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The Son—“Pa, what’s that like that for? Looks like mourning.”
Old Man (with a shudder)—“Perhaps it is, my son, Your mother died on
that day last year.”—Truth.
thanksgiving.
That fields have yielded amplestore
Oi fruit and wheat and corn,
That nights of restful blessedness
Have followed each new morn;
That flowers have blossomed by the paths
That love has filled us with delight,
We offer heartfelt praise.
What shall we say oi sorrow’s hours,
Of hunger and denial,
Of tears, and loneliness, and loss,
Of long and bitter trial ?
Oh, in the darkness have not we
Seen new, resplendent stars?
Have we not learned some song of faith
Within our prison bars?
Not only for the earth’s rich gifts,
Strewn thick along our way,
Her looks of constant loveliness,
We thank our God to-day;
Hut for the spirit’s subtle growth,
The higher, better part,
The treasures gathered in the soul—
The harvest of the heart.
—Mary F. Butts.
THE LOST THIMBLE.
“dock’s” thanksgiving day story.
MAN is consid¬
erably out of
place at a
quilting bee.
Of course, all
mm the 'women
s .were I good to
sw® j me, and the
hostess made
\ Jgi a special effort
at entertain¬
ment, but it
seemed all the
time as just
one more reminder of my unfortunate
and sex; my inability to thread a needle,
my ignorance of “log cabin" and
other quilting.
Dock recognized something of the
same house, thing. Though it was his own
and though he was confessed! v
a “lady’s man,” the number of them
at the “bee,” and the unqualifiedly
dominant manner in which they took
possession of the premises, tamed
him somewhat; and he was content to
retire with me to a quiet place in the
dining room, after the dinner things
had been cleared away, and there tell
me a story.
“You know that Mrs. Harney they
introduced you to, a little bit ago,"
he said; and I admitted that I remem
bered her.
I did in a way. Even as he spoke
the woman passed laughing through
the room—large of figure, graceful,
fair and handsome, with dancing eyes
ana a gracious presence, wherever she
■went. She had left her place at the
blue quilt in the sitting room and
joined herself to the circle sewing on
red in the parlor.
“Well,” said Dock, “she’s Belle,
the daughter of Chris Chaffee. You
ought to remember Chris,”
Someway, far back in my boyhood
memory, in the fair days when this
■Was my home neighborhood and these
people were familiar figures in life,
there was a Chris Chaffee. I could re
member little about him beyond his
name, but that was clear enough,
Thirty years may erase much, but
memory holds to the names. Still I
fancied Deck had something to say
about the woman, and I told him I re
membered.
“That woman,” he continued, “will
be twenty-four next Thursday. That
is, she was born on Thanksgiving
night twenty-four years ago. The
day of the month changes every year,
of course, but they always count
it Thanksgiving as her birthday. Yes,
was Chris’s notion. He was an old
genius, if you ' remember him. Well,
he was.
“You know when Chris was a boy,
along about fourteen years old, I
reckon, he made his home at Grand
ma Ellis’s place. You know the farm,
Big, old-fashioned frame house, fire
Places, and all that. Well, Grandma
Ellis was one of the best housekeepers
in the country; made the best bread
—hop-veast bread, you know. And
she was a great sewer. When she was
married her husband gave her a gold
thimble. It was made from a $5 gold
piece he earned driving cattle from
Ohio to Baltimore long, long ago—
before there were any railroads.
“Of course she prized the thimble,
Five dollars was a good deal of money
then; and, besides, it was a wedding
present. She used it off and on all
her life after that, and there wasn’t a
thing in the house she thought so
much of.
“It was Wednesday, the day before
Thanksgiving, and of course it was
baking day. Wednesday was baking
day just as much as Monday was wash
day. Grandma had been sewing some
buttons on Chris’s jacket, and when she
got it done she called him to put it
on, and then she went out to get her
hops and scald them and set her
yeast. all the
“She kept her hops, just as
old housekeepers did those days, in a
bag that would hold about half a bush-
iN
r it
7 4 t ki ft l m
,. u a
m xjm if m
i 3m m
/ l
&
THEBE STOOD GBANDMA ELLIS.
e l, and it hung in the woodhouse just
outside the kitchen door. She put in
her hand, took up about the right
quantity, shook it free from the loose,
clinging hops, and put them in a
quart cup and poured boiling water
over them.
“But the hop bag was pretty nearly
empty, That made her think of the
new crop. Chris had gathered them
about a week before, and they were ly
ing spread out on the end of the work
bench in the woodhouse; so she gath
ered them up and pat them in the hop
bag. I suppose those old women
never run out of hops. The supply
might run out oy fall, but they are
always stocked up again. And the bag
would last a lifetime,
“While she was setting her yeast
she told Chris to go and split some
kindling and get the wood ready for a
fire in her outdoor oven. Lord! I
remember that old oven well. It was
of brick, of course, and with an arched
roof, plastered and whitewashed, and
she was proud of it. And she had a
right to be, for the bread she made
there was the best in the country,
“Chris went to split the kindling
and Grandma Ellis went back to her
sewing; but she couldn’t find her thim
ble. No, sir; she couldn’t find it any
where, high nor low. That gold thim
ble! Why, it wouldn t have troubled
her much more if the house had
burned down. She could have lost all
the cows or the horse?, or cou i ave
borne a drought that destroyec ne
crops. But that gold thimble, made
from her husband s So piece and pre¬
sented to her on her wedding day.
Why, it almost broke her heart.
“Of course she called Chris but he
said be hadn t seen it. She didn t like
to suspect him, but she corn ar 7
help it. And when she had looked
everywhere else made hnn come in.
and she searched him ; and ho cried
and so did she. And they didn t have
much fun out of that Thanksgiving
Day.
“Well, the neighbors heard of it, of
course. They all knew of the thimble,
and they all said Chris might have
taken it. Some of them said they al¬
ways had heard he was light fingered.
And he left Grandma Ellis along about
holidays, and then the neighbors were
sure had taken the thimble.
“But he didn’t go out of the neigh¬
borhood. He got another place to
live, and he worked there that winter
and the next summer—worked there
our or five years, I guess. He was a
mighty good hand. My father used
to say Chris was the best cradler in
Vest Township. Just before the war,
vbeu he was grown up, I heard a mau
•av one time if Chris Chaffee hadn’t
taken that gold thimble of Grandma
Ellis’s he would be a model citizen.
Oh, yes; it stuck to him. It followed
him. You see it’s a serious thing in
the country for a boy to get caught
stealing anything. They never forget
it.
“Grandma Ellis was awful sorry.
She always would say Chris was a
steady boy, and willing, if there ever
was one. And she would have done
anything for him. Lots of times she
tried fto be friends with him, but he
was kind of shy. The neighbors told
her she better leave him alone before
she was any worse off.”
“He went into the army when the
war broke out, and I guess he made a
good soldier. Now and then letters
came home telling about the boys
from Marshall County, and nearly al¬
ways Chris was mentioned. When
Brazil Bradley came home on fur¬
lough he said Chris was a good pen¬
man, and he might have been an offi¬
cer if it hadn’t been for that gold
thimble. He was a big, fine looking
fellow, but of course every one in the
regiment knew about that, and it
seemed to hurt his chances.
“But he didn’t complain. He just
went on and seemed to think if he
couldn’t undo that act he could at j leas
get along without repeating it. He
was wounded one time and came home
on sick furlough and got several re¬
cruits to start back with him. But
they left him just before they enlisted.
Some one told them about the gold
thimble, and they said they didn’t
want to have any thief pulling them
around over the country.
“When the war over Chris came
back and bought a farm up here in
the thick woods. It seems he had
been saving bis money all through the
time he was in the service, and when
he came out he had something. He
boarded at Hi Rank’s place and cleared
up his land. And then he built a
house there, and furnished it, and
iolks joked him a good deal about a
housekeeper; but he didn’t seem to
find a wife. He always said he wasn’t
in a hurry, but we alf knew it was the
women that wasn’t in a hurry.
“Of course he was respected and
trusted and all that. His credit was
good at any of the stores in town, and
if he went bail on a note it was good
anywhere. He was quiet and orderly
and a good farmer; and of course no
one had anything but kind words for
him. Only that old matter of the
thimble would keep coming up. You !
know country neighborhood don’t '
a :
change very rapidly. And when a
story fastens once he on lives. a man it hangs j !
there as long as and get bet- ( J
“I know be used to try I
ter acquainted with the womSn, but i
when one would go with him a time or i
two she would hear that story, and
hear it from so many that she would
quit him. And he was thirty years
old when he finally married. Oh, yes,
he marripd right here in the neighbor¬
hood, and a woman that had known
him all her life. She knew the story
as well as anyone else did. They made
sure of that. But she said she didn t
care. She didn’t believe it anyway.
And they said she had made her bed
and she might lie in it.
••But I bet you there wasn’t a wo
man in West Township had a better
home than she had. Why, he was a
model husband.
“And the next year his baby was
born—Belle, that’s now Mrs. Harney
in there. La! I’ve heard my mother
tell time and again about that night.
Mother was over at Chris’s house, and
so were two or three other women,
The baby was born Thanksgiving even
ing,'about 5 o’clock, and along about
8 mv mother was sitting in front of
the fire bolding that fat little girl on
her knees, and talking with the wo¬
men about people being rich if they
are born late in the month, when they |
beard the front gate open. Yon al¬
ways could hear that front gate at.
Chris Chaffee’s house.
“And the dog barked and the women
sat still and lisbene 1, and they heard
a stumbling walk along the path, and
Chris got up from where ho had been
sitting by the head of his wife’s bed,
but before he could cross theroom the
door opened, and there stoo l Grand¬
ma Ellis, with the gold thimble in her
hand.
“Yes, sir ; that same old gold thim¬
ble that her husband had made from
hi3 $5 gold piece, and gave her on her
wedding day.
“She could scarcely speak, She
had baked the day before, and had
felt something hard in the hop bag.
But then she had felt something hav i
in the bottom of that bag for year-,
and never thought anything of i;.
But this Thursday — Thanksgiving
Day—she had started to fill the bag
with fresh hops, and had felt the hard
substance again, and thought, whiie
the bag was nearly empty sue would
empty it entirely, and shake it out.
And when she shook it, down among
the chips in the woodhouse rolled thas
old gold thimble. It had been fifteen
years in the bottom of that hop bag.
She had dropped it in there that day
before Thanksgiving, when she had
finished sewing buttons on Chris’s
jacket, and had gone to get hops for
her bread.”
“What did Chris do?” said I.
“Chris! Why when he saw what it
was, and knew how much finding it
meant to Grandma Ellis, he just gath¬
ered her up in his arms and carried
her to a chair, and told her to never
mind ; he knew she would find it some
time.”
“But it is a good long walk from
tbe Grandma Ellis place down to Chris
Chaffee s farm, isn t it? said I.
“Beven mile, said Dock. “You
see she found it along late in the af
ternoon. Grandpa Ellis had been
dead a good many years, and she was
hiring a man to work the place for
ber, and she couldn t leave home till
she had got his supper. And he didn t
want the horses to go out till next
morning, because he had been haul
ing wood all day. He offered to take
the thimble to Chaffee’s for her, but
he wouldn’t let him. She said she
must take it herself. She never could
eat or sleep till she did. But she was
crying a good deal, and he thought
she would put it off till daylight, and
then he would give her a horse.
“But. she t wait, and
supper she started out and walked
every step of that seven miles, and
( Tied herself to sleep in the spare bed
at Chris’s house and slept there till
next morning. She didn t live long
after that—four or five years—but she
worried over the thimble till she died.
I guess she left Chris some money,
but I don’t think he has ever used it.
He had all he wanted when they took
that stain from his lip. They elected
him township trustee the next year.
Yes, I guess he was trustee when he
died, when Belle, here, was pretty
near a young woman.”
“Well, we’re done with the red
quilt,” called a cheery voice from the
parlor, and here came Mrs. Harney
Belle Chaffee that was, with fail
blonde face and laughing eyes, and
lips like cherries, and a large, fine
figure, with a grace of movement and
a charm of speech that are rare among
women.
“Where’s your cat, Dock?” she de
manded, brimming with mischief,
“We must toss the cat in the red quilt,
It wouldn’t be a complete quilting if
we didn’t toss the cat. ”
“I’ll get the cat if you’ll show me
your thimble,” said Dock.
And she handed him a rather large
but thin and much worn thimble, made
of gold and marked on the inner rim
with shallow traces of what had once
been the inscription : “Wedding gift
—Ella Ellis—1845.”
She looked iu my eyes and knew I
bad heard her father’s story. And
she took the thimble again and
“It was ray birthday present from
Grandma Ellis Thanksgiving night—
oh, ever so many years ago.”
And then she carried her smile aod
her laugh and her gracious presence
among the women again—a perpetual
Thanksgiving wherever she went.
Thanksgiving in Revolutionary Days.
Many funny stories are told of the
early Thanksgiving Days. The town
of Colchester, for instance, calmly ig¬
nored the day appointed by the Gov¬
ernor and held its own Thanksgiving
a week later, when the sloop from Npw
York, bringing a hogshead of molasses
for pies, had arrived. In Revolution¬
ary times Thanksgiving was not for¬
gotten. The Council of Massacbu
setts recommended that November 16,
1776, be set aside for “acknowledg¬
ments for mercies enjoyed.” In the
next year Samuel Adams recommend¬
ed a form of Thanksgiving proclama¬
tion to the Continental Congress.
During the War of Independence Con¬
gress appointed eight days of Thanks¬
giving. They fell in April, May, July
and December. The appointments were
made in the form of recommendations
to the heads of the various State G jv
ernments. With one exception Con
gress suspended business on the days
appointed.
THE TURKEY’S LAMENT.
I wish I was a little mouse,
I do not care how tiny:
I wish I was a little cloud.
I would not care how murky.
SsftpJb
— 38 —
1 wish! was a horse, a cow,
A katydid, so shiny;
Oh, anything this time of year
Except a healthy turkey!
Tliankssrivinsr*
In what penury, what hardship,
what sense of exile, what darkness of
bereavement, what dependence upon
the Divine hand and gratitude for its
bounty, were the earliest Thanksgiv¬
ings kept! The story of the Plymouth
colony can never be too often recalled
by Americans. Eor uncomplaining
fortitude, for sturdy endurance, for
strength that knew no faltering, for
splendid faith and undaunted heroism,
that story has no equal on the page of
history. Many delicate women died
in those first years, hut we never read
that they weakened in courage while
they lived. Theirs was the underly¬
ing might of a purpose which had its
root in principles; and whoever may
celebrate the Pilgrim Fathers, women
should forever keep green the mem¬
ory of the heroic Pilgrim Mothers.
We like to think of the group which
assembled at those Puritan dinner ta
j de3 j n those far away days. The
harvests were reaped; the churches
and $he school-houses were built; the
children were brought up in the fear
of Go;1> In the co ld meeting house on
the top +he nearest hill there had
heen a long service, prayers, psalms,
8ermonS) and all of a generous prodi
jvality of time to which we in our ro
Jigjous services of to-day are strang
ers _ Then came the unbending, the
lavish dinner, the frolic of the little
oneS) the ta i k inside the fi ro> w hen
the parents drew upon the reminis
cences of fair England, or of Holland
8ea<
Many a trothplight was spoken in
the twilight of Thanksgiving Day.
y olltbs anii ma idens then, as vouths
and maideng still, met and fell in love.
r £he beautiful story which never grows
old was to ld by the ardent suitor to
the blushing girl in the Puritan home,
ftS iu oin . households yet.
„ was ^ „ ood mau . g sermon>
Bllt it aeem ed not so to me,
For he spake of Rath the beautiful,
And then I thought of thee.”
After all, the world changes little
in essentials as time passes. The girl
will wear her blue or her orange a few
days later this year, but on Thanks¬
giving day, as on all Days, her lover
will find his sunshine in her eyes, and
her favor will be bis highest incentive
to manliness and nobility.■‘—Harper’s
Bazar.
A Thanksgiving Game.
The game proceeds after this fashion:
A map is held by the judge, usually a
grown person, or an older child; then,
two children are chosen and placed in
separate corners.*
Bays the judge: Now, Carrie, you
represent New York in that corner,
and Richard, you are in Moscow, im
prisoned; you want to get away and
reach homo by Thanksgiving Day.
You have got from behind the walls —
bat what is your directest route
home?”
Then Richard has to tell each sea,
country and ocean he crosses to gefc
home for the turkey and cranberry
sauce. If he can’t do it successfully,
he must remain right on the uutil spot on ha
the Hoor where he stopped
thinks out his escape,
other members of the game are
placed in prison at various parts oi
the country. The favorite jails are
IiOW located in China and Japan on
account of the interest iu the war. A
i ea dmg question is “if you were put
m a Yokohama prison, how would you
ge t back to Pekin?”
Soon the room becomes filled with
p risoner8< a n trying to get home; half
of them are “stalled” in the center
trying to think of the boundary line
w hich brings freedom^pthers are j'ust
leaving the prison walls.
When the game has been played
frequently, those who join in get very
familiar with the junction of countries
and learn many straight lines and
clever jumps that had not appeared
feasible before. For those wno are
not quite conversant with geography,
easy tasks are given; for instance, to
be placed in a Paris prison and find
their heme to Boston.
Some large games are to be ar¬
ranged for Thanksgiving parties with
favors for those who come out of three
prisons successfully.
The Oueslion ol the Day.
The question on Thanksgiving Day
Will be of National interest quite;
From coast of Maine to Georgi-a:
“Which will yon have, dark meat o>
white?”
