Book: Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know

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




On returning from one of these excursions, as she rolled up her
sleeves again, she said:

"Betty, we must open the other window if it is cold. Mamma thought she
smelled roast turkey!"

Betty burst into a laugh which she smothered in her apron. Jessie
covered her mouth and laughed, too, but the window was opened to make
a draught and carry out the delicious odours, which, it must be
confessed, did fill that kitchen so full that no wonder they crept
through the cracks, and the keyholes, and hung about Jessie's dress as
she went through the hall, in a way to make one's mouth water.

"What did ye tell her?" asked Betty, as soon as she could speak.

"Oh, I told her I thought potpie smelled a good deal like turkey,"
said Jessie, and again both laughed. "Wasn't it lucky we had potpie
to-day? I don't know what I should have said if we hadn't."

Well, it was not long after that when Jessie lined a baking-dish with
nice-looking crust, filled it with tempting looking chicken legs and
wings and breasts and backs and a bowlful of broth, laid a white
blanket of crust over all, tucked it in snugly around the edge, cut
some holes in the top, and shoved it into the oven just after Betty
drew out a dripping pan in which reposed, in all the glory of rich
brown skin, a beautiful turkey. Mrs. Jarvis couldn't have had any nose
at all if she didn't smell that. It filled the kitchen full of nice
smells, and Betty hurried it into the pantry, where the window was
open to cool.

Then Jessie returned to the spices and fruits she had been working
over so long, and a few minutes later she poured a rich, dark mass
into a tin pudding-dish, tied the cover on tight, and slipped it into
a large kettle of boiling water on the stove.

"There!" she said, "I hope that'll be good."

"I know it will," said Betty confidently. "That's y'r ma's best
receipt."

"Yes, but I never made it before," said Jessie doubtfully.

"Oh, I know it'll be all right, 'n' I'll watch it close," said Betty;
"'n' now you go'n sit with y'r ma. I want that table to git dinner."

"But I'm going to wash all these things," said Jessie.

"You go long! I'd ruther do that myself. 'Twon't take me no time,"
said Betty.

Jessie hesitated. "But you have enough to do, Betty."

"I tell you I want to do it," the girl insisted.

"Oh, I know!" said Jessie; "you like to help about it. Well, you may;
and I'm much obliged to you, besides." And after a last look at the
fine turkey cooling his heels (if he had any) in the pantry, Jessie
went into the other part of the house.

When dinner time arrived and papa came from town, there duly appeared
on the table the potpie before mentioned, and various other things
pleasant to eat, but nothing was seen of the turkey so carefully
roasted nor of the chicken pie, nor of the pudding that caused the
young cook so much anxiety. Nothing was said about them, either, and
it was not Thanksgiving nor Christmas, though it was only a few days
before the former.

It was certainly odd, and stranger things happened that night. In the
first place, Jessie sat up in her room and wrote a letter; and then,
after her mother was in bed and everything still, she stole down the
back stairs with a candle, quietly, as though she was doing some
mischief. Betty, who came down to help her, brought a box in from the
woodshed; and the two plotters, very silently, with many listenings at
the door to see if any one was stirring, packed that box full of good
things.

In it the turkey, wrapped in a snowy napkin, found a bed, the chicken
pie and the plum pudding--beautiful looking as Betty said it would
be--bore him company; and numerous small things, jam jars, fruits,
etc., etc., filled the box to its very top. Then the cover, provided
with screws so that no hammering need be done, was fastened on.

"Now you go to bed, Miss Jessie," whispered Betty. "I'll wait."

"No, you must be tired," said Jessie. "I'd just as lief."

"But I'd ruther," said Betty shortly--"'n' I'm going to; it won't be
long now."

So Jessie crept quietly upstairs, and before long there was a low rap
on the kitchen door. Betty opened it, and there stood a man.

"Ready?" said he.

"Yes," answered Betty; "but don't speak loud; Miss Jarvis has sharp
ears, 'n' we don't want her disturbed. Here's the card to mark it by,"
and she produced a card from the table.

The man put it in his pocket, shouldered the box, and Betty shut the
door.

Not one of those good things ever went into the Jarvis dining-room!

The next morning things went on just as usual in the house. The
kitchen door was left open and Mrs. Jarvis was welcome to smell any of
the appetizing odours that wafted out into her room. Jessie resumed
her study, and especially her practice, for she hoped some day to be a
great musician. She waited on her mother and took charge of the
housekeeping, so much as was necessary with the well-tried servant at
the head of the kitchen. And though she had but sixteen years over her
bright brown head, she proved herself to be what in that little New
England town was called "capable."

But that box of goodies! Let us see where it went.

It was Thanksgiving morning in a rough-looking little mining
settlement in Colorado. In a shanty rougher and more comfortless than
the rest were two persons: one, a man of thirty, was deeply engaged in
cleaning and oiling a gun which lay in pieces about him on the rough
bench where he sat; the other, a youth of sixteen, was trying to make
a fire burn in the primitive-looking affair that did duty as a stove.
Both wore coarse miner's suits, and picks and other things about the
room told that their business was to dig for the yellow dust we are
all so greedy to have.

Evidently luck had not been good, for the whole place appeared run
down, and the two looked absolutely hungry.

It was Thanksgiving morning, as I said, but no thankfulness shone in
the two pale, thin faces. Both were sad, and the younger one almost
hopeless.

"Jack," said the elder, pausing in his operations, "mind you give that
old hen a good boil, or we won't be able to eat it."

"It'll be better'n nothing, anyway, I suppose," said Jack gloomily.

"Not much. 'Specially if you don't get the taste of sage brush out of
it. Lucky I happened to get that shot at her, anyway," he went on,
"I've seen worse dinners--even Thanksgiving dinners--than a sage hen."

"I haven't," said Jack shortly; for the mention of Thanksgiving had
brought up before him with startling vividness the picture of a bright
dining-room in a certain town far away, a table loaded with good
things, and surrounded by smiling faces, and the contrast was almost
more than he could bear.

"Well, don't be down on your luck, boy, so long as you can get a good
fat hen to eat, if she does happen to be too fond of seasoning before
she's dead!" replied the other cheerfully; "we haven't struck it yet,
but it's always darkest just before dawn, you know. We may be
millionaires before this time to-morrow."

"We may," answered Jack; but he didn't look as if he had much hope of
it.

A few hours later the occupants of the cabin sat down to their
Thanksgiving dinner. It consisted of the hen aforesaid, cut in pieces
and boiled--looking very queer, too--served in the kettle in which the
operation had been performed. The table was at one end of the bench,
the table service two jackknives and two iron spoons--absolutely
nothing else.

The elder sat on the bench, the younger drew up a keg that had held
powder, and the dinner was about to begin.

But that hen was destined never to be eaten, for just at that moment
the door was pushed open in the rude way of the country, a box set
down on the floor, and a rough voice announced:

"A box for Mr. Jack Jones."

Jack started up.

"For me, there must be a mistake! Nobody knows--" He stopped, for he
had not mentioned that his name was assumed.

"Likely not!" said the man, with a knowing look, "but folks has a
mighty queer way of findin' out," and he shut the door and left.

Jack stood staring at the box as if he had lost his wits. It could not
be from home, for no one knew where he went when he stole out of the
house one night six months ago, and ran away to seek his fortune. Not
a line had he ever written--not even when very ill, as he had been;
not even when without a roof to cover his head, as he had been more
than once; not even when he had not eaten for two days, as also, alas,
had been his experience.

He had deliberately run away, because--how trivial it looked to him
now, and how childish seemed his conduct--because he thought his
father too hard on him; would not allow him enough liberty; wanted to
dictate to this man of sixteen; he intended to show him that he could
get on alone.

Poor Jack, the only comfort he had been able to extract from his hard
lot these many months of wandering, of work, of suffering such as he
had never dreamed of--his only comfort was that his tender mother
didn't know, his only sister would no more be worried by his grumbling
and complaints, and his father would be convinced now that he wasn't a
baby. Small comfort, too, to balance the hardships that had fallen to
his lot since the money he had drawn from the savings bank--his little
all--was used up.

"Why don't you open it?" The gruff but not unkind voice of his
roommate, whom he called Tom, aroused him. "Maybe there's something in
it better'n sage hen," trying to raise a smile.

But no smile followed. Mechanically Jack sought the tools to open it,
and in a few moments the cover was off.

It _was_ from home! On the very top was a letter addressed to Jack
Jarvis in a hand that he well knew.

He hastily stuffed it into his pocket unopened. The layers of paper
were removed, and as each one was thrown off, something new appeared.
Not a word was spoken, but the kettle of sage hen was silently put on
the floor by Tom as the bench began to fill up. A jar of cranberry
sauce, another of orange marmalade, oranges and apples, a plum
pudding, a chicken pie, and lastly, in its white linen wrapper, the
turkey we saw browning in that far-off New England kitchen.

As one by one these things were lifted out and placed on the bench a
deep silence reigned in the cabin. Jack had choked at sight of the
letter, and memories of days far different from these checked even
Tom's usually lively tongue. A strange unpacking it was; how different
from the joyful packing at dead of night with those two laughing girl
faces bending over it!

When all was done, and the silence grew painful, Jack blurted out:
"Help yourself," and bustled about, busily gathering up the papers and
folding them, and stuffing them back in the box, as though he were the
most particular housekeeper in the world. But if Jack couldn't eat,
something, too, ailed Tom. He said simply:

"Don't feel hungry. Believe I'll go out and see what I can find," and
shouldering his gun, now cleaned and put together, he quickly went out
and shut the door.

Jack sat down on the keg and looked at the things which so vividly
brought home, and his happy life there, before him. He did not feel
hungry, either. He sat and stared for some time. Then he remembered
his letter. He drew it from his pocket and opened it. It was very
thick; and when he pulled it out of the envelope the first thing he
saw was the smiling face of his sister Jessie, his twin sister, his
playmate and comrade, his confidante from the cradle. The loss of her
ever-willing sympathy had been almost more to him than all the rest of
his troubles.

This was another shock that brought something to his eyes that made
him see the others through a mist. There were the pictures of his
mother, whose gentle voice he could almost hear, and of his father,
whose gray hairs and sad face he suddenly remembered were partly his
work.

At last he read the letter. It began:

DEAR JACK:--I've just found out where you are, and I'm so
glad. I send you this Thanksgiving dinner. It was too bad
for you to go off so. You don't know how dreadful it was for
mamma; she was sick a long time, and we were scared to death
about her, but she's better now; she can sit up most all
day.

Oh, Jack! Father _cried_! I'm sure he did, and he almost ran
out of the room, and didn't say anything to anybody all day.
But I was determined I'd find you. I shan't tell you how I
did it, but Uncle John helped me, and now, Jack, he says he
wants just such a fellow as you to learn his business, and
he'll make you a very good offer. And, Jack, that's my
turkey--my Winnie--and nobody but Betty knows anything about
this box and this letter. I send you all my money out of the
savings bank (I didn't tell _anybody_ that), and I _want_
you to come home. You'll find the money under the
cranberries. I thought it would be safe there, and I knew
you'd eat them all, you're so fond of cranberries. I didn't
tell anybody because I want to surprise them, and besides,
let them think you came home because you got ready. It's
nobody's business where you got the money anyway.

Now do come right home, Jack. You can get here in a week's
time, I know.

Your affectionate sister,

JESSIE.

Jack laid the letter down with a rush of new feelings and thoughts
that overwhelmed him. He sat there for hours; he knew nothing of time.
He had mechanically turned the cranberry jar upside down and taken
from the bottom, carefully wrapped in white paper, fifty dollars.

A pang went through him. Well did he know what that money represented
to his sister; by how many sacrifices she had been saving it for a
year or two, with the single purpose of taking the lessons from a
great master that were to fit her to teach, to take an independent
position in the world, to relieve her father, who had lost a large
slice of his comfortable income, and who was growing old and sad under
his burden. She had often talked it over with Jack.

Now she had generously given up the whole to him, all her hopes and
dreams of independence; and he--he who should have been the support of
his sister, the right arm of his father--he had basely deserted.

These thoughts and many more surged through his mind that long
afternoon, and when Tom returned as the shadows were growing long, he
sat exactly as he had been left.

On Tom's entrance he roused himself. There was a new light in his eye.

"Come, Tom," he said, "dinner's waiting. You must be hungry by this
time."

"I am that," said Tom, who had been through his own mental struggles
meanwhile.

The two sat down once more to their Thanksgiving dinner, and this time
they managed to eat, though Jack choked whenever he thought of tasting
a bit of Jessie's pet turkey, Winnie; and much as he liked turkey, and
a home turkey at that, he could not touch it.

After the meal, when the provisions were stored away in the cupboard
(a soap box) much too small for such a supply, it had grown quite
dark, and the two, still disinclined to talk, went to their beds--if
the rough bunks they occupied may be dignified by that name.

But not to sleep--at least not Jack, who tumbled and tossed all night
and got up in the morning with an energy and life he had not shown for
weeks.

After breakfast Tom shouldered his pick and said:

"I'll go on, Jack, while you clear up." Yet he felt in his heart he
should never see Jack again; for there was a homestruck look in his
face that the man of experience in the ways of runaway boys knew well.

He was not surprised that Jack did not join him, nor that when he
returned at night to the cabin he found him gone and a note pinned up
on the door:

I can't stand it--I'm off for home. You may have my share of
everything.

JACK.

It was a cold evening in early December, and there seemed to be an
undercurrent of excitement in the Jarvis household. The table was
spread in the dining-room with the best silver and linen. Mrs. Jarvis
was better, and had even been able to go into the kitchen to
superintend the preparations for dinner.

Jessie went around with a shining face that no one understood and she
could not explain.

Betty was strangely nervous, and had made several blunders that
morning which mortified the faithful servant very much. An air of
expectancy pervaded the whole house, though the two heads of it had
not a hint of the cause.

Jessie heard the train she had decided to be the important one. She
could hardly contain herself for expectation. She tried hard to sober
herself now and then by the thought, "Perhaps he won't come," but she
couldn't stay sobered, for she felt as certain that he would as that
she lived.

You all know how it happened. The door opened and Jack walked in. One
instant of blank silence, and then a grand convulsion.

Jack fell on his knees with his face in his mother's lap, though he
had not thought a moment before of doing any such thing. Jessie hung
over him, frantically hugging him. Mr. Jarvis, vainly trying to join
this group, could only lay his hands on Jack's head and say in a
broken voice: "My son! My son!" while Betty performed a war dance
around the party, wildly brandishing a basting spoon in one hand and
wiping her streaming eyes on the dishcloth which she held in the
other.

It was long before a word could be spoken, and the dinner was totally
ruined, as Betty declared with tears (though they were not for
sorrow), before any one could calm down enough to eat.

Then the reaction set in, and justice was done to the dinner, while
talk went on in a stream. Jack did not tell his adventures; he only
said that he had come from the city, where he had made arrangements
for a situation with Uncle John--at which Jessie's eyes sparkled. His
looks, even after a week of comfort and hope, spoke for his
sufferings.

There is little more to tell. Jack Jarvis at seventeen was a different
boy from the Jack who at sixteen started out to seek his fortune. You
may be sure that Jessie had her music lessons after all, and that a
new Winnie with a fine young brood at her heels stalked about the
Jarvis grounds the next spring.




WHO ATE THE DOLLY'S DINNER?[29]

BY ISABEL GORDON CURTIS.

A good story for the Big Sister to read to the little boys
and girls.


"Why can't dollies have a Thanksgiving dinner as well as real folks?"
asked Polly Pine.

[Footnote 29: From "For the Children's Hour," Milton Bradley Company.]

"I don't know why," said mamma, laughing; "go and dress them in their
best clothes, get the dolls' house swept and dusted and the table
ready. Then I'll fix their dinner before we go downstairs."

"Oh, how nice!" said Polly Pine.

The doll house stood in the nursery. It was very big and very
beautiful. It was painted red; it had tall chimneys, and a fine front
door with R. Bliss on a brass plate. There were lace curtains at the
windows, and two steps led up to the cunning little piazza. Polly Pine
swept the rooms with her tiny broom and dusted them. Then she set the
table in the dining-room with the very best dishes and the finest
silver. She set a teeny vase in the middle of the table, with two
violets in it, and she put dolly table napkins at each place.

When the house was all nice and clean she dressed Lavinia in her pink
muslin, and Dora Jane in her gray velvet, and Hannah Welch in her
yellow silk; then she seated them around the table, each one in her
own chair. Polly was just telling them about company manners, how they
must not eat with their knives, or leave their teaspoons in their cups
when they drank their tea, when the door opened and in came mamma with
a real dolls' Thanksgiving dinner.

There was a chicken bone to put on the platter before Hannah Welch,
for Hannah always did the carving. There were cunning little dishes of
mashed potato and cranberry sauce, and some celery in a tiny tumbler,
and the smallest squash pie baked in a patty pan. Polly Pine just
hopped up and down with delight when she saw it. She set everything on
the table; then she ran away to put on her nicest muslin frock with
the pink ribbons, and she went downstairs to her own dinner.

There were gentlemen there for dinner--gentlemen Polly was very fond
of--and she had a nice time visiting with one of them. He could change
his table napkin into a white rabbit, and she forgot all about the
dolls' Thanksgiving dinner until it was dessert-time, and the nuts and
raisins came in.

Then Polly remembered, and she jumped down from her chair and asked
mamma if she might go upstairs and see if the dolls had eaten their
dinner. When mamma told about the doll house Thanksgiving, all the
family wanted to go, too, to find out if the dolls had enjoyed their
dinner.

The front door of the doll house was open, and there sat the dolls
just as their little mistress had left them--only they had eaten
nearly all the dinner! Everything was gone except the potato and the
cranberry sauce. The chicken leg was picked bare, the bread was
nibbled, and the little pie was eaten all around.

"Well, this is funny," said papa.

Just then they heard a funny, scratching noise in the doll house, and
a little gray mouse jumped out from under the table. He ran out the
front door of the doll house, and over the piazza, and down the steps
before you could say "Jack Robinson." In a minute he was gone--nobody
knew where. There was another tiny mouse in the doll house under the
parlour sofa, and a third one under Lavinia's bed, with a poor,
frightened gray tail sticking out. They all got away safe. Papa would
not allow mamma to go for the cat. He said:

"Why can't a poor little mouse have a Thanksgiving dinner as well as
we?"




AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING[30]

BY ROSE TERRY COOKE.

A long story about a family of hardy New England pioneers in
Revolutionary days. It will be most enjoyed by the older
children.


"Pile in, Hannah. Get right down 'long o' the clock, so's to kinder
shore it up. I'll fix in them pillers t'other side on't, and you can
set back ag'inst the bed. Good-bye, folks! Gee up! Bright. Gee! I tell
ye, Buck."

[Footnote 30: Adapted from "Huckleberries," Houghton, Mifflin Co.]

"Good-bye!" nodded Hannah, from the depths of the old calash which
granny had given her for a riding-hood, and her rosy face sparkled
under the green shadow like a blossom under a burdock leaf.

This was their wedding journey. Thirty long miles to be travelled, at
the slow pace of an oxcart, where to-day a railroad spins by, and a
log hut in the dim distance.

But Hannah did not cry about it. There was a momentary choking,
perhaps, in her throat, as she caught a last view of granny's mob cap
and her father's rough face, with the red head of her small
stepbrother between them, grouped in the doorway. Her mother had died
long ago, and there was another in her place now, and a swarm of
children. Hannah was going to her own home, to a much easier life,
and going with John. Why should she cry?

Besides, Hannah was the merriest little woman in the country. She had
a laugh always lying ready in a convenient dimple.

She never knew what "blues" meant, except to dye stocking yarn. She
was sunny as a dandelion and gay as a bobolink. Her sweet good nature
never failed through the long day's journey, and when night came she
made a pot of tea at the campfire, roasted a row of apples, and
broiled a partridge John shot by the wayside, with as much enjoyment
as if this was the merriest picnic excursion, and not a solitary camp
in the forest, long miles away from any human dwelling, and by no
means sure of safety from some lingering savage, some beast of harmful
nature, or at least a visit from a shambling black bear, for bears
were plentiful enough in that region.

But none of these things worried Hannah. She ate her supper with
hearty appetite, said her prayers with John, and curled down on the
featherbed in the cart, while John heaped on more wood, and,
shouldering his musket, went to lengthen the ropes that tethered his
oxen, and then mounted guard over the camp. Hannah watched his fine,
grave face, as the flickering light illuminated it, for a few minutes,
and then slept tranquilly till dawn. And by sunset next day the little
party drew up at the door of the log hut they called home.

It looked very pretty to Hannah. She had the fairy gift, that is so
rare among mortals, of seeing beauty in its faintest expression; and
the young grass about the rough stone doorstep, the crimson cones on
the great larch tree behind it, the sunlit panes of the west window,
the laugh and sparkle of the brook that ran through the clearing, the
blue eyes of the squirrel caps that blossomed shyly and daintily
beside the stumps of new-felled trees--all these she saw and delighted
in. And when the door was open, the old clock set up, the bed laid on
the standing bedplace, and the three chairs and table ranged against
the wall, she began her house-wifery directly, singing as she went.
Before John had put his oxen in the small barn, sheltered the cart and
the tools in it, and shaken down hay into the manger, Hannah had made
a fire, hung on the kettle, spread up her bed with homespun sheets and
blankets and a wonderful cover of white-and-red chintz, set the table
with a loaf of bread, a square of yellow butter, a bowl of maple
sugar, and a plate of cheese; and even released the cock and the hen
from their uneasy prison in a splint basket, and was feeding them in
the little woodshed when John came in.

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