Book: Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know

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When Bartle reentered, however, there appeared to be a general desire
for solo music after the choral. Nancy declared that Tim the wagoner
knew a song and was "allays singing like a lark i' the stable";
whereupon Mr. Poyser said encouragingly, "Come, Tim, lad, let's hear
it." Tim looked sheepish, tucked down his head, and said he couldn't
sing; but this encouraging invitation of the master's was echoed all
round the table. It was a conversational opportunity: everybody could
say, "Come, Tim"--except Alick, who never relaxed into the frivolity
of unnecessary speech. At last Tim's next neighbour, Ben Tholoway,
began to give emphasis to his speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing
rather savage, said, "Let me alooan, will ye? else I'll ma' ye sing a
toon ye wonna like." A good-tempered wagoner's patience has limits,
and Tim was not to be urged further.

"Well, then, David, ye're the lad to sing," said Ben, willing to show
that he was not discomfited by this check. "Sing 'My loove's a roos
wi'out a thorn.'"

The amatory David was a young man of an unconscious abstracted
expression, which was due probably to a squint of superior intensity
rather than to any mental characteristic; for he was not indifferent
to Ben's invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed his sleeve
over his mouth in a way that was regarded as a symptom of yielding.
And for some time the company appeared to be much in earnest about the
desire to hear David's song. But in vain. The lyrism of the evening
was in the cellar at present, and was not to be drawn from that
retreat just yet....




A NOVEL POSTMAN[20]

BY ALICE W. WHEILDON.

A little country girl made known her wants in a decidedly
original way. A small boy in the city did his best to
satisfy them. This is at once a story of Thanksgiving and of
Christmas.


"Oh, mother! what do you suppose Ellen found in the turkey? You never
could guess. It's a letter--yes, a real letter just stuffed
inside--see!" And Freddie held before his mother's wondering eyes a
soiled and crumpled envelope which seemed to contain a letter.

[Footnote 20: From _Wideawake_, November, 1889. Lothrop, Lee & Shepard
Company.]

Freddie had been in the kitchen all the morning watching the various
operations for the Thanksgiving dinner which was "to come off" the
next day, when all the "sisters, cousins, and aunts" of the family
were to assemble, as was their custom each year, and great was the
commotion in the kitchen and much there was for Master Fred to
inspect. When Ellen put her hand into the turkey to arrange him for
the stuffing, great was her astonishment at finding a piece of paper.
Drawing it quickly out she called, "Freddie, Freddie, see here! See
what I've found in the turkey! I declare if he isn't a new kind of a
postman, for sure as you're born this is a letter, come from
somewhere, in the turkey. My! who ever heard of such a thing?"

Freddie, standing with eyes and mouth wide open, finally said, "Why,
Ellen, do you believe it is a letter?"

"Why, of course it is! Don't you see it's in a' envelope and all
sealed and everything?"

"Yes, but it hasn't any stamp and how could a turkey bring it--how did
it get in him?"

"Oh," laughed Ellen, "that's the question! You'd better take it right
up to your mother and get her to read it to you and perhaps it will
tell."

So Freddie, all excitement, rushed upstairs and into his mother's
room, shouting as we have read.

His mother took the letter from him. "Where did you get this,
Freddie--what do you mean by finding it in the turkey?"

"Why, Ellen found it in the turkey when she was fixing him, and I
don't see how it got there."

Mrs. Page turned the envelope and slowly read, "To the lady who buys
this turkey," written with a pencil and in rather crooked letters on
the outside; then opening the envelope she found, surely enough, a
letter within, also written in pencil, in rather uncertain letters,
some large, some quite small, some on the line, others above or below,
but all bearing sufficient relation to one another for her finally to
decipher the following:

_Nov. 20_,

_Mad River Village, N. H._

dere lady I doo want a dol for Christmas orful and mother
says that Sante Claws is so busy in the city that she gueses
he forgits the cuntry and for me to rite to the city lady
who buys our turkey and ask her if she will pleas to ask
Sante Claws if he could send a dol way up here in the cuntry
to me. I will hang my stockin in the chimly and he cannot
mistake the house becaus it is the only house that is black
in the hole place. I have prayed to him lots of times to
give me a dol but I gues he does not mind prayers much from
a little girl so far away so will you pleas to ask him for
me and oblige

LUCY TILLAGE.

P. S.--I hope the turkey will be good to eat, he is our very
best one and I was sorry to have him killed, but I never had
a dol.

Freddie listened, very much interested, sometimes helping to make out
the letters while his mother read this remarkable letter. At its
conclusion he dropped upon a chair in deep thought while in his
imagination he saw a small black house surrounded by turkeys running
wildly about while a little girl tried to catch the largest.

"Oh, mother," at length he sighed, "only think of a girl who never had
a doll, and Beth has so many she don't know what to do with them
all--shall you ask Santa Claus to send her one?"

"Well," said Mrs. Page, who also had been in deep thought, "do you
think we better ask Santa Claus to send her one, or send her one
ourselves? You and Beth might send her one for a Christmas present."

At once Freddie became fired with the desire to rush to a store,
purchase a doll, and send it off to the little "black house." He
seemed to think the house was little because the girl was little.

"No, no, Freddie, not so fast," said Mrs. Page. "I think we better
wait till papa comes home and then we will ask his advice about it:
first, if he knows of a town in New Hampshire of this name, and then
if he thinks there may really be a little girl there who has such an
odd name--I shouldn't be surprised if Papa could find out all about
her."

Freddie thought it was hard to wait until his father came home before
something was done about securing a doll; still he knew his mother was
right and tried to be patient, wishing Beth would come home, wondering
how the little girl looked, and if she had any brothers who wanted
something, and fifty other things, till he heard his father's key in
the front door; then down he rushed, flourishing the open sheet in his
hand, and gave him a most bewildering and rapid account of the letter
and the finding it in the turkey, ending with, "Now, Papa, do you know
of any such town, and did you ever hear of Lucy Tillage before, or of
anybody's turkey having a letter sent in him, and don't you think we
might send her the doll right away so's she might have it for
Christmas sure--don't you, Papa? And if we can't get a new one won't
you tell Beth to send one of hers? I know she won't want so many
and--"

"Oh! stop, my boy," said Mr. Page, laughing heartily; "wait a moment,
Fred, I don't half understand what this is all about--a letter and a
turkey and a little girl with a doll and a turkey in a black house--"

"Now, Papa, you're getting it all mixed up; you read the letter
yourself, please."

So Mr. Page read the letter and heard about finding it in the turkey,
and then talked it over with his wife and Freddie and Beth, who had
come in from her play, and it was decided that he should write to the
postmaster and minister in Mad River Village asking them if they knew
of any family in the place of the name of Tillage, and if they did,
whether they were a poor family, and how many children they had, and
anything else they might know of them.

There was no time to lose if the doll was to be sent for Christmas, so
both letters were written that very evening and Freddie begged to put
them in the post box himself that there might be no mistake in that.

Then came a long time of waiting for Master Fred. At first he thought
one day would be enough for the letter to find its way to Mad River
Village; but upon a solemn consultation with the cousins and aunts who
came to the Thanksgiving party, it was decided that three days, at
least, ought to be allowed for a letter to reach a place that none of
them had ever heard of, and perhaps there was not such a village
anywhere after all but Freddie had made up his mind that there was
somewhere, and so each morning found him watching for the postman and
each night he went to bed disappointed, saying, "Oh! I hope there is a
truly Mad Village."

Beth was almost as much excited as Fred about Lucy's letter, but still
she laughed at him as older sisters sometimes seem to take pleasure
in doing, saying, "I guess it's a delicious wonderland kind of a
letter, and that the people up there are mad people to be sending
letters in turkeys!"

"Well, you just wait, Beth, and see if they are," answered Fred; and
sure enough, after ten days of waiting Freddie was rewarded by
receiving from the postman a yellow envelope with "Mad River Village"
printed in large, clear letters "right side of the stamp." He ran as
fast as he could with it to his father, shouting to Beth by the way to
"come and see if there isn't a Mad Village and a Lucy Tillage."

Mr. Page was never given so short a time before to open a letter and
adjust his glasses, but then a letter had never before been received
under such circumstances. It proved to be from the postmaster at Mad
River Village, and ran as follows:

Mad River Village, N. H.

MR. PAGE of Boston: I rec. your letter a Day or two since
and hasten to ans. it right away, as you wish, by this
morning's mail which I must put up pretty soon so this
letter must be short. Yes sir I do know a family in this
town by the name of Tillage and they're a good respectable
family too. They live a mile or two out of the village on a
farm his father left him and I guess they have pretty hard
times making both ends meet--there ain't much sale up here
for farm things, you know, and it costs a heap to send them
to Boston but they do say that of late he's raised lots of
chickens and turkeys to send to Boston for Thanksgiving.
Last year he and his wife started in on taking summer
boarders and I guess they done first rate. They're young
folks, got three children, a little girl a small boy and a
baby and I guess they'll do as well as any one can on that
farm, it's a likely place but his father ain't been dead
long and Geo. didn't have no show while the old man was
alive. He buys his flour and groceries of me and I call him
a honest fellow and I guess you'd like to board with them if
you want to try them next summer. I don't think of anything
more to say so will close.

Yours respt.

JOSIAH SAFFORD.

P. S.--His name and address are George Tillage, Intervale
Farm, Mad River Village, N. H.

This was a highly satisfactory letter, especially to Master Fred who
had shouted gleefully to Beth, "I told you so!" "I do know a family of
the name of Tillage," and when his father read "three children, a
little girl, etc.," he nearly turned a somersault in his excitement,
dancing about and saying, "that's Lucy! that's Lucy!"

Mr. Page turned smilingly to his wife, saying, "Well, my dear, this
does not sound so much like a fairy tale after all, and I really think
you and the children must play Santa Claus and send Lucy a doll."

"Oh, yes, Papa, of course we must! Yes, do, Mamma!" shouted both
children at once. "It'll be such fun and she won't know where it comes
from."

Mrs. Page was only too willing, so she promised, only adding that she
hoped the minister would give an equally good account.

The children, however, were quite satisfied with the postmaster's
letter and began preparations the very next morning to secure the doll
and her "fit out" as Beth called it. First, Beth's dolls were looked
at to see if one of them would do to take a trip into the country, but
although there were quite a number of them none seemed to just suit
their ideas of what Lucy's doll should be. So Mamma was appealed to
and in consequence a visit was paid to Partridge's store by Mrs. Page,
accompanied by Beth and Master Fred. Here such a bewildering array of
dolls was presented to the children that it was with difficulty they
finally decided upon one with blue eyes and short golden hair, and
real hair that curled bewitchingly. Then came the selection of the
"fit out." Freddie thought she should have skates and a watch and
bracelets and one of the cunning waterproof cloaks and a trunk--in
fact, everything that could be bought for a doll (and in these days
that means all articles of apparel, whether for use or ornament, that
could be bought for a real person); but Mrs. Page explained that she
would not need so many things in Mad River Village, so he was
contented with a trunk which he selected himself, while his mother and
Beth bought a little hat and cloak, shoes, stockings, and a pretty
sunshade--the dresses and underclothing Beth thought she could make
with the aid of her mother's seamstress, and she was very ambitious to
try.

Freddie thought the "small boy" and the "baby" ought to have presents
sent to them also; so he was allowed to select a drum, which he was
sure the boy "would like best of anything," and a pretty rattle and a
rubber cow for the baby.

It was a very busy season of the year for the Pages as well as for
other people, and Beth had many presents to think about, but she kept
the little dresses and clothes for Lucy's doll in mind and worked and
planned with a will all the time she could spare for them, and Mary,
the seamstress, sewed and sewed, and as she knew how to cut dresses as
well as make them, in about two weeks they had, as Beth said, "a
lovely fit out," even to a tiny muff and collar made from some bits of
fur mamma had and a sweet little hood made just like Beth's own.

Then Miss Doll was dressed in her travelling suit, muff and all, her
other dresses and clothing packed in the little trunk, and she herself
carefully tucked in on top, then Beth shut the cover and locked it,
tying the key to one of the buckles of the side strap--a box had been
procured and into it was packed the trunk, the drum, and the presents
for the baby, supplemented by Freddie with a ball which he had found
among his own playthings and two cornucopias of candy which he had
purchased himself, saying that "Christmas won't be Christmas if they
don't have some candy." Mrs. Page "filled in the nooks and corners
just to steady the whole," as she modestly said, with a pair of strong
warm mittens for Mr. Tillage, some magazines and books, several pairs
of long thick stockings which Freddie had outgrown but not worn out,
and over the whole a beautiful warm shawl.

Then Beth and Fred composed a letter together which Beth wrote and
they both signed:

DEAR LUCY TILLAGE:--The turkey brought the letter safely to
us and we wanted to be Santa Claus ourselves and so send the
doll and the other things for a Christmas present to you and
your brother and the baby.

We wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

BETH PAGE,

FRED PAGE.

This they neatly folded, put in an envelope addressed to Miss Lucy
Tillage, Mad River Village, and placed on the shawl where it might be
seen the moment the box was opened. They felt very proud and happy
when the box was finally nailed up and directed in clear printed
letters to

GEORGE TILLAGE,
Intervale Farm,
Mad River Village,
New Hampshire.

Freddie insisted that Lucy's name ought to be put on, too, as she was
the one who had written the letter and to whom the box was really
sent; so "For Lucy" was printed across one corner and underlined that
her father might see it was sent particularly to her. It all seemed so
mysterious, sending presents to people they did not know, and so
delightful, that they thought this the best Christmas they had ever
known and only wished that they could be in the little "black house"
when the box was opened, to see Lucy's face as she caught sight of the
cunning trunk and then the doll which she had so longed for.

The very day the box was sent on its way there came a letter from a
minister in the town in which Mad River Village was located, saying
that he "did not know any family of the name of Tillage, but upon
inquiry he had found that there was a family of that name living on
the other side of the river, but as they did not go to his church he
was not acquainted with them; he was sorry, etc., etc."

But the children cared little for this letter; their faith in Lucy was
not shaken, and they were very happy that they had answered her
letter.




EZRA'S THANKSGIVIN' OUT WEST[21]

BY EUGENE FIELD.

A Kansas settler's recollections of an old-time Thanksgiving
in western Massachusetts. Older boys and girls will best
appreciate the tender sentiment of the picture which Eugene
Field has painted so vividly by his masterly use of homely
dialect.


Ezra had written a letter to the home folks, and in it he had
complained that never before had he spent such a weary, lonesome day
as this Thanksgiving Day had been. Having finished this letter, he sat
for a long time gazing idly into the open fire that snapped cinders
all over the hearthstone and sent its red forks dancing up the chimney
to join the winds that frolicked and gambolled across the Kansas
prairies that raw November night. It had rained hard all day, and was
cold; and although the open fire made every honest effort to be
cheerful, Ezra, as he sat in front of it in the wooden rocker and
looked down into the glowing embers, experienced a dreadful feeling of
loneliness and homesickness.

[Footnote 21: From "A Little Book of Profitable Tales," copyright,
1889, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.]

"I'm sick o' Kansas," said Ezra to himself. "Here I've been in this
plaguey country for goin' on a year, and--yes, I'm sick of it,
powerful sick of it. What a miser'ble Thanksgivin' this has been!
They don't know what Thanksgivin' is out this way. I wish I was back
in ol' Mass'chusetts--that's the country for _me_, and they hev the
kind o' Thanksgivin' I like!"

Musing in this strain, while the rain went patter-patter on the
windowpanes, Ezra saw a strange sight in the fireplace--yes, right
among the embers and the crackling flames Ezra saw a strange,
beautiful picture unfold and spread itself out like a panorama.

"How very wonderful!" murmured the young man. Yet he did not take his
eyes away, for the picture soothed him and he loved to look upon it.

"It is a pictur' of long ago," said Ezra softly. "I had like to forgot
it, but now it comes back to me as nat'ral-like as an ol' friend. An'
I seem to be a part of it, an' the feelin' of that time comes back
with the pictur', too."

Ezra did not stir. His head rested upon his hand, and his eyes were
fixed upon the shadows in the firelight.

"It is a pictur' of the ol' home," said Ezra to himself. "I am back
there in Belchertown, with the Holyoke hills up north an' the
Berkshire Mountains a-loomin' up gray an' misty-like in the western
horizon. Seems as if it wuz early mornin'; everything is still, and it
is so cold when we boys crawl out o' bed that, if it wuzn't
Thanksgivin' mornin', we'd crawl back again an' wait for Mother to
call us. But it _is_ Thanksgivin' mornin', and we're goin' skatin'
down on the pond. The squealin' o' the pigs has told us it is five
o'clock, and we must hurry; we're goin' to call by for the Dickerson
boys an' Hiram Peabody, an' we've got to hyper! Brother Amos gets on
about half o' my clothes, and I get on 'bout half o' his, but it's all
the same; they are stout, warm clo'es, and they're big enough to fit
any of us boys--Mother looked out for that when she made 'em. When we
go downstairs, we find the girls there, all bundled up nice an'
warm--Mary an' Helen an' Cousin Irene. They're going with us, an' we
all start out tiptoe and quiet-like so's not to wake up the ol' folks.
The ground is frozen hard; we stub our toes on the frozen ruts in the
road. When we come to the minister's house, Laura is standin' on the
front stoop a-waitin' for us. Laura is the minister's daughter. She's
a friend o' Sister Helen's--pretty as a dagerr'otype, an' gentle-like
and tender. Laura lets me carry her skates, an' I'm glad of it,
although I have my hands full already with the lantern, the hockies,
and the rest. Hiram Peabody keeps us waitin', for he has overslept
himself, an' when he comes trottin' out at last the girls make fun of
him--all except Sister Mary, an' she sort o' sticks up for Hiram, an'
we're all so 'cute we kind o' calc'late we know the reason why.

"And now," said Ezra softly, "the pictur' changes: seems as if I could
see the pond. The ice is like a black lookin'-glass, and Hiram Peabody
slips up the first thing, an' down he comes, lickety-split, an' we all
laugh--except Sister Mary, an' _she_ says it is very imp'lite to
laugh at other folks' misfortunes. Ough! how cold it is, and how my
fingers ache with the frost when I take off my mittens to strap on
Laura's skates! But, oh, how my cheeks burn! And how careful I am not
to hurt Laura, an' how I ask her if that's 'tight enough,' an' how she
tells me 'jist a little tighter' and how we two keep foolin' along
till the others hev gone an' we are left alone! An' how quick I get my
_own_ skates strapped on--none o' your new-fangled skates with springs
an' plates an' clamps an' such, but honest, ol'-fashioned wooden ones
with steel runners that curl up over my toes an' have a bright brass
button on the end! How I strap 'em and lash 'em and buckle 'em on! An'
Laura waits for me an' tells me to be sure to get 'em on tight
enough--why, bless me! after I once got 'em strapped on, if them
skates hed come off, the feet wud ha' come with 'em! An' now away we
go--Laura and me. Around the bend--near the medder where Si Barker's
dog killed a woodchuck last summer--we meet the rest. We forget all
about the cold. We run races an' play snap the whip, an' cut all sorts
o' didoes, an' we never mind the pick'rel weed that is froze in on the
ice an' trips us up every time we cut the outside edge; an' then we
boys jump over the air holes, an' the girls stan' by an' scream an'
tell us they know we're agoin' to drownd ourselves. So the hours go,
an' it is sun-up at last, an' Sister Helen says we must be gettin'
home. When we take our skates off, our feet feel as if they were wood.
Laura has lost her tippet; I lend her mine, and she kind o' blushes.
The old pond seems glad to have us go, and the fire-hangbird's nest
in the willer tree waves us good-bye. Laura promises to come over to
our house in the evenin', and so we break up.

"Seems now," continued Ezra musingly, "seems now as if I could see us
all at breakfast. The race on the pond has made us hungry, and Mother
says she never knew anybody else's boys that had such capac'ties as
hers. It is the Yankee Thanksgivin' breakfast--sausages an' fried
potatoes, an' buckwheat cakes, an' syrup--maple syrup, mind ye, for
Father has his own sugar bush, and there was a big run o' sap last
season. Mother says, 'Ezry an' Amos, won't you never get through
eatin'? We want to clear off the table, fer there's pies to make, and
nuts to crack, and laws sakes alive! The turkey's got to be stuffed
yet!' Then how we all fly around! Mother sends Helen up into the attic
to get a squash while Mary's makin' the pie crust. Amos an' I crack
the walnuts--they call 'em hickory nuts out in this pesky country of
sagebrush and pasture land. The walnuts are hard, and it's all we can
do to crack 'em. Ev'ry once'n a while one on 'em slips outer our
fingers and goes dancin' over the floor or flies into the pan Helen is
squeezin' pumpkin into through the col'nder. Helen says we're
shif'less an' good for nothin' but frivolin'; but Mother tells us how
to crack the walnuts so's not to let 'em fly all over the room, an'
so's not to be all jammed to pieces like the walnuts was down at the
party at the Peasleys' last winter. An' now here comes Tryphena
Foster, with her gingham gown an' muslin apron on; her folks have gone
up to Amherst for Thanksgivin', an' Tryphena has come over to help our
folks get dinner. She thinks a great deal o' Mother, 'cause Mother
teaches her Sunday-school class an' says Tryphena oughter marry a
missionary. There is bustle everywhere, the rattle uv pans an' the
clatter of dishes; an' the new kitchen stove begins to warm up an' git
red, till Helen loses her wits and is flustered, an' sez she never
could git the hang o' that stove's dampers.

"An' now," murmured Ezra gently, as a tone of deeper reverence crept
into his voice, "I can see Father sittin' all by himself in the
parlour. Father's hair is very gray, and there are wrinkles on his
honest old face. He is lookin' through the winder at the Holyoke hills
over yonder, and I can guess he's thinkin' of the time when he wuz a
boy like me an' Amos, an' uster climb over them hills an' kill
rattlesnakes an' hunt partridges. Or doesn't his eyes quite reach the
Holyoke hills? Do they fall kind o' lovingly but sadly on the little
buryin' ground jest beyond the village? Ah, Father knows that spot,
an' he loves it, too, for there are treasures there whose memory he
wouldn't swap for all the world could give. So, while there is a kind
o' mist in Father's eyes, I can see he is dreamin'-like of sweet an'
tender things, and a-communin' with memory--hearin' voices I never
heard, an' feelin' the tech of hands I never pressed; an' seein'
Father's peaceful face I find it hard to think of a Thanksgivin'
sweeter than Father's is.

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