon); "doughnuts and cheese, with apple pie and
cider, will please 'em. There's beans for Eph; he likes cold
pork, so we won't stop to warm it up, for there's lots to
do, and I don't mind saying to you I'm dreadful
dubersome about the turkey."
"It's all ready but the stuffing, and roasting is as easy
as can be. I can baste first-rate. Ma always likes to have
me, I'm so patient and stiddy, she says," answered Prue,
for the responsibility of this great undertaking did not
rest upon her, so she took a cheerful view of things.
"I know, but it's the stuffin' that troubles me," said
Tilly, rubbing her round elbows as she eyed the immense
fowl laid out on a platter before her. "I don't know how
much I want, nor what sort of yarbs to put in, and he's
so awful big, I'm kind of afraid of him."
"I ain't! I fed him all summer, and he never gobbled at
me. I feel real mean to be thinking of gobbling him, poor
old chap," laughed Prue, patting her departed pet with an
air of mingled affection and appetite.
"Well, I'll get the puddin' off my mind fust, for it
ought to bile all day. Put the big kettle on, and see that
the spit is clean, while I get ready."
Prue obediently tugged away at the crane, with its black
hooks, from which hung the iron teakettle and
three-legged pot; then she settled the long spit in the grooves
made for it in the tall andirons, and put the dripping pan
underneath, for in those days meat was roasted as it
should be, not baked in ovens.
Meantime, Tilly attacked the plum pudding. She felt
pretty sure of coming out right, here, for she had seen her
mother do it so many times, it looked very easy. So in
went suet and fruit; all sorts of spice, to be sure she got
the right ones, and brandy instead of wine. But she forgot
both sugar and salt, and tied it in the cloth so tightly that
it had no room to swell, so it would come out as heavy as
lead and as hard as a cannonball, if the bag did not burst
and spoil it all. Happily unconscious of these mistakes,
Tilly popped it into the pot, and proudly watched it
bobbing about before she put the cover on and left it to its
fate.
"I can't remember what flavorin' Ma puts in," she said,
when she had got her bread well soaked for stuffing.
"Sage and onions and applesauce go with goose, but I
can't feel sure of anything but pepper and salt for a
turkey."
"Ma puts in some kind of mint, I know, but I forget
whether it is spearmint, peppermint, or pennyroyal,"
answered Prue, in a tone of doubt, but trying to show her
knowledge of "yarbs," or, at least, of their names.
"Seems to me it's sweet majoram or summer savory. I
guess we'll put both in, and then we are sure to be right.
The best is up garret; you run and get some, while I mash
the bread," commanded Tilly, diving into the mess.
Away trotted Prue, but in her haste she got catnip and
wormwood, for the garret was darkish, and Prue's little
nose was so full of the smell of the onions she had been
peeling, that everything smelt of them. Eager to be of use,
she pounded up the herbs and scattered the mixture with
a liberal hand into the bowl.
"It doesn't smell just right, but I suppose it will when
it is cooked," said Tilly, as she filled the empty stomach,
that seemed aching for food, and sewed it up with the
blue yarn, which happened to be handy. She forgot to tie
down his legs and wings, but she set him by till his hour
came, well satisfied with her work.
"Shall we roast the little pig, too? I think he'd look nice
with a necklace of sausages, as Ma fixed him at Christmas," asked Prue, elated with their success.
"I couldn't do it. I loved that little pig, and cried when
he was killed. I should feel as if I was roasting the baby,"
answered Tilly, glancing toward the buttery where piggy
hung, looking so pink and pretty it certainly did seem
cruel to eat him.
It took a long time to get all the vegetables ready, for,
as the cellar was full, the girls thought they would have
every sort. Eph helped, and by noon all was ready for
cooking, and the cranberry sauce, a good deal scorched,
was cooking in the lean-to.
Luncheon was a lively meal, and doughnuts and cheese
vanished in such quantities that Tilly feared no one would
have an appetite for her sumptuous dinner. The boys
assured her they would be starving by five o'clock, and Sol
mourned bitterly over the little pig that was not to be
served up.
"Now you ll go and coast, while Prue and I set the
table and get out the best chiny," said Tilly, bent on having
her dinner look well, no matter what its other failings
might be.
Out came the rough sleds, on went the round hoods,
old hats, red cloaks, and moccasins, and away trudged the
four younger Bassetts, to disport themselves in the snow,
and try the ice down by the old mill, where the great
wheel turned and splashed so merrily in the summertime.
Eph took his fiddle and scraped away to his heart's
content in the parlor, while the girls, after a short rest, set
the table and made all ready to dish up the dinner when
that exciting moment came. It was not at all the sort of
table we see now, but would look very plain and
countrified to us, with its green-handled knives, and
two-pronged steel forks, its red-and-white china, and pewter
platters, scoured till they shone, with mugs and spoons to
match, and a brown jug for the cider. The cloth was
coarse, but white as snow, and the little maids had seen
the blue-eyed flax grow, out of which their mother wove
the linen; they had watched and watched while it
bleached in the green meadow. They had no napkins and
little silver; but the best tankard and Ma's few wedding
spoons were set forth in state. Nuts and apples at the
corners gave an air, and the place of honor was left in the
middle for the oranges yet to come.
"Don't it look beautiful?" said Prue, when they paused
to admire the general effect.
"Pretty nice, I think. I wish Ma could see how well we
can do it," began Tilly, when a loud howling startled both
girls, and sent them flying to the window. The short
afternoon had passed so quickly that twilight had come
before they knew it, and now, as they looked out through
the gathering dusk, they saw four small black figures
tearing up the road, to come bursting in, all screaming at
once: "The bear, the bear! Eph, get the gun! He's coming,
he's coming!"
Eph had dropped his fiddle, and got down his gun
before the girls could calm the children enough to tell their
story, which they did in a somewhat incoherent manner.
"Down in the holler, coastin', we heard a growl," began
Sol, with his eyes as big as saucers. "I see him fust
lookin' over the wall," roared Seth, eager to get his share of
honor.
"Awful big and shaggy," quavered Roxy, clinging to
Tilly, while Rhody hid in Prue's skirts, and piped out:
"His great paws kept clawing at us, and I was so scared
my legs would hardly go."
"We ran away as fast as we could go, and he came
growlin' after us. He's awful hungry, and he'll eat every
one of us if he gets in," continued Sol, looking about him
for a safe retreat.
"Oh, Eph, don't let him eat us," cried both little girls,
flying upstairs to hide under their mother's bed, as their
surest shelter.
"No danger of that, you little geese. I'll shoot him as
soon as he comes. Get out of the way, boys," and Eph
raised the window to get good aim.
"There he is! Fire away, and don't miss!" cried Seth,
hastily following Sol, who had climbed to the top of the
dresser as a good perch from which to view the
approaching fray.
Prue retired to the hearth as if bent on dying at her
post rather than desert the turkey, now "browning
beautiful," as she expressed it. But Tilly boldly stood at the
open window, ready to lend a hand if the enemy proved
too much for Eph.
All had seen bears, but none had ever come so near
before, and even brave Eph felt that the big brown beast
slowly trotting up the dooryard was an unusually
formidable specimen. He was growling horribly, and stopped now
and then as if to rest and shake himself.
"Get the ax, Tilly, and if I should miss, stand ready to
keep him off while I load again," said Eph, anxious to kill
his first bear in style and alone; a girl's help didn't count.
Tilly flew for the ax, and was at her brother's side by
the time the bear was near enough to be dangerous. He
stood on his hind legs, and seemed to sniff with relish the
savory odors that poured out of the window.
"Fire, Eph!" cried Tilly, firmly.
"Wait till he rears again. I'll get a better shot then"
answered the boy, while Prue covered her ears to shut out
the bang, and the small boys cheered from their dusty
refuge among the pumpkins.
But a very singular thing happened next, and all who
saw it stood amazed, for suddenly Tilly threw down the
ax, flung open the door, and ran straight into the arms of
the bear, who stood erect to receive her, while his
growlings changed to a loud "Haw, haw!" that startled the
children more than the report of a gun.
"It's Gad Hopkins, tryin' to fool us!" cried Eph, much
disgusted at the loss of his prey, for these hardy boys
loved to hunt and prided themselves on the number of
wild animals and birds they could shoot in a year.
"Oh, Gad, how could you scare us so?" laughed Tilly,
still held fast in one shaggy arm of the bear, while the
other drew a dozen oranges from some deep pocket in the
buffalo-skin coat, and fired them into the kitchen with
such good aim that Eph ducked, Prue screamed, and Sol
and Seth came down much quicker than they went up.
"Wal, you see I got upsot over yonder, and the old
horse went home while I was floundering in a drift, so I
tied on the buffalers to tote 'em easy, and come along till
I see the children playin' in the holler. I jest meant to give
'em a little scare, but they run like partridges, and I kep'
up the joke to see how Eph would like this sort of
company," and Gad haw-hawed again.
"You'd have had a warm welcome if we hadn't found
you out. I'd have put a bullet through you in a jiffy, old
chap," said Eph, coming out to shake hands with the
young giant, who was only a year or two older than
himself.
"Come in and set up to dinner with us. Prue and I have
done it all ourselves, and Pa will be along soon, I reckon,"
cried Tilly, trying to escape.
"Couldn't, no ways. My folks will think I'm dead ef I
don't get along home, sence the horse and sleigh have
gone ahead empty I've done my arrant and had my joke;
now I want my pay, Tilly," and Gad took a hearty kiss
from the rosy cheeks of his "little sweetheart," as he
called her. His own cheeks tingled with the smart slap she
gave him as she ran away, calling out that she hated bears
and would bring her ax next time.
"I ain't afeared--your sharp eyes found me out: and ef
you run into a bear's arms you must expect a hug,"
answered Gad, as he pushed back the robe and settled his
fur cap more becomingly.
"I should have known you in a minute if I hadn't been
asleep when the girls squalled. You did it well, though,
and I advise you not to try it again in a hurry, or you'll
get shot," said Eph, as they parted, he rather crestfallen
and Gad in high glee.
"My sakes alive--the turkey is all burnt one side, and
the kettles have biled over so the pies I put to warm are
all ashes!" scolded Tilly, as the flurry subsided and she
remembered her dinner.
"Well, I can't help it. I couldn't think of victuals when
I expected to be eaten alive myself, could I?" pleaded poor
Prue, who had tumbled into the cradle when the rain of
oranges began.
Tilly laughed, and all the rest joined in, so goodhumor
was restored, and the spirits of the younger ones were
revived by sucks from the one orange which passed from
hand to hand with great rapidity while the older girls
dished up the dinner. They were just struggling to get the
pudding out of the cloth when Roxy called out: "Here's
Pa!"
"There's folkswith him," added Rhody.
"Lots of 'em! I see two big sleighs chock full," shouted
Seth, peering through the dusk.
"It looks like a semintary. Guess Gran'ma's dead and
come up to be buried here," said Sol, in a solemn tone.
This startling suggestion made Tilly, Prue, and Eph
hasten to look out, full of dismay at such an ending of their
festival.
"If that is a funeral, the mourners are uncommonly
jolly," said Eph, dryly, as merry voices and loud laughter
broke the white silence without.
"I see Aunt Cinthy, and Cousin Hetty--and there's
Mose and Amos. I do declare, Pa's bringin' 'em all home
to have some fun here," cried Prue, as she recognized one
familiar face after another.
"Oh, my patience! Ain't I glad I got dinner, and don't
I hope it will turn out good!" exclaimed Tilly, while the
twins pranced with delight, and the small boys roared:
"Hooray for Pa! Hooray for Thanksgivin'!"
The cheer was answered heartily, and in came Father,
Mother, Baby, aunts, and cousins, all in great spirits; and
all much surprised to find such a festive welcome awaiting
them.
"Ain't Gran'ma dead at all?" asked Sol, in the midst of
the kissing and handshaking.
"Bless your heart, no! It was all a mistake of old Mr.
Chadwick's. He's as deaf as an adder, and when Mrs.
Brooks told him Mother was mendin' fast, and she
wanted me to come down today, certain sure, he got the
message all wrong, and give it to the fust person passin'
in such a way as to scare me 'most to death, and send us
down in a hurry. Mother was sittin' up as chirk as you
please, and dreadful sorry you didn't all come."
"So, to keep the house quiet for her, and give you a
taste of the fun, your Pa fetched us all up to spend the
evenin', and we are goin' to have a jolly time on't, to jedge
by the looks of things," said Aunt Cinthy, briskly finishing
the tale when Mrs. Bassett paused for want of breath.
"What in the world put it into your head we was
comm', and set you to gittin' up such a supper?" asked
Mr. Bassett, looking about him, well pleased and much
surprised at the plentiful table.
Tilly modestly began to tell, but the others broke in
and sang her praises in a sort of chorus, in which bears,
pigs, pies, and oranges were oddly mixed. Great
satisfaction was expressed by all, and Tilly and Prue were so
elated by the commendation of Ma and the aunts, that
they set forth their dinner, sure everything was perfect.
But when the eating began, which it did the moment
wraps were off; then their pride got a fall; for the first
person who tasted the stuffing (it was big Cousin Mose,
and that made it harder to bear) nearly choked over the
bitter morsel.
"Tilly Bassett, whatever made you put wormwood and
catnip in your stuffin'?" demanded Ma, trying not to be
severe, for all the rest were laughing, and Tilly looked
ready to cry.
"I did it," said Prue, nobly taking all the blame, which
caused Pa to kiss her on the spot, and declare that it
didn't do a mite of harm, for the turkey was all right.
"I never see onions cooked better. All the vegetables is
well done, and the dinner a credit to you, my dears,"
declared Aunt Cinthy, with her mouth full of the fragrant
vegetable she praised.
The pudding was an utter failure in spite of the blazing
brandy in which it lay--as hard and heavy as one of the
stone balls on Squire Dunkin's great gate. It was speedily
whisked out of sight, and all fell upon the pies, which
were perfect. But Tilly and Prue were much depressed,
and didn't recover their spirits till dinner was over and
the evening fun well under way.
"Blind-man's bluff," "Hunt the slipper," "Come,
Philander," and other lively games soon set everyone
bubbling over with jollity, and when Eph struck up "Money
Musk" on his fiddle, old and young fell into their places
for a dance. All down the long kitchen they stood, Mr.
and Mrs. Bassett at the top, the twins at the bottom, and
then away they went, heeling and toeing, cutting
pigeon-wings, and taking their steps in a way that would convulse
modern children with their new-fangled romps called
dancing. Mose and Tilly covered themselves with glory by
the vigor with which they kept it up, till fat Aunt Cinthy
fell into a chair, breathlessly declaring that a very little of
such exercise was enough for a woman of her "heft."
Apples and cider, chat and singing, finished the
evening, and after a grand kissing all round, the guests drove
away in the clear moonlight which came out to cheer their
long drive.
When the jingle of the last bell had died away, Mr.
Bassett said soberly, as they stood together on the hearth:
"Children, we have special cause to be thankful that the
sorrow we expected was changed into joy, so we'll read a
chapter 'fore we go to bed, and give thanks where thanks
is due."
Then Tilly set out the light stand with the big Bible on
it, and a candle on each side, and all sat quietly in the
firelight, smiling as they listened with happy hearts to the
sweet old words that fit all times and seasons so
beautifully.
When the good-nights were over, and the children in
bed, Prue put her arm round Tilly and whispered
tenderly, for she felt her shake, and was sure she was crying:
"Don't mind about the old stuffin' and puddin',
deary--nobody cared, and Ma said we really did do
surprisin' well for such young girls."
The laughter Tilly was trying to smother broke out
then, and was so infectious, Prue could not help joining
her, even before she knew the cause of the merriment.
"I was mad about the mistakes, but don't care enough
to cry. I'm laughing to think how Gad fooled Eph and I
found him out. I thought Mose and Amos would have
died over it, when I told them, it was so funny," explained
Tilly, when she got her breath.
"I was so scared that when the first orange hit me, I
thought it was a bullet, and scrabbled into the cradle as
fast as I could. It was real mean to frighten the little ones
so," laughed Prue, as Tilly gave a growl.
Here a smart rap on the wall of the next room caused
a sudden lull in the fun, and Mrs. Bassett's voice was
heard, saying warningly, "Girls, go to sleep immediate, or
you'll wake the baby."
"Yes'm," answered wo meek voices, and after a few
irrepressible giggles, silence reigned, broken only by an
occasional snore from the boys, or the soft scurry of mice in
the buttery, taking their part in this old-fashioned
Thanksgiving.
