CHAPTER XIII.

THANKSGIVING DAYS.

"It's just like another c'nvention," said Dolly.

"'Tis," was Ned's reply. "It's mother's c'nvention; the tag-rag-'n-bobtail c'nvention."

"Oh, what a shame to call it that!" remonstrated Dolly.

"'Tis," persisted Ned. "You just wait an' see! There'll be an awful spread, an' everybody that hasn't got anywhere else t' go will be invited to come here to dinner. An' 'f that isn't a tag-rag-'n-bobtail thing, I'd like to know what is!" and he conveyed a plump raisin to his mouth, into which receptacle had disappeared so many during the operation of stoning that Thankful felt called upon to remonstrate.

"'F y' eat many more o' them plums, th' puddin's 'll fall short."

"Oh, I'll risk that!" said Ned, and well he might; for Thankful, never submitting at any time to be "skinched," demanded such a supply of raisins for her Thanksgiving puddings and pies that it was difficult to crowd them all in; and looking at his operations from that stand-point, Ned might have been considered as a happy provision whereby to make way with the surplus.

He and Dolly were stoning the raisins, of which the monkey--still unclaimed by the menadgeri--had managed to grab a handful by swinging dexterously down from his perch on top of the eight-day clock in the corner.

What a cosey, spice-laden, cheery interior was that kitchen on this evening of which I am writing! With the advent of cold weather the cook-stove had been removed permanently to the outer kitchen, while a roaring wood-fire burned nineteen hours out of the twenty-four in the huge fireplace in the inner kitchen. The remaining six hours the fire was raked up, dispensing a luxurious warmth even in its ashes.

On this evening 'Zekle, with Skipper Joe to "spell" him, was chopping raw beef and pork for sausages, which beef and pork required great strength of muscle to reduce to the fineness required by Thankful, who was as intolerant of a "chunk" of beef in her sausages as she was of a raisin-stone in her puddings.

The Little Madam was busy pounding and sifting spices, sticks of cinnamon, beads of allspice, and whole cloves; no adulteration in those spices! It was dainty, fragrant work, just suited to her, and done so neatly that not a trace of it powdered the white of her homespun woollen gown.

Cousin Kitty, leaving Aunt Anna to read her favorite "Goldsmith," had deserted the sitting-room for the kitchen, and insisted upon having a share in the preparations for Thanksgiving. To her Thankful consigned the bunches of summer savory, sage, and thyme, to be carefully dried by the fire, and then powdered into shallow pans.

Betty, having reduced to a fine dust the meat for the one hundred mince-pies, was now engaged in chopping the apples, while Thankful went from one to another inspecting, suggesting, scolding, flying every now and then into the outer kitchen to stir vigorously two huge pots of pumpkin stewing over a moderate fire, stirring up at the same time the cow-boy, who had been stationed there to watch the fire, lest, burning too freely, the pumpkin should scorch, and who, between this responsibility and an overpowering inclination to fall asleep, was well-nigh distracted.

Upon this cheerful scene a traveller entered. The main entrance to the tavern was not through the kitchen, but two classes of travellers often came in that way--its old frequenters and strangers. The former knew well its comforts, and the latter were drawn thither by the light which streamed out so hospitably from above the short curtains which covered the lower half of the windows only.

But this traveller was no stranger. To all but Cousin Kitty his face was familiar. It was Harrington, the famous wizard. A pleasant stir greeted his entrance. The monkey, after a careful survey of the new-comer, came down from his perch and cordially offered his paw.

"Ah, who have we here?" said the wizard. And then a strange wild cry was heard, which seemed to come from some mysterious and far-away region, and the monkey slunk back, trembling with fright. It was the savage cry of a bird of prey, a cry which the monkey had often heard in South American forests.

The wizard laughed, "It's too bad to frighten the creature," he said, offering him a bit of barley candy by way of a peace-offering.

Having laid aside his riding-coat, he took his stand on the hearth with his back to the fire and looked smilingly around.

"Going t' have snow?" he asked, looking at 'Zekle.

"Guess so," was the reply. "Geese 'r goin' over putty thick."

Presently, with the air of one quite at home, he moved across the kitchen, and stooping over Betty, who was chopping somewhat at random with her wide-open eyes fixed upon the wizard, he took an egg from out the apple in her tray.

"Well, Betty," he said, laughing, "is this where your hens lay?" And Betty stared in open-mouthed wonder.

"How'd that come there an' I a-choppin', I sh'd like to know!"

Pretty soon a queer state of things prevailed in the kitchen. 'Zekle's chopping-knife disappeared while in the act of chopping, and after an ineffectual search, it was found in the tray under his very nose.

Dolly, dipping her hand into the deep stone jar for the last handful of raisins, withdrew it with a shriek, and out popped a tiny squirrel, which scampered up one of the wizard's coat-sleeves.

"Up t' y'r old tricks ag'in, Mister Harrington," said Skipper Joe, pulling his red silk pocket-handkerchief out of the pocket of his sailor jacket. A score of silver dollars followed the handkerchief and rolled over the floor.

"Had a successful summer, eh, skipper?" asked the wizard. "It isn't everybody that's got the dollars to carry about in that way."

"None o' mine," growled Skipper Joe, picking up one. "Lead, by thunder! Now just turn them into silver, Mr. Harrington, an' your tricks 'd be worth somethin'."

"Lead!" retorted Harrington, taking the dollar from Skipper Joe's hand, and ringing it upon the table. The clear, silvery sound proved the purity of the metal. "D'y' call that lead?"

"Wa'al, wa'al, reelly, now, 't's no use t' try tricks with you, Mr. Harrington," said Skipper Joe, resignedly. "Y' c'n make lead silver, an' silver lead."

The wizard looked smilingly at Dolly, who had been following his tricks with the deepest interest. Just beside the cushioned settle where she and Ned were seated stood a light-stand, with a candle and snuffer-tray upon it. The candle had burned down, leaving a long wick, and Dolly took up the snuffers to snuff it. As she opened them, out dropped a fragrant red rose of the kind known as the monthly rose. She picked it up.

"Oh, Mr. Harrington, how lovely! I wish I could turn candle snuff into red roses! Is it mine?"

"With all my heart," replied the wizard. "The rose-queen must have sent it to match your cheeks."

"Perhaps she has some more for you," he added, mysteriously.

Dolly again tried to snuff the candle, and this time out flew from the open snuffers a canary, which, alighting on her hand, burst into song.

"Well, who ever see the beat o' that!" ejaculated Thankful. "How d'y' c'ntrive t' carry all them live creeturs about y' t' onct, Mister Harrington?"

"Easy enough if you only know how," was the reply; and Thankful was that instant confronted by a snow-white rabbit, which raised itself on its haunches upon the table and piped out, "Easy enough if you only know how."

"Massy sakes alive!" said Thankful, looking aghast at the uncanny creature as it sat motionless, with the exception of its long white ears, which moved slowly back and forth. "Dew stop, Mister Harrington. 'Taint right--no, 'taint right--t' make dumb creeturs speak."

The rabbit chuckled, "Dumb critters can't speak. If they speak they aint dumb critters, and if they're dumb critters they can't speak." And having delivered himself of this bit of wisdom he disappeared as mysteriously as he had come.

Harrington laughed. "And now," he said, "I think I'll go and pay my respects to Mrs. Park." And he went out with the canary circling about his head, the monkey calling out just as the door closed, "Good-by! good riddance!" At least it seemed to be the monkey, although he looked as surprised as the rest at hearing a voice apparently issuing from his stomach.

"Wa'al, he's a master feller f'r a joke," said 'Zekle, as the door closed upon him, "an' it's dum queer how he does them things!"

"I' my way o' thinkin' them things 'd better be let alone," remarked Thankful, who had not quite recovered from her rabbit scare.

"Oh, pshaw! don't dew any harm, them things don't," said Skipper Joe, good-naturedly. "'F he rode on a broomstick now like a witch! They dew say old Granny Cary us't t' go t' Bermuda an' back 'n a night after rosemary to cure folks o' rheumatiz. Benev'lent old crittur, 'f she was a witch. But Harrington, now--Lor, Thankful, it's only jes' fun." But Thankful continued to shake her head; she could not quite forgive Harrington for giving her such a start.

The day before Thanksgiving was a busy one for Ned and Dolly. Chickens, turkeys, puddings, pies, spare-ribs, sirloins, and assorted vegetables were to be delivered to Aunt Anna's numerous protégés: to the three old aunties, to bedridden Matty, to the McLouds, to the tailoress Phœbe, to crippled Susy Stone and her mother, and to Lute Atkins, a friendless drunkard, who lived alone in a half or wholly savage way.

It is always pleasant to be the bearer of gifts--doubly so, perhaps, when the gifts supply some real want--and Ned and Dolly had a happy time. The three old aunties were grateful, though not effusively so, for the thoughtful kindness that for so many years had helped them to make both ends meet out of a scanty income.

Poor Mrs. McLoud, with six hungry mouths to fill and only one small chicken for her Thanksgiving dinner, came very near crying for joy when Ned laid a plump, fat turkey on her kitchen table, with his mother's "compliments and kind wishes;" and as to the six children, they joined hands and circled around it in a sort of sacrificial dance, which Dolly, catching glimpses of through the window, thought very charming indeed.

Dolly did not go in at the several houses; she felt a little delicacy about witnessing the bestowal of these gifts. As they drew up by the gate of Phœbe, the tailoress, she herself came to the door. Phœbe lived in a corner of Deacon Hart's house, in a state of happy independence, having "bought into" said house with her savings. "She wa'n't beholden t' nobody f'r a livin'," and no one except Mrs. Park ever ventured to offer her a gift. She prided herself on payin' her own way; and at the very moment that old Bill stopped at her gate she was busy in stuffing a five-pound turkey, which she had bought from the butcher's cart for her Thanksgiving dinner. But she had once been heard to say that Thankful was a "beater" for plum-puddings, and _she_ couldn't come "nigh her." So for several years Mrs. Park had ventured to send her at Thanksgiving a small, round, crumbly, rich plum-pudding. Phœbe always graciously accepted it, and was "obleeged to Mis' Park," but some gift in return invariably found its way to the tavern, to take off the edge of the obligation as it were. Sometimes it was a basket of apples from her famous golden-sweet; sometimes it was a pound of equally golden butter from Whitefoot's cream. On that day it was a loaf of "riz" cake, made from the famous Waterman recipe, that had been in the family two hundred years--ever since the emigration of the family from England, in fact. It had been handed down from mother to daughter, and had been considered a strictly family inheritance, not to be imparted to any outsider. She handed the loaf up to Dolly, wrapped in a snow-white napkin of home-made linen, with P. W. in cross-stitch in one corner.

"I think, Dolly, you had better go in and see Matty; she used to know your mother." This was what Aunt Anna had said as they drove away from the tavern that morning. So Dolly went in to see Matty, rather sorry on the whole that she must, for, she reflected, an old woman, bedridden for so many years, could not be a very nice person to visit.

They knocked at the door, and a cheerful voice saying "Come in," they entered.

"Dear, dear me! is _that_ Matty?" thought Dolly, coming very near, in her surprise saying it out loud.

A woman was lying on the bed in a corner of the room, propped up by pillows. A small face was on the pillow, pallid, it is true, and encircled with snow-white hair, but luminous with a pair of laughing eyes that made Dolly's face fairly dimple as her own glance met them.

"Come here, my dear," she said, cordially, holding out a thin, white hand. "I know you; you are Helen Heath's daughter; I should know you anywhere. And I know what has brought you, Master Ned. And how you grow! Come and stand up here, and let me see how much you have grown since last year. Just look here!" and she pointed out to Dolly a row of pencil marks on the door-casing beside her bed. "I always make Mahala scour round those when she cleans. That," pointing to the lowest one, "was his height when he brought me his first Thanksgiving turkey. He came tugging it in, in his short arms, with his mother behind, and how we laughed to see him!" and she laughed a low, happy laugh at the remembrance. "And he's brought me one every Thanksgiving since."

"Here's something else I thought you'd like, Matty," said Ned, bringing out, rather shamefacedly, a plump partridge, which he had trapped and dressed the day before, though, boy-like, he had kept his gift out of sight, and this was the first glimpse Dolly had had of it.

"Oh, thank you! and you left the pretty tail-feathers on for me to see, didn't you? And how do the woods look now? Are the box-berries thick? and is Wild-cat Brook as full as common? I used to love that brook when I was a girl; and sometimes in the night I think I hear it dashing over its stones. And does the little gray owl still keep house in the old apple-tree by the lane? I like to think of him there cold nights, warm and cosey, only I wish he wouldn't eat orioles and bluebirds. I don't begrudge him his mice. But just hear me! he's as much right to his oriole as I have to my partridge," and she laughed a laugh so heartily happy, so in contrast with her pale face and apparent helplessness, that Dolly, forgetting her good manners, stared in bewildered astonishment.

But such good spirits are infectious, and both Dolly and Ned were soon laughing heartily over her account of Mahala's mishap of that morning, whose pet lamb had butted her over as she was bringing in Matty's breakfast. Matty lost her breakfast, of course, or as good as lost it, for there wasn't another egg in the house, but she said the fun made up for that. And if she hadn't lost her breakfast, most likely she would have had no appetite for dinner, and now she could have broiled partridge, and that would be "nice."

And then they said "good-by" and hurried off to deliver the rest of their gifts.

"Is she really so sick?" asked Dolly, as they drove along. "And how can she be so merry?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," replied Ned. "She's always just so when I see her. But mother says she has awful pain."

Ah, if they could only have looked in upon her at that very moment. For the sound of their departing wheels had hardly died away when a spasm of fierce pain contracted the delicate features, and a look of anguish came into the laughing eyes. None but the faithful Mahala ever quite knew how much Matty suffered. For, years before, when her happy girlhood went out in life-long anguish, she had resolved that "whatever I may have to endure, my sufferings shall never darken the lives of others."

What a dismal place was that where Lute Atkins lived! All the traditional shabbiness and decay of the drunkard's home were there--if "home" it could be called--broken windows, hingeless doors, and falling fences. Ned knocked, but no cheerful voice said "come in." He opened the door, pushed in the basket, and shut the door quickly.

"He's there," he said to Dolly as he jumped into the buggy and caught up the reins. He shuddered with disgust. "It's dreadful to think that a boy can ever turn into a man like that!" he said. "An' mother says she remembers him when he was a nice, jolly boy. Well, I've signed the pledge, Dolly, an' I'm glad I have, an' I mean to keep it too. I b'long to a teetotal society. Oh, did I ever tell you about Johnny Tuttle when he was sick? He's a teetotaler too."

"No."

"Well, he was awful sick, an' he was going to die; that's what Dr. Stone said, an' that's what everybody thought. An' Dr. Stone said they must give him brandy every fifteen minutes, p'r'aps that would save him, an' p'r'aps 't wouldn't, anyway they must try it, an' Johnny said he couldn't take it nohow, for he'd signed the pledge, an' he was going t' keep it anyway. An' his mother cried an' begged him to, and his father begged, and doctor said he must, an' he said he wouldn't an' he didn't."

"And did he die?" asked Dolly, anxiously.

"No, you bet he didn't! Such a boy 's that don't die easy! Why he goes t' school now, don't y' know? an' he's coming t' the menagerie--going t' be the elephant. Deacon Hart said 'f he'd been _his_ boy he'd a-turned the brandy down him; an' he said 'twas tempting Providence, but father said 'twas true grit."