Book: Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know

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"You don't say that this is the white turkey? Seems kind of a pity to
kill her, she was so handsome. But she eats real well. Now, you
mustn't forget to let me take a wing home to Sabriny. You know you
always promised her a wing for her hat when the white turkey was
killed."

Sabriny was Aunt Piper's niece, who had been left at home to keep
house.

"Sure enough I did," said Aunt Kittredge. "Jason, you go out to the
barn and get Cyrus to give you one of the white turkey's wings; and
Minty, you wrap it up nice, so it will be handy for your aunt to
carry. Go as soon as you've ate your dinner, so's to have it ready,
for Uncle Piper has got to get home before sundown."

"Yes'm," answered Jason hoarsely, without lifting his eyes from his
plate. He could scarcely eat another mouthful, and Minty found it
unexpectedly easy to obey Aunt Kittredge's injunction to decline snow
pudding lest there should not be "enough to go round."

"What are you going to do?" asked Minty, overtaking Jason, as he
walked dejectedly through the woodshed as soon as dinner was over.

"I don't know; run away and be a cowboy like Hiram Trickey, I guess."

Minty's heart gave a great throb. Hiram Trickey had sent home a
photograph, which showed him to have become very like the picture of a
pirate in Cyrus's old book, with pistols and a dirk at his belt.

"Jason, the new minister's daughter has got a white gull's wing on her
hat, and--it's up in the spare chamber on the bed, and I don't think
Sabriny would ever know the difference."

Jason stared in mild-eyed speechless wonder. Minty had never shown
herself a leading spirit before.

"It will be dark before the minister's daughter goes, and there's a
veil over the hat, and if we put a little something white on it I'm
sure she won't notice. And when she does notice she won't know what
became of it. And we can save up and buy her another gull's wing."

"Sabriny'll know," said Jason, but there was an accent of hope in his
voice.

"They don't have turkeys, and they know that Priscilla wasn't a common
turkey; perhaps they won't know the difference," said Minty. "Anyway,
it will give us time to get Priscilla out of the way. If Aunt
Kittredge finds out, she will have her killed right away."

"You go and get the wing off the minister's daughter's hat, Mint,"
directed Jason firmly.

Minty worked with trembling fingers in the chilly seclusion of the
spare chamber, but she made a neat package. And she stuck on to the
hat in place of the wing some feathers from the white rooster.

There was an awful moment as Uncle and Aunt Piper were leaving.

"Just let me see whether he's got a real handsome wing," said Aunt
Kittredge, taking the package which Minty had put into Aunt Piper's
hand.

"Malachi is in considerable of a hurry, and they've done it up so
nice," said Aunt Piper. "There! I 'most forgot my sauce dishes, and
Sabriny's going to have company to-morrow!"

Minty drew a long breath of relief as the carriage disappeared down
the lane, and Jason privately confided to her his opinion that she was
"an orfle smart girl."

There was another dreadful moment when the minister's daughter went
home. They had played games until a very late hour, for Corinna, and
she dressed so hurriedly that she did not observe that anything had
happened to her hat, but as she went down the garden walk Jason and
Minty saw in the moonlight the rooster's feathers blowing from it.

The next morning, in the privacy afforded by the great woodpile, to
which Jason had gone to chop his daily stint, the children debated the
advisability of committing the white turkey to the care of Lot Rankin,
who lived with his widowed mother on the edge of the woods.

"It's hard to get a chance to feed her," said Jason, "and she may
squawk."

"Lot Rankin may tell," suggested Minty. And she heaved a great sigh.
Conspiracy came hard to Minty.

Just then the voice of the new minister's daughter came to their ears.
She was talking with Aunt Kittredge on the other side of the woodpile.

"There was a high wind last night when I went home, and I suppose it
blew away. I am very sorry to lose it, because it was so pretty, and
it was a present, too," she said.

"Maybe the children have found it; they're round everywhere," said
Aunt Kittredge. And then she called shrilly to Jason.

Minty shrank down in a little heap behind a huge log as Jason stepped
bravely out from behind the woodpile, and answered promptly that he
had not seen the gull's wing. That was literally true; but how _she_
was going to answer, Minty did not know.

It was so great a relief that tears sprang to Minty's eyes when, after
a little more conversation, the minister's daughter went away. Aunt
Kittredge had taken it for granted that, as she remarked, "if one of
them young ones didn't know anything about it the other didn't."

Minty felt her burden of guilt to be greater than she could bear. And
there was no way in which she could earn money enough to buy the
minister's daughter a new feather until berries were ripe and the
weeds grew in old Mrs. Jackman's garden. Minty racked her brains to
think of something she could give the minister's daughter to ease her
troubled conscience. There was her Bunker Hill monument, made of
shells, her most precious treasure; she would gladly have parted with
even that, but it stood upon the table in the parlour, and Aunt
Kittredge would discover so soon that it had gone. And Aunt Kittredge
was quite capable of asking the minister's daughter to return it.
Minty felt, despairingly, that this atonement was impossible.

But suddenly a bright idea struck her. The feather on her summer
Sunday hat! It was blue--it had been white originally, but Aunt
Kittredge had thriftily had it dyed when it became soiled. Blue would
be very becoming to the minister's daughter, and perhaps she would
like it as well as her gull's wing. There was another sly visit to the
chilly spare chamber. Minty took the summer Sunday hat from its
bandbox in the closet, and carefully abstracted the blue feather. It
was slightly faded, and there were some traces of the wetting it had
received in a thunderstorm in spite of the handkerchief which Aunt
Kittredge carefully pinned over it; but Minty thought it still a very
beautiful feather. She put it into a little pasteboard box, wrote the
minister's daughter's name on it, placed it on her doorstep at dusk,
rang the bell, and ran away.

It was nearly a week before she could find this opportunity to present
the feather, for Aunt Kittredge didn't allow her to go out after dark;
and in all that time they had not been able to negotiate with Lot
Rankin, for Lot had the mumps on both sides at once, and could not be
seen. But the very next day after the minister's daughter received her
feather--as if things were all coming right, thought Minty
hopefully--Uncle Kittredge sent her down to Lot Rankin's to find out
when he would be strong enough to help Cyrus in the logging camp; and
Jason gave her many charges concerning the contract she was to make
with Lot. But as she was going out of the house, there stood the
minister's daughter in the doorway, talking with Aunt Kittredge.

"I shouldn't have known where it came from if Miss Plympton, the
milliner, hadn't happened to come in," the young girl was saying. "She
said at once, 'It's Minty Kittredge's feather. I had it dyed for her
last summer, and there's the little tag from the dye-house on it now.'
I can't think why she sent it to me."

Aunt Kittredge turned to the shrinking figure behind her, holding the
blue feather accusingly in her hand.

"Araminta Kittredge, what does this mean?" she demanded sternly.

"I--I--she felt so bad about her gull's wing, and--and--" A rising sob
fairly choked Minty.

"Please don't scold her. I'm sure she can explain," pleaded the
minister's daughter.

"It's my duty to find out just what this means," said Aunt Kittredge
severely. "I never heard of a child doing such a high-handed thing!
You can do your errand now, because your uncle wants you to, but when
you come back I shall have a settlement with you."

Poor Minty! She ran fast, never looking back, although the minister's
daughter called to her in kindliest tones.

There was no hope of keeping a secret from Aunt Kittredge when once
she had discovered that there was one. The only chance of saving
Priscilla's life lay in persuading Lot Rankin to care for and conceal
her.

But, alas! she found that Lot was not to be persuaded. He was going
into the woods to work, and his mother was "set against turkeys."
Moreover, she was "so lonesome most of the time that when folks _did_
come along she told 'em all she knew."

Jason, who had been very anxious, met her at the corner. Perhaps it
was not to be wondered at that Jason was somewhat cross and
unreasonable. He said only a girl would be so foolish as to send that
feather to the minister's daughter. Girls were all silly, even those
who had high foreheads, and he would never trust one again. He hoped
she was going to have sense enough not to tell, no matter what Aunt
Kittredge did.

Poor Minty felt herself to be quite unequal to resisting Aunt
Kittredge, but she swallowed a lump in her throat and said firmly that
she would try to have sense enough.

As they passed the blacksmith's shop, Liphlet, Uncle Piper's man,
called out to them: "Mebbe I shan't have time to go up to your house.
The blacksmith is sick, so I had to come over here to get the mare
shod, and I wish you'd tell your aunt that Sabriny says 'twan't no
turkey's wing that she sent her: 'twas some kind of a sea-bird's wing,
and it come off of somebody's bunnit, and she's a-goin' to fetch it
back!"

Minty and Jason answered not a word, but as they went on they looked
at each other despairingly.

"We should have been found out anyway," said Minty.

Her pitifully white face seemed to touch Jason and arouse a spark of
manly courage in his bosom.

"I'll stand by you, Mint, feather and all. You can't help being a
girl," he said magnanimously. "And I won't run away to be a cowboy
like Hiram Trickey."

Minty gave him a little grateful glance, but she could not speak. It
did not seem so dreadful now about Hiram Trickey. She wished that a
girl could run away to be a cowboy.

As they slowly and dejectedly drew near the house, they saw a horse
and a farm wagon at the door, and through the window they discovered
that Uncle and Aunt Kittredge, Clorinda, and Cyrus were all in the
kitchen. There was a visitor. Here was at least a slight reprieve.
They went around through the woodshed; it seemed advisable to approach
Aunt Kittredge with caution, even in the presence of a visitor.

"Well, I must say I'm consid'able disappointed," the visitor was
saying, as they softly opened the door. He was a bluff, burly man, who
sat with his tall whip between his knees. "I ought to 'a' stopped when
I see her out there top of the stone wall the last time I come by--the
handsomest turkey cretur I ever did see, and I've been in the poultry
business this twenty years. I knew in a minute she belonged to that
breed that old Mis' Joskins had; she fetched 'em from York State. She
moved away before I knew it, and carried 'em all with her."

"I bought some eggs of her, and 'most all of 'em hatched, but that
white turkey was the only one that lived," said Aunt Kittredge. "I
declare if I'd known she was anything more'n common, and worthy of
havin' her picture in a book--"

"You'd ought to have known it, Maria!" said Uncle Kittredge testily.
"I wa'n't for havin' her killed, and you'd ought to have heard to me!"

"I was calc'latin' to hev her picter right in the front of my new
poultry book," continued the visitor, whom the children now recognized
as the distinguished poultry dealer of North Edom for whom Cyrus had
once worked. "And I was going to have printed under it, 'From the farm
of Abner Kittredge, Esq., Corinna.' Be kind of a boom for you 'n'
Corinna, too--see? And if you didn't want to sell her right out, I
was calc'latin' to make you a handsome offer for all the eggs she
laid."

"There! Now you see what you've done, Maria! I declare I wouldn't
gredge givin' a twenty dollar bill to fetch that white turkey back!"
exclaimed Uncle Kittredge.

"Oh, oh! Uncle Kittredge!" Minty broke away from Jason, who would have
held her back, not feeling sure that it was quite time to speak, and
rushed into the room. "You needn't give twenty dollars! Priscilla is
down in the little shanty in the logging wood! We saved her--Jason and
I--and we bought a turkey of Jonas Hicks instead. I paid with my own
money, Aunt Kittredge! And then I--I took the gull's wing off the
minister's daughter's hat to send to Sabriny, and--and so that's why I
sent her the blue feather, and--and Sabriny's going to send the gull's
wing back--"

"Jason, you go and fetch that turkey home!" said Uncle Kittredge.
"And, Maria, don't you blame them children one mite!"

"I never heard of such high-handed doin's!" gasped Aunt Kittredge.

"I expect I shall have to send you children each a copy of my book
with the picter of that turkey in it," said the poultry dealer. "And
maybe the boy and I can make kind of a contract about eggs and
chickens."

The minister's daughter wore her gull's wing to church the next
Sunday, and she privately confided to Minty that she "didn't blame her
one bit." Aunt Kittredge looked at Minty somewhat severely for
several days but only as she looked at her when she turned around in
church or fidgeted in the long prayer. And after the poultry book came
out with Priscilla's photograph as a frontispiece, and people began to
make pilgrimages to the Red Hill farm to see the poultry, she was
heard to say several times that "it was wonderful to see how a smart
boy like Jason could make turkey raising pay," and that "as for Minty,
she always knew that high forehead of hers wasn't for nothing."




THE THANKSGIVING GOOSE[18]

BY FANNIE WILDER BROWN.

How a little boy learned to be thankful. A charming story
even though it _has_ a moral.


"But I don't like roast goose," said Guy, pouting. "I'd rather have
turkey. Turkey is best for Thanksgiving, anyway. Goose is for
Christmas."

[Footnote 18: From the _Youth's Companion_, November 26, 1908.]

Guy's mother did not answer. He watched her while she carefully wrote
G. T. W. on the corner of a pretty new red-bordered handkerchief. Five
others, all alike, and all marked alike, lay beside it. The initials
were his own.

"Why didn't you buy some blue ones? I'd rather have them different,"
he said.

Mrs. Wright smiled a queer little smile, but did not answer. She
lighted a large lamp and held the marked corner of one of the
handkerchiefs against the hot chimney. The heat made the indelible ink
turn dark, although the writing had been so faint Guy hardly could see
it before.

"Oh, dear," he cried, "there's a little blot at the top of that T! I
don't want to carry a handkerchief that has a blot on it."

"Very well," said his mother. "I'll put them away, and you may carry
your old ones until you ask me to let you carry this one. I don't care
to furnish new things for a boy who doesn't appreciate them."

"I don't like old--"

"That'll do, Guy. Never mind the rest of the things that you don't
like. I want you to take this dollar down to Mrs. Burns. Tell her that
I shall have a day's work for her on Friday, and I thought she might
like to have part of the pay in advance to help make Thanksgiving
with. Please go now."

"But a dollar won't help much. She won't like that. She always acts
just as if she was as happy as anybody. I don't want to go there on
such an errand as that."

Mrs. Wright smiled again, but her tone was very grave.

"Mrs. Burns is 'as happy as anybody,' Guy, and she has the
best-behaved children in the neighbourhood. The little ones almost
never cry, and I never have seen the older ones quarrel. But there are
eight children, and Mr. Burns has only one arm, so he can't earn much
money. Mrs. Burns has to turn her hands to all sorts of things to keep
the children clothed and fed. She'll be thankful to get the
dollar--you see if she isn't! And tell her if she is making mince pies
to sell this year, I'll take three."

Guy walked very slowly down the street until he came to the little
house where the Burns family lived.

"I'd hate to live here," he thought. "I don't see where they all
sleep. My room isn't big enough, but I don't believe there's a room in
this house as big as mine. I shouldn't have a bit of fun, ever, if I
lived here. And I'd hate to have my mother make pies and send me about
to sell them."

Then he knocked on the front door, for there was no bell. No one came.
He could hear people talking in the distance, so he knew some of the
family were at home. Some one always was at home here to look after
the little children. He walked around to the kitchen door: it stood
open. The children were talking so fast they did not hear his knock.

They were very busy. Katie, the eleven-year-old, and Malcolm, ten,
Guy's age, were cutting citron into long, thin strips, piling it on a
big blue plate. Mary and James, the eight-year-old twins, were paring
apples with a paring machine. The long, curling skins fell in a large
stone jar standing on a clean paper, spread on the floor. Charlie, who
was only four years old, was watching to see that none of the parings
fell over the edge of the jar. Susan, who was seven, was putting
raisins, a few at a time, into a meat chopper screwed down on the
kitchen table. George, three years old, was turning the handle of the
chopper to grind the raisins. Baby Joe was creeping about the kitchen
floor after a kitten. Mrs. Burns was taking a great piece of meat from
a steaming kettle on the back of the stove. Every one was working,
except the baby and the kitten, but all seemed to be having a glorious
time. What they were saying seemed so funny it was some time before
Guy could understand it. At last he was sure it was some kind of a
game.

"Mice?" asked Susan. Mary squealed, and they all laughed.

"Because they're small," said Mary. "Snakes?"

"They can't climb trees," Mrs. Burns called out from the pantry. The
children fairly roared at that. "A pantry with no window in it?"

"Oh, we've had that before," Katie answered. "I know what you say.
It's a good place to ripen pears in when Mrs. Wright gives us some."

Guy knocked very loudly at that. He had not thought that he was
listening.

The children started, but did not leave their work. They looked at
their mother. "Jamie," she said. Then Jamie came to meet Guy, and
invited him to walk in.

"What game is it?" asked Guy, forgetting his errand.

"Making mince pies," said Jamie. "It's lots of fun. Don't you want to
play? I'll let you turn the paring machine if you'd like that best."

Guy said "Thank you" and began to turn the parer eagerly.

"But I don't mean what you are doin'," said Guy. "I knew that was
mince pies. I thought that was work. I meant what you were saying. It
sounds so funny! I never heard it before."

"Mamma made it up," explained Malcolm. "It's great fun. We always
play it at Thanksgiving time. You think of something that people don't
like, and the one who can think first tells what he is thankful for
about it. We call it 'Thanksgiving.'"

Guy stayed for an hour, and played both games. Then, quite to his
surprise, the twelve o'clock whistles blew, and he had to go home. But
he remembered his errands and did them, to the great pleasure of the
whole Burns family.

In the afternoon Guy spent some time writing a note to his mother. It
was badly written, but it made his mother happy. It read:

DEAR MOTHER:--I am Thankful the blot isent any bigger. I am
Thankful the hankershefs isent black on the borders. I would
like that one with the Blot on to put in my pocket when you
read this. But my old ones are nice. The Burnses dont have
things to be Thankful for but they are Thankful just the
same.

I am Thankful for the Goose we are going to have. The best
is I am Thankful I am not a Goose myself, for if I was I
wouldent know enough to be Thankful.

Respectfully yours,

GUY THEODORE WRIGHT.




AN ENGLISH DINNER OF THANKSGIVING[19]

BY GEORGE ELIOT.

Americans are not the only people who hold a feast each year
after the crops are gathered into barns.

The older boys and girls who wish to know more of the jolly
English farmer, Martin Poyser, and his household, will enjoy
reading about them in George Eliot's great novel, "Adam
Bede."


It was a goodly sight--that table, with Martin Poyser's round
good-humoured face and large person at the head of it, helping his
servants to the fragrant roast beef, and pleased when the empty plates
came again. Martin, though usually blest with a good appetite, really
forgot to finish his own beef to-night--it was so pleasant to him to
look on in the intervals of carving, and see how the others enjoyed
their supper; for were they not men who, on all the days of the year
except Christmas Day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner, in a
makeshift manner, under the hedgerows, and drank their beer out of
wooden bottles--with relish certainly, but with their mouths toward
the zenith, after a fashion more endurable to ducks than to human
bipeds. Martin Poyser had some faint conception of the flavour such
men must find in hot roast beef and fresh-drawn ale. He held his head
on one side, and screwed up his mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey, and
watched half-witted Tom Tholer, otherwise known as "Tom Saft,"
receiving his second plateful of beef. A grin of delight broke over
Tom's face as the plate was set down before him, between his knife and
fork, which he held erect, as if they had been sacred tapers; but the
delight was too strong to continue smouldering in a grin--it burst out
the next moment in a long-drawn "haw, haw!" followed by a sudden
collapse into utter gravity, as the knife and fork darted down on the
prey. Martin Poyser's large person shook with his silent unctuous
laugh; he turned toward Mrs. Poyser to see if she, too, had been
observant of Tom, and the eyes of husband and wife met in a glance of
good-natured amusement.

[Footnote 19: From Chapter LIII of "Adam Bede."]

But _now_ the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, leaving
a fair large deal table for the bright drinking cans, and the foaming
brown jugs, and the bright brass candlesticks, pleasant to behold.
_Now_ the great ceremony of the evening was to begin--the harvest
song, in which every man must join; he might be in tune, if he liked
to be singular, but he must not sit with closed lips. The movement was
obliged to be in triple time; the rest was _ad libitum_.

As to the origin of this song--whether it came in its actual state
from the brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually perfected by a
school or succession of rhapsodists, I am ignorant. There is a stamp
of unity, of individual genius upon it, which inclines me to the
former hypothesis, though I am not blind to the consideration that
this unity may rather have arisen from that consensus of many minds
which was a condition of primitive thought foreign to our modern
consciousness. Some will perhaps think that they detect in the first
quatrain an indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists,
failing in imaginative vigour, have supplied by the feeble device of
iteration; others, however, may rather maintain that this very
iteration is an original felicity to which none but the most prosaic
minds can be insensible.

The ceremony connected with the song was a drinking ceremony. (That is
perhaps a painful fact, but then, you know, we cannot reform our
forefathers.) During the first and second quatrain, sung decidedly
_forte_, no can was filled:

"Here's a health unto our master,
The founder of the feast;
Here's a health unto our master
And to our mistress!

"And may his doings prosper,
Whate'er he takes in hand,
For we are all his servants,
And are at his command."

But now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sung
_fortissimo_, with emphatic raps on the table, which gave the effect
of cymbals and drum together. Alick's can was filled, and he was
bound to empty it before the chorus ceased.

"Then drink, boys, drink!
And see ye do not spill,
For if ye do, ye shall drink two,
For 'tis our master's will."

When Alick had gone successfully through this test of steady-handed
manliness, it was the turn of old Kester, at his right hand--and so
on, till every man had drunk his initiatory pint under the stimulus of
the chorus. Tom Saft--the rogue--took care to spill a little by
accident; but Mrs. Poyser (too officiously, Tom thought) interfered to
prevent the exaction of the penalty.

To any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse of
obvious why the "Drink, boys, drink!" should have such an immediate
and often-repeated encore; but once entered, he would have seen that
all faces were at present sober, and most of them serious; it was the
regular and respectable thing for those excellent farm-labourers to
do, as much as for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over
their wine glasses. Bartle Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive,
had gone out to see what sort of evening it was at an early stage in
the ceremony; and had not finished his contemplation, until a silence
of five minutes declared that "Drink, boys, drink!" was not likely to
begin again for the next twelve-month. Much to the regret of the boys
and Totty; on them the stillness fell rather flat, after that
glorious thumping of the table, toward which Totty, seated on her
father's knee, contributed with her small might and small fist.

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