Chapter XVIII. Thanksgiving at the Farm

by Horatio Alger

　　The chill November days drew to a close. The shrill windswhistled through the branches of the trees, and stirred theleaves which lay in brown heaps upon the ground. But at the endof the month came Thanksgiving--the farmer's Harvest Home. Thefruits of the field were in abundance but in many a home therewere vacant chairs, never more, alas! to be filled. But he whodies in a noble cause leaves sweet and fragrant memories behind,which shall ever after make it pleasant to think of him.Thanksgiving morning dawned foggy and cold. Yet there issomething in the name that warms the heart and makes the dullestday seem bright. The sunshine of the heart more than compensatesfor the absence of sunshine without.Frank had not been idle.The night before he helped Jacob kill a turkey and a pair ofchickens, and seated on a box in the barn they had picked themclean in preparation for the morrow,Within the house, too, might be heard the notes of busypreparation. Alice, sitting in a low chair, was busily engaged inchopping meat for mince pies. Maggie sat near her paringpumpkins, for a genuine New England Thanksgiving cannot beproperly celebrated without pumpkin pies. Even little Charliefound work to do in slicing apples.By evening a long row of pies might be seen upon the kitchendresser. Brown and flaky they looked, fit for the table of aprince. So the children thought as they surveyed the attractivearray, and felt that Thanksgiving, come as often as it might,could never be unwelcome.Through the forenoon of Thanksgiving day the preparationscontinued. Frank and Mr. Morton went to the village church, wherean appropriate service was held by Reverend Mr. Apthorp. Therewere but few of the village matrons present. They were mostlydetained at home by housewifely cares, which on that day couldnot well be delegated to other hands."Mr. Morton," said Frank, as they walked leisurely home, "did younotice how Squire Haynes stared at you this morning?"Mr. Morton looked interested. "Did he?" he asked. "I did notnotice.""Yes, he turned halfround, and looked at you with a puzzledexpression, as if he thought he had seen you somewhere before,but could not recall who you were.""Perhaps I reminded him of some one he has known in past years,"said the young man quietly. "We sometimes find strangeresemblances in utter strangers.""I think he must have felt quite interested," pursued Frank, "forhe stopped me after church, and inquired who you were.""Indeed!" said Henry Morton quietly. "And what did you tell him?""I told him your name, and mentioned that you were boarding withus.""What then? Did he make any further inquiries?""He asked where you came from.""He seemed quite curious about me. I ought to feel flattered. Andwhat did you reply?""I told him I did not know--that I only knew that part of yourlife had been passed in Europe. I heard him say under his breath,'It is singular.' ""Frank," said Mr. Morton, after a moment's thought, "I wish tohave Squire Haynes learn as little of me as possible. If,therefore, he should ask you how I am employed, you say that Ihave come here for the benefit of my health. This is one of mymotives, though not the principal one.""I will remember," said Frank. "I don't think he will say much tome, however. He has a grudge against father, and his son does notlike me. I am sorry that father is compelled to have somebusiness relations with the squire.""Indeed!""Yes, he holds a mortgage on our farm for eight hundred dollars.It was originally more, but it has been reduced to this. He willhave the right to foreclose on the first of July.""Shall you have the money ready for him at that time?""No; we may have half enough, perhaps. I am sometimes troubledwhen I think of it. Father feels confident, however, that thesquire will not be hard upon us, but will renew the mortgage."Henry Morton looked very thoughtful, but said nothing.They had now reached the farmhouse.Dinner was already on the table. In the center, on a large dish,was the turkey, done to a turn. It was flanked by the chickens ona smaller dish. These were supported by various vegetables, suchas the season supplied. A dish of cranberry sauce stood at oneend of the table, and at the opposite end a dish of apple sauce."Do you think you can carve the turkey, Mr. Morton?" asked Mrs.Frost."I will at least make the attempt.""I want the wish-bone, Mr. Morton," said Maggie."No, I want it," said Charlie."You shall both have one," said the mother. "Luckily each of thechickens is provided with one.""I know what I am going to wish," said Charlie. nodding his headwith decision."Well, Charlie, what is it?" asked Frank."I shall wish that papa may come home safe.""And so will I," said Maggie."I wish he might sit down with us to-day," said Mrs. Frost, witha little sigh. "He has never before been absent from us onThanksgiving day.""Was he well when you last heard from him?""Yes, but hourly expecting orders to march to join the army inMaryland. I am afraid he won't get as good a Thanksgiving dinneras this.""Two years ago," said Mr. Morton, "I ate my Thanksgiving dinnerin Amsterdam.""Do they have Thanksgiving there, Mr. Morton?" inquired Alice."No, they know nothing of our good New England festival. I wasobliged to order a special dinner for myself. I don't think youwould have recognized plum pudding under the name which they gaveit.""What was it?" asked Frank curiously."Blom buden was the name given on the bill.""I can spell better than that," said Charlie."We shall have to send you out among the Dutchmen as aschoolmaster plenipotentiary," said Frank, laughing. "I hope the'blom buden' was good in spite of the way it was spelt.""Yes, it was very good.""I don't believe it beat mother's," said Charlie."At your present rate of progress, Charlie, you won't leave roomfor any," said Frank."I wish I had two stomachs," said Charlie, looking regretfully atthe inviting delicacies which tempted him with what the Frenchcall the embarrassment of riches."Well done, Charlie!" laughed his mother.Dinner was at length over. Havoc and desolation reigned upon theonce well-filled table.In the evening, as they all sat together round the table, Maggieclimbed on Mr. Morton's knee and petitioned for a story."What shall it be about?" he asked."Oh, anything.""Let me think a moment," said the young man.He bent his eyes thoughtfully upon the wood-fire that crackled inthe wide-open fireplace, and soon signified that he was ready tobegin.All the children gathered around him, and even Mrs. Frost,sitting quietly at her knitting, edged her chair a little nearer,that she, too, might listen to Mr. Morton's story. As this was ofsome length, we shall devote to it a separate chapter.