Book: Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know

V >> Various >> Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know




"The pictur' in the firelight changes now," said Ezra, "an' seems as
if I wuz in the old frame meetin'-house. The meetin'-house is on the
hill, and meetin' begins at half-pas' ten. Our pew is well up in
front--seems as if I could see it now. It has a long red cushion on
the seat, and in the hymn-book rack there is a Bible an' a couple of
Psalmodies. We walk up the aisle slow, and Mother goes in first; then
comes Mary, then me, then Helen, then Amos, and then Father. Father
thinks it is jest as well to have one o' the girls set in between me
an' Amos. The meetin'-house is full, for everybody goes to meetin'
Thanksgivin' Day. The minister reads the proclamation an' makes a
prayer, an' then he gives out a psalm, an' we all stan' up an' turn
'round an' join the choir. Sam Merritt has come up from Palmer to
spend Thanksgivin' with the ol' folks, an' he is singin' tenor to-day
in his ol' place in the choir. Some folks say he sings wonderful well,
but _I_ don't like Sam's voice. Laura sings soprano in the choir, and
Sam stands next to her an' holds the book.

"Seems as if I could hear the minister's voice, full of earnestness
an' melody, comin' from way up in his little round pulpit. He is
tellin' us why we should be thankful, an', as he quotes Scriptur' an'
Dr. Watts, we boys wonder how anybody can remember so much of the
Bible. Then I get nervous and worried. Seems to me the minister was
never comin' to lastly, and I find myself wonderin' whether Laura is
listenin' to what the preachin' is about, or is writin' notes to Sam
Merritt in the back of the tune book. I get thirsty, too, and I
fidget about till Father looks at me, and Mother nudges Helen, and
Helen passes it along to me with interest.

"An' then," continues Ezra in his revery, "when the last hymn is given
out an' we stan' up agin an' join the choir, I am glad to see that
Laura is singin' outer the book with Miss Hubbard, the alto. An' goin'
out o' meetin' I kind of edge up to Laura and ask her if I kin have
the pleasure of seein' her home.

"An' now we boys all go out on the Common to play ball. The Enfield
boys have come over, and, as all the Hampshire county folks know, they
are tough fellers to beat. Gorham Polly keeps tally, because he has
got the newest jackknife--oh, how slick it whittles the old broom
handle Gorham picked up in Packard's store an' brought along jest to
keep tally on! It is a great game of ball; the bats are broad and
light, and the ball is small and soft. But the Enfield boys beat us at
last; leastwise they make 70 tallies to our 58, when Heman Fitts
knocks the ball over into Aunt Dorcas Eastman's yard, and Aunt Dorcas
comes out an' picks up the ball an' takes it into the house, an' we
have to stop playin'. Then Phineas Owen allows he can flop any boy in
Belchertown, an' Moses Baker takes him up, an' they wrassle like two
tartars, till at last Moses tuckers Phineas out an' downs him as slick
as a whistle.

"Then we all go home, for Thanksgivin' dinner is ready. Two long
tables have been made into one, and one of the big tablecloths Gran'ma
had when she set up housekeepin' is spread over 'em both. We all set
round--Father, Mother, Aunt Lydia Holbrook, Uncle Jason, Mary, Helen,
Tryphena Foster, Amos, and me. How big an' brown the turkey is, and
how good it smells! There are bounteous dishes of mashed potato,
turnip, an' squash, and the celery is very white and cold, the
biscuits are light and hot, and the stewed cranberries are red as
Laura's cheeks. Amos and I get the drumsticks; Mary wants the wishbone
to put over the door for Hiram, but Helen gets it. Poor Mary, she
always _did_ have to give up to 'rushin' Helen,' as we call her. The
pies--oh, what pies Mother makes; no dyspepsia in 'em, but good nature
an' good health an' hospitality! Pumpkin pies, mince, an' apple, too,
and then a big dish of pippins an' russets an' bellflowers, an', last
of all, walnuts with cider from the Zebrina Dickerson farm! I tell ye,
there's a Thanksgivin' dinner for ye! that's what we get in old
Belchertown; an' that's the kind of livin' that makes the Yankees so
all-fired good an' smart.

"But the best of all," said Ezra very softly to himself, "oh, yes, the
best scene in all the pictur' is when evenin' comes, when all the
lamps are lit in the parlour, when the neighbours come in, and when
there is music and singing an' games. An' it's this part o' the
pictur' that makes me homesick now and fills my heart with a longin' I
never had before; an' yet it sort o' mellows and comforts me, too.
Miss Serena Cadwell, whose beau was killed in the war, plays on the
melodeon, and we all sing--all on us: men, womenfolks, an' children.
Sam Merritt is there, and he sings a tenor song about love. The women
sort of whisper round that he's goin' to be married to a Palmer lady
nex' spring, an' I think to myself I never heard better singin' than
Sam's. Then we play games--proverbs, buzz, clap-in-clap-out,
copenhagen, fox-an'-geese, button-button-who's-got-the-button,
spin-the-platter, go-to-Jerusalem, my-ship's-come-in; and all the
rest. The ol' folks play with the young folks just as nat'ral as can
be; and we all laugh when Deacon Hosea Cowles hez to measure six yards
of love ribbon with Miss Hepsey Newton, and cut each yard with a kiss;
for the deacon hez been sort o' purrin' round Miss Hepsey for goin' on
two years. Then, aft'r a while, when Mary and Helen bring in the
cookies, nutcakes, cider, an' apples, Mother says: 'I don't believe
we're goin' to hev enough apples to go round; Ezry, I guess I'll have
to get you to go down cellar for some more.' Then I says: 'All right,
Mother, I'll go, providin' some one 'll go along an' hold the candle.'
An' when I say this I look right at Laura, an' she blushes. Then
Helen, jest for meanness, says: 'Ezry, I s'pose you ain't willin' to
have your fav'rite sister go down cellar with you and catch her death
o' cold?' But Mary, who hez been showin' Hiram Peabody the phot'graph
album for more'n an hour, comes to the rescue an' makes Laura take the
candle, and she shows Laura how to hold it so it won't go out.

"The cellar is warm an' dark. There are cobwebs all between the
rafters an' everywhere else except on the shelves where Mother keeps
the butter an' eggs an' other things that would freeze in the butt'ry
upstairs. The apples are in bar'ls up against the wall, near the
potater bin. How fresh an' sweet they smell! Laura thinks she sees a
mouse, an' she trembles an' wants to jump up on the pork bar'l, but I
tell her that there shan't no mouse hurt her while I'm around; and I
mean it, too, for the sight of Laura a-tremblin' makes me as strong as
one of Father's steers. 'What kind of apples do you like best, Ezry?'
asks Laura, 'russets or greenin's or crow-eggs or bellflowers or
Baldwins or pippins?' 'I like the Baldwins best,' says I, ''coz they
got red cheeks just like yours.' 'Why, Ezry Thompson! how you talk!'
says Laura. 'You oughter be ashamed of yourself!' But when I get the
dish filled up with apples there ain't a Baldwin in all the lot that
can compare with the bright red of Laura's cheeks. An' Laura knows it,
too, an' she sees the mouse again, an' screams, and then the candle
goes out, and we are in a dreadful stew. But I, bein' almost a man,
contrive to bear up under it, and knowin' she is an orph'n, I comfort
an' encourage Laura the best I know how, and we are almost upstairs
when Mother comes to the door and wants to know what has kep' us so
long. Jest as if Mother doesn't know! Of course she does; an' when
Mother kisses Laura good-bye that night there is in the act a
tenderness that speaks more sweetly than even Mother's words.

"It is so like Mother," mused Ezra; "so like her with her gentleness
an' clingin' love. Hers is the sweetest picture of all, and hers the
best love."

Dream on, Ezra; dream of the old home with its dear ones, its holy
influences, and its precious inspiration!--Mother. Dream on in the
faraway firelight; and as the angel hand of memory unfolds these
sacred visions, with thee and them shall abide, like a Divine
Comforter, the spirit of Thanksgiving.




CHIP'S THANKSGIVING[22]

BY ANNIE HAMILTON DONNELL.

Chip had plenty of nuts on Thanksgiving Day. The little lady
called Heart's Delight saw to that. Can you guess who Chip
was?


They had got "way through," as Terry said, to the nuts. It had been a
beautiful Thanksgiving dinner "so far." Grandmother's sweet face
beamed down the length of the great table, over all the little crinkly
grandheads, at grandfather's face. Everybody felt very thankful.

[Footnote 22: From the _Youth's Companion_, November 26, 1903.]

"I wish all the children this side o' the north pole had had some
turkey, too, and squash and cram'bry--and things," said Silence
quietly. Silence was always wishing beautiful things like that.

"An' some nuts," added Terry, setting his small white teeth into the
meat of a big fat walnut. "It wouldn't seem Thanksgivingy 'thout
nuts."

"I know somebody who would be thankful with just nuts," smiled
grandfather. "Indeed, I think he'd rather have them for all the
courses of his Thanksgiving dinner!"

"Just nuts! No turkey, nor puddin', nor anything?"

The crinkly grandheads all bobbed up from their plates and
nut-pickers in amazement. Just nuts!

"Yes. Guess who he is?" Grandfather's laughing eyes twinkled up the
long table at grandmother.

"I'll give you three guesses apiece, beginning with Heart's Delight.
Guess number one, Heart's Delight."

"Chip," gravely. Heart's Delight had guessed it the very first guess.

"Chip!" laughed all the little grand girls and boys. Why, of course!
Chip! He would rather have just nuts for Thanksgiving dinner!

"I wish he had some o' mine!" cried Silence.

"An' mine!" cried Terry; and all the others wished he had some of
theirs. What a Thanksgiving dinner little Chip would have had!

"He's got plenty, thank you." It was the shy little voice of Heart's
Delight. A soft pink colour had come into her round cheeks. Everybody
looked at her inquiringly, for how did Heart's Delight know Chip had
plenty of nuts? Then Terry remembered something.

"Oh, that's where her nuts went to!" he cried. "Heart's Delight gave
'em to Chip! We couldn't think what she'd done with 'em all."

The pink colour was growing pinker--very pink indeed.

"Yes, that's where," said Silence, leaning over to squeeze one of
Heart's Delight's little hands. And sure enough, it was. In the
beautiful nut month of October, when the children went after their
winter's supply of nuts, little Heart's Delight had left all her
little rounded heap just where bright-eyed, nut-loving squirrel Chip
would be sure to find them and hurry them away to his winter hole. And
Chip had found them, she was sure, for not one was left when she went
back to see, the next day.

"Why, maybe this very minute--right now--Chip's cracking his
Thanksgiving dinner!" Terry laughed.

"Same as we are! Maybe he's got to the nut cour--oh, they're all nut
courses! But maybe he's sittin' up to his table with the rest of the
folks, thanksgiving to Heart's Delight," Silence said.

Heart's Delight's little shy face nearly hid itself over her plate.
This was dreadful! It was necessary to change the subject at once, and
a dear little thought came to her aid.

"But I'm afraid he hasn't got any gran'father and gran'mother to his
Thanksgiving," she said softly. "I shouldn't think anybody could
thanksgive 'thout a gran'mother and gran'father."




THE MASTER OF THE HARVEST[23]

BY MRS. ALFRED GATTY.

A good old-fashioned story for the older boys and girls to
read on the Sunday before Thanksgiving Day.


The Master of the Harvest walked by the side of his cornfields in the
early year, and a cloud was over his face, for there had been no rain
for several weeks, and the earth was hard from the parching of the
cold east winds, and the young wheat had not been able to spring up.

[Footnote 23: From "Parables from Nature."]

So, as he looked over the long ridges that lay stretched in rows
before him, he was vexed, and began to grumble, and say, "The harvest
would be backward, and all things would go wrong." At the mere thought
of which he frowned more and more, and uttered words of complaint
against the heavens, because there was no rain; against the earth,
because it was so dry and unyielding; against the corn, because it had
not sprung up.

And the man's discontent was whispered all over the field, and all
along the long ridges where the corn seeds lay; and when it reached
them they murmured out, "How cruel to complain! Are we not doing our
best? Have we let one drop of moisture pass by unused, one moment of
warmth come to us in vain? Have we not seized on every chance, and
striven every day to be ready for the hour of breaking forth? Are we
idle? Are we obstinate? Are we indifferent? Shall we not be found
waiting and watching? How cruel to complain!"

Of all this, however, the Master of the Harvest heard nothing, so the
gloom did not pass away from his face. On the contrary, he took it
with him into his comfortable home, and repeated to his wife the dark
words that all things were going wrong; that the drought would ruin
the harvest, for the corn was not yet sprung.

And still thinking thus, he laid his head on his pillow, and presently
fell asleep.

But his wife sat up for a while by the bedside, and opened her Bible,
and read, "The harvest is the end of the world, and the reapers are
the angels."

Then she wrote this text in pencil on the flyleaf at the end of the
book, and after it the date of the day, and after the date the words,
"Lord, the husbandman, Thou waitest for the precious fruit Thou hast
sown, and hast long patience for it! Amen, O Lord, Amen!"

After which the good woman knelt down to pray, and as she prayed she
wept, for she knew that she was very ill.

But what she prayed that night was heard only in heaven.

And so a few days passed on as before, and the house was gloomy with
the discontent of its master; but at last one evening the wind
changed, the sky became heavy with clouds, and before midnight there
was rain all over the land; and when the Master of the Harvest came in
next morning, wet from his early walk by the cornfields, he said it
was well it had come at last, and that, at last, the corn had sprung
up.

On which his wife looked at him with a smile, and said, "How often
things came right, about which one had been anxious and disturbed." To
which her husband made no answer, but turned away and spoke of
something else.

Meantime, the corn seeds had been found ready and waiting when the
hour came, and the young sprouts burst out at once; and very soon all
along the long ridges were to be seen rows of tender blades, tinting
the whole field with a delicate green. And day by day the Master of
the Harvest saw them and was satisfied; but because he was satisfied,
and his anxiety was gone, he spoke of other things, and forgot to
rejoice.

And a murmur arose among them: "Should not the Master have welcomed us
to life? He was angry but lately, because the seed he had sown had not
yet brought forth; now that it has brought forth, why is he not glad?
What more does he want? Have we not done our best? Are we not doing it
minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day? From the morning and
evening dews, from the glow of the midday sun, from the juices of the
earth, from the breezes which freshen the air, even from clouds and
rain, are we not taking in food and strength, warmth and life,
refreshment and joy; so that one day the valleys may laugh and sing,
because the good seed hath brought forth abundantly? Why does he not
rejoice?"

As before, however, of all they said the Master of the Harvest heard
nothing; and it never struck him to think of the young corn blades'
struggling life. Nay, once, when his wife asked him if the wheat was
doing well, he answered, "Very fairly," and nothing more. But she
then, because the evening was fine and the fairer weather had revived
her failing powers, said she would walk out by the cornfields herself.

And so it came to pass that they went out together. And together they
looked all along the long green ridges of wheat, and watched the
blades as they quivered and glistened in the breeze which sprang up
with the setting sun. Together they walked, together they looked;
looking at the same things and with the same human eyes; even as they
had walked, and looked, and lived together for years, but with a world
dividing their hearts; and what was ever to unite them?

Even then, as they moved along, she murmured half aloud, half to
herself, thinking of the anxiety that had passed away: "Thou visitest
the earth, and blessest it; thou makest it very plenteous."

To which he answered, if answer it may be called, "Why are you always
so gloomy? Why should Scripture be quoted about such common things?"

And she looked in his face and smiled, but did not speak; and he
could not read the smile, for the life of her heart was as hidden to
him as the life of the corn blades in the field.

And so they went home together, no more being said by either; for, as
she turned round, the sight of the setting sun and of the young
freshly growing wheat blades brought tears into her eyes.

_She_ might never see the harvest upon earth again; for her that other
was at hand, whereof the reapers were to be angels.

And when she opened her Bible that night she wrote on the flyleaf the
text she had quoted to her husband, and after the text the date of the
day, and after the date the words, "Bless me, even me also, oh, my
Father, that I may bring forth fruit with patience!"

Very peaceful were the next few weeks that followed, for all nature
seemed to rejoice in the weather, and the corn blades shot up till
they were nearly two feet high, and about them the Master of the
Harvest had no complaints to make.

But at the end of that time, behold, the earth began to be hard and
dry again, for once more rain was wanted; and by degrees the growing
plants failed for want of moisture and nourishment, and lost power and
colour, and became weak and yellow in hue. And once more the
husbandmen began to fear and tremble, and once more the brow of the
Master of the Harvest was over-clouded with angry apprehension.

And as the man got more and more anxious about the fate of his crops,
he grew more and more irritable and distrustful, and railed as before,
only louder now, against the heavens because there was no rain;
against the earth because it lacked moisture; against the corn plants
because they had waxed feeble.

Nay, once, when his sick wife reproved him gently, praying him to
remember how his fears had been turned to joy before, he reproached
her in his turn for sitting in the house and pretending to judge of
what she could know nothing about, and bade her come out and see for
herself how all things were working together for ill.

And although he spoke it in bitter jest, and she was very ill, she
said she would go, and went.

So once more they walked out together, and once more looked over the
cornfields; but when he stretched out his arm and pointed to the long
ridges of blades, and she saw them shrunken and faded in hue, her
heart was grieved within her, and she turned aside and wept over them.

Nevertheless, she said she durst not cease from hope, since an hour
might renew the face of the earth, if God so willed; neither should
she dare to complain, _even the harvest were to fail_. At which words
the Master of the Harvest stopped short, amazed, to look at his wife,
for her soul was growing stronger as her body grew weaker, and she
dared to say things now which she would have had no courage to utter
before.

But of all this he knew nothing, and what he thought, as he listened,
was that she was as weak in mind as in body; and what he said was that
a man must be an idiot who would not complain when he saw the bread
taken from under his very eyes!

And his murmurings and her tears sent a shudder all along the long
ridges of sickly corn blades, and they asked one of another, "Why does
he murmur? and, Why does she weep? Are we not doing all we can? Do we
slumber or sleep, and let opportunities pass by unused? Are we not
watching and waiting against the times of refreshing? Shall we not be
found ready at last? Why does he murmur? and, Why does she weep? Is
she, too, fading and waiting? Has she, too, a master who has lost
patience?"

Meantime, when she opened her Bible that night, she wrote on the
flyleaf the text, "Wherefore should a man complain, a man for the
punishment of his sins?" and after the text the date of the day, and
after the date the words, "Thou dost turn Thy face from us, and we are
troubled; but, Lord, how long, how long?"

And by and by came on the long-delayed times of refreshing, but so
slowly and imperfectly that the change in the corn could scarcely be
detected for a while. Nevertheless, it told at last, and stems
struggled up among the blades, and burst forth into flowers, which
gradually ripened into ears of grain. But a struggle it had been, and
continued to be, for the measure of moisture was scant, and the due
amount of warmth in the air was wanting. Nevertheless, by struggling
and effort the young wheat advanced, little by little, in growth;
preparing itself, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, as best
it could, for the great day of the harvest. As best it could! Would
the Master of the Harvest ask more? Alas! he had still something to
find fault with, for when he looked at the ears and saw that they were
small and poor, he grumbled, and said the yield would be less than it
ought to be, and the harvest would be bad.

And as more weeks went on, and the same weather continued, and the
progress was very, very slow, he spoke out of his vexation to his wife
at home, to his friends at the market, and to the husbandmen who
passed by and talked with him about the crops.

And the voice of his discontent was breathed over the cornfield, all
along the long ridges where the plants were labouring, and waiting,
and watching. And they shuddered and murmured: "How cruel to complain!
Had we been idle, had we been negligent, had we been indifferent, we
might have passed away without bearing fruit at all. How cruel to
complain!"

But of all this the Master of the Harvest heard nothing, so he did not
cease to complain.

Meantime, another week or two went on, and people as they glanced over
the land wished that a few good rainy days would come and do their
work decidedly, so that the corn ears might fill. And behold, while
the wish was yet on their lips, the sky became charged with clouds,
darkness spread over the country, a wild wind rose, and the growling
of thunder announced a storm. And such a storm! People hid from it in
cellars and closets and dark corners, as if now, for the first time,
they believed in a God, and were trembling at the new-found fact; as
if they could never discover Him in His sunshine and blessings, but
only thus in His tempests and wrath.

And all along the long ridges of wheat plants drove the rain-laden
blast, and they bent down before it and rose up again, like the waves
of a labouring sea. Ears over ears they bowed down; ears above ears
they rose up. They bowed down as if they knew that to resist was
destruction; they rose up as if they had a hope beyond the storm. Only
here and there, where the whirlwinds were the strongest, they fell
down and could not lift themselves again. So the damage done was but
little, and the general good was great. But when the Master of the
Harvest saw here and there patches of overweighted corn yet dripping
from the thunder showers, he grew angry for them, and forgot to think
of the long ridges that stretched over his fields, where the corn ears
were swelling and rejoicing.

And he came in gloomy to his home, when his wife was hoping that now,
at last, all would be well; and when she looked at him the tumult of
her soul grew beyond control, and she knelt down before him as he sat
moody in his chair, and threw her arms round him, and cried out: "It
is of the Lord's mercies that we are not utterly consumed. Oh,
husband! pray for the corn and for me, that it may go well with us at
the last! Carry me upstairs!" And his anger was checked by fear, and
he carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed, and said it must be
the storm which had shaken her nerves. But whether he prayed for
either the corn or her that night she never knew.

And presently came a new distress: for when the days of rain had
accomplished their gracious work, and every one was satisfied, behold,
they did not cease. And as hitherto the cry had gone up for water on
the furrows, so now men's hearts failed them for fear lest it should
continue to overflowing, and lest mildew should set in upon the full,
rich ears, and the glorious crops should be lost.

And the Master of the Harvest walked out by his cornfields, his face
darker than ever. And he railed against the rain because it would not
cease; against the sun because it would not shine; against the wheat
because it might perish before the harvest.

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