Book: Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know

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"Well, Dolly," said she, as soon as cloak and hood were laid aside,
"there's the beautifulest piece of chintz over to the store you ever
see--jest enough for a gown. It's kind of buff-coloured ground,
flowered all over with roses, deep-red roses, as nateral as life.
Squire Dart wouldn't take no money for 't. He's awful sharp about them
new bills. Sez they ain't no more'n corn husks. Well, we ain't got a
great lot of 'em, so there's less to lose, and some folks will take
'em; but he'll let me have the chintz for 'leven yards o' soldier's
cloth--blue, ye know, like what we sent pa and the boys. And I spent
them two silver dollars on a white gauze neck-kercher and a piece of
red satin ribbin for ye, for I'm set on that chintz. Now hurry up 'nd
fix the loom right off. The web's ready, then we'll card the wool.
I'll lay ye a penny we'll have them 'leven yards wove by Friday.
To-day's Tuesday, Thanksgiving comes a Thursday week, an' ef we have
the chintz by sundown a Saturday there'll be good store of time for
Mahaly Green and you to make it afore Wednesday night. We'll hev a
kind of a Thanksgiving, after all. But I wisht your pa----" The
sentence ended in Hannah's apron at her eyes, and Dolly looked sober;
but in a minute she dimpled and brightened, for the pretty chintz gown
was more to her than half a dozen costly French dresses to a girl of
to-day. But a little cloud suddenly put out the dimples.

"But, Mother, if somebody else should buy it?"

"Oh, they won't. I've fixed that. I promised to fetch the cloth inside
of a week, and Squire Dart laid away the chintz for me till that time.
Fetch the wool, Dolly, before you set up the web, so's I can start."

The wool was carded, spun, washed, and put into the dye tub, one "run"
of yarn that night; and another spun and washed by next day's
noon--for the stuff was to be checked, and black wool needed no
dyeing. Swiftly hummed the wheel, merrily flew the shuttle, and the
house steamed with inodorous dye; but nobody cared for that, if the
cloth could only be finished. And finished it was--the full measure
and a yard over; and on Saturday morning Sylvester's horse was
borrowed again, and Hannah came back from the village beaming with
pleasure, and bringing besides the chintz a yard of real cushion lace,
to trim the ruffles for Dolly's sleeves, for which she had bartered
the over yard of cloth and two dozen fresh eggs. Then even busier
times set in. Mahala Green had already arrived, for she was dressmaker
as well as tailoress, and was sponging and pressing over the black
paduasoy that had once been dove-coloured and was Hannah's sole piece
of wedding finery, handed down from her grandmother's wardrobe at
that. A dark green grosgrain petticoat and white lawn ruffles made a
sufficiently picturesque attire for Hannah, whose well-silvered hair
set off her still sparkling eyes and clear healthy skin. She appeared
in this unwonted finery on Thanksgiving morning to her admiring
family, having added a last touch of adornment by a quaint old jet
necklace, that glittered on the pure lawn neckkerchief with as good
effect as a chain of diamonds and much more fitness. Betty, in her
striped blue-and-white chintz, a clean dimity petticoat, and a blue
ribbon round her short brown curls, looked like a cabbage rosebud--so
sturdy and wholesome and rosy that no more delicate symbol suits her.

Obed was dreadful in the old-fashioned costume of coat and breeches,
ill-fitting and shiny with wear, and his freckled face and round shock head
of tan-coloured hair thrown into full relief by a big, square collar of
coarse tatten lace laid out on his shoulders like a barber's towel, and
illustrating the great red ears that stood out at right angles above it.
But Obed was only a boy. He was not expected to be more than clean and
speechless; and, to tell the truth, Eben, being in the hobbledehoy stage of
boyhood--gaunt, awkward, and self-sufficient--rather surpassed his small
brother in unpleasant aspect and manner. But who would look at the boys
when Dolly stood beside them, as she did now, tall and slender, with the
free grace of an untrammelled figure, her small head erect, her eyes dark
and soft as a deer's, neatly clothed feet (not too small for her height)
peeping from under the black lutestring petticoat, and her glowing brunette
complexion set off by the picturesque buff-and-garnet chintz gown, while
her round throat and arms were shaded by delicate gauze and snowy lace,
and about her neck lay her mother's gold beads, now and then tangling in
the heavy black curls that, tied high on her head with a garnet ribbon,
still dropped in rich luxuriance to her trim waist.

The family approved of Dolly, no doubt, though their phrases of
flattery were as homely as heartfelt.

"Orful slick-lookin', ain't she?" confided Joe to Eben; while sinful
Sam shrieked out: "Land o' Goshen! ain't our Dolly smart? Shan't I
fetch Sylvester over?"

For which I regret to state Dolly smartly boxed his ears.

But the pung was ready, and Sam's howls had to die out uncomforted.
With many parting charges from Hannah about the fires and fowls, the
cow, the hasty pudding, already put on for its long boil, and the
turkey that hung from a string in front of the fire and must be
watched well, since it was the Thanksgiving dinner, the "weddingers,"
as Joe called them, were well packed in with blankets and hot stones
and set off on their long drive.

The day was fair and bright, the fields of snow purely dazzling; but
the cold was fearful, and in spite of all their wraps, the keen winds
that whistled over those broad hilltops where the road lay seemed to
pierce their very bones, and they were heartily glad to draw up, by
twelve o'clock, at the door of the parsonage and be set before a
blazing fire, and revived with sundry mugs of foaming and steaming
flip, made potent with a touch of old peach brandy; for in those
ancient days, even in parsonages, the hot poker knew its office and
sideboards were not in vain.

There was food, also, for the exhausted guests, though the refection
was slight and served informally in the kitchen corner, for the
ceremonial Thanksgiving dinner was to be deferred till after the
wedding. And as soon as all were warmed and refreshed they were
ushered into the great parlour, where a Turkey carpet, amber satin
curtains, spider-legged chairs and tables, and a vast carved sofa,
cushioned also with amber, made a regal and luxurious show in the eyes
of our rustic observers.

But when Sylvy came in with the parson, who could look at furniture?
Madam Everett had lavished her taste and her money on the lovely
creature as if she were her own daughter, for she was almost as dear
to that tender, childless soul. The girl's lustrous gold-brown hair
was dressed high upon her head in soft puffs and glittering curls, and
a filmy thread-lace scarf pinned across it with pearl-headed pins. Her
white satin petticoat showed its rich lustre under a lutestring gown
of palest rose brocaded with silver sprigs and looped with silver
ribbon and pink satin roses. Costly lace clung about her neck and
arms, long kid gloves covered her little hands and wrists and met the
delicate sleeve ruffles, and about her white throat a great pink topaz
clasped a single string of pearls. Hannah could scarce believe her
eyes. Was this her Sylvy?--she who even threw Madam Everett, with her
velvet dress, powdered hair, and Mechlin laces, quite into the
background!

"I did not like it, Mammy dear," whispered Sylvy, as she clung round
her astonished mother's neck. "I wanted a muslin gown; but madam had
laid this by long ago, and I could not thwart or grieve her, she is so
very good to me."

"No more you could, Sylvy. The gown is amazing fine, to be sure; but
as long as my Sylvy's inside of it I won't gainsay the gown. It ain't
a speck too pretty for the wearer, dear." And Hannah gave her another
hug. The rest scarce dared to touch that fair face, except Dolly, who
threw her arms about her beautiful sister, with little thought of her
garments, but a sudden passion of love and regret sending the quick
blood to her dark brows and wavy hair in a scarlet glow.

Master Loomis looked on with tender eyes. He felt the usual masculine
conviction that nobody loved Sylvy anywhere near as much as he did;
but it pleased him to see that she was dear to her family. The parson,
however, abruptly put an end to the scene.

"H-m! my dear friends, let us recollect ourselves. There is a time for
all things. Yea, earth yieldeth her increase--h-m! The Lord ariseth to
shake visibly the earth--ahem! Sylvia, will you stand before the
sophy? Master Lummis on the right side. Let us pray."

But even as he spoke the words a great knocking pealed through the
house: the brass lion's head on the front door beat a reveille loud
and long. The parson paused, and Sylvia grew whiter than before;
while Decius, the parson's factotum, a highly respectable old negro
(who, with his wife and daughter, sole servants of the house, had
stolen in to see the ceremony), ambled out to the vestibule in most
undignified haste. There came sounds of dispute, much tramping of
boots, rough voices, and quick words; then a chuckle from Decius, the
parlour door burst open, and three bearded, ragged, eager men rushed
in upon the little ceremony.

There was a moment's pause of wonder and doubt, then a low cry from
Hannah, as she flew into her husband's arms; and in another second the
whole family had closed around the father and brothers, and for once
the hardy, stern, reticent New England nature, broken up from its
foundations, disclosed its depths of tenderness and fidelity. There
were tears, choking sobs, cries of joy. The madam held her lace
handkerchief to her eyes with real need of it; Master Loomis choked
for sympathy; and the parson blew his nose on the ceremonial bandanna
like the trumpet of a cavalry charge.

"Let us pray!" said he, in a loud but broken voice; and holding fast
to the back of the chair, he poured out his soul and theirs before the
Lord with all the fervour and the fluency of real feeling. There was
no stumbling over misapplied texts now, no awkward objections in his
throat, but only glowing Bible words of thankfulness and praise and
joy. And every heart was uplifted and calm as they joined in the
"Amen."

John's story was quickly told. Their decimated regiment was
disbanded, to be reformed of fresh recruits, and a long furlough given
to the faithful but exhausted remnant. They had left at once for home,
and their shortest route lay through Litchfield. Night was near when
they reached the town, but they must needs stop to get one glimpse of
Sylvy and tidings from home, for fear lay upon them lest there might
be trouble there which they knew not of. So they burst in upon the
wedding. But Master Loomis began to look uneasy. Old Dorcas had
slipped out, to save the imperilled dinner, and Pokey, the maid (_nee_
Pocahontas!) could be heard clinking glass and silver and pushing
about chairs; but the happy family were still absorbed in each other.

"Mister Everett!" said the madam, with dignity, and the little
minister trotted rapturously over to her chair to receive certain low
orders.

"Yes, verily, yes--h-m! A--my friends, we are assembled in this place
this evening--"

A sharp look from madam recalled him to the fact that this was not a
prayer-meeting.

"A--that is--yes, of a truth our purpose this afternoon was to--"

"That's so!" energetically put in Captain John. "Right about face!
Form!" and the three Continentals sprung to their feet and assumed
their position, while Sylvy and Master Loomis resumed theirs, a
flitting smile in Sylvia's tearful eyes making a very rainbow.

So the ceremony proceeded to the end, and was wound up with a short
prayer, concerning which Captain Perkins irreverently remarked to his
wife some days after:

"Parson smelt the turkey, sure as shootin', Hannah. He shortened up so
'mazin' quick on that prayer. I tell you I was glad on't. I knew how
he felt. I could ha' ate a wolf myself."

Then they all moved in to the dinner table--a strange group, from
Sylvia's satin and pearls to the ragged fatigue-dress of her father
and brothers; but there was no help for that now, and really it
troubled nobody. The shade of anxiety in madam's eye was caused only
by a doubt as to the sufficiency of her supplies for three unexpected
and ravenous guests; but a look at the mighty turkey, the crisp roast
pig, the cold ham, the chicken pie, and the piles of smoking
vegetables, with a long vista of various pastries, apples, nuts, and
pitchers of cider on the buffet, and an inner consciousness of a big
Indian pudding, for twenty-four hours simmering in the pot over the
fire, reassured her, and perhaps heartened up the parson, for after a
long grace he still kept his feet and added, with a kindly smile:

"Brethren and friends, you are heartily welcome. Eat and be glad, for
seldom hath there been such cause and need to keep a Thanksgiving!"

And they all said Amen!




1800 AND FROZE TO DEATH[31]

BY C. A. STEPHENS.

An exciting story of a battle with a crazy moose. It has a
Thanksgiving flavour, too.


"What shall we have for Thanksgiving dinner?" was a question which
distressed more than one household that year. Indeed, it was often a
question what to have for dinner, supper, or breakfast on any day. For
that was the strangely unpropitious, unproductive season of 1816,
quaintly known in local annals as "1800 and Froze to Death."

[Footnote 31: From the _Youth's Companion_, November 26, 1908.]

It was shortly after the close of the War of 1812 with England. Our
country was then poor and but little cultivated. There was no golden
West to send carloads of wheat and corn; no Florida or California to
send fruit; there were no cars, no railroads. What the people of the
Eastern States had they must raise for themselves, and that year there
were no crops.

Nothing grew, nothing ripened properly. Winter lingered even in the
lap of May. As late as the middle of June there was a heavy snowstorm
in New England. Frosts occurred every fortnight of the season. The
seed potatoes, corn, and beans, when planted, either rotted in the
ground or came up to be killed by the frosts. The cold continued
through July and August. A little barley, still less wheat and rye, a
few oats, in favourable situations, were the only cereals harvested,
and these were much pinched in the kernel.

Actual starvation threatened hundreds of farmers' families as this
singular summer and autumn advanced. The corn crop, then the main
staple in the East, was wholly cut off. Two and three dollars a
bushel--equal to ten dollars to-day--were paid for corn that year--by
those who had the money to purchase it. Many of the poorer families
subsisted in part on the boiled sprouts of raspberry and other shrubs.
Starving children stole forth into the fields of the less indigent
farmers by night, and dug up the seed potatoes and sprouted corn to
eat raw.

Moreover, there appeared to be little or no game in the forest; many
roving bears were seen, and wolves were bold. All wild animals,
indeed, behaved abnormally, as if they, too, felt that nature was out
of joint. The eggs of the grouse or partridge failed to hatch; even
woodchucks were lean and scarce. So of the brooding hens at the
settler's barn: the eggs would not hatch, and the hens, too, it is
said, gave up laying eggs, perhaps from lack of food. Even the song
birds fell into the "dumps" and neglected to rear young.

The dreary, fruitless autumn drew on; and Thanksgiving Day bade fair
to be such a hollow mockery that in several states the governors did
not issue proclamations.

Maine at that time was a part of the state of Massachusetts. My
impression is that the governor appointed November 28th as
Thanksgiving Day, but I am not sure. It is likely that not much
unction attended the announcement. The notices of it did not reach
many localities in Maine. In the neighbourhood where my grandparents
lived, in Oxford County, nothing was heard of it; but at a schoolhouse
meeting, on November 21st, our nearest neighbour, Jonas Edwards, made
a motion "that the people of the place keep the 28th of the month as
Thanksgiving Day--the best they could."

The motion prevailed; and then the poor housewives began to ask the
question, "What shall we have for Thanksgiving dinner?" At our house
it is still remembered that one of my young great-uncles cried in
reply, "Oh, if we could only have a good big johnnycake!"

And it was either that very night, or the night after, that the
exciting news came of the arrival of a shipload of corn at Bath and
Brunswick.

At Brunswick, seat of the then infant Bowdoin College, Freeport,
Topsham, and other towns near the coast of Maine, where the people
were interested in maritime ventures, it had become known that a
surplus of corn was raised in Cuba, and could be purchased at a fair
price. An old schooner, commanded by one Capt. John Simmons, was
fitted out to sail for a cargo of the precious cereal. For three
months not a word was heard from schooner or skipper.

Captain Simmons had purchased corn, however, and loaded his crazy old
craft full to the deck with it. Heavy weather and head winds held him
back on his voyage home. Water got to the corn, and some of it swelled
to such an extent that the old schooner was like to burst. But it got
in at last, early in November, with three thousand bushels of this
West India corn.

How the news of this argosy flew even to towns a day's journey up from
the coast!

A great hunger for corncake swept through that part of the state; and
in our own little neighbourhood a searching canvass of the resources
of the five log farm-houses followed. As a result of it, young
Jonathan Edwards and my then equally youthful Great-uncle Nathaniel
set off the next day to drive to Brunswick with a span of old white
horses hitched in a farm wagon without springs, carrying four rather
poor sheep, four bushels of barley, and fifteen pounds of wool, which
they hoped to exchange for five bushels of that precious corn. On top
of it all there were three large bagfuls of hay for the horses. The
boys also took an axe and an old flintlock gun, for much of the way
was then through forest.

It was a long day's drive for horses in poor condition, but they
reached Brunswick that night. There, however, they found the cargo of
corn so nearly sold out, or bartered away, that they were able to get
but three bushels to bring home.

The corn was reckoned at nine dollars, the four sheep at only six
dollars, and it had been difficult "dickering" the fifteen pounds of
wool and the two bushels of barley as worth three dollars more. The
extra two bushels of barley went for their keep overnight. Such was
produce exchange in 1816.

The next morning they started for home, lightly loaded with their
dearly bought corn. Their route lay along the Androscoggin River, and
they had got as far on their way as the present factory town of
Auburn, where the Little Androscoggin flows into the larger river of
the same name, when they had an adventure which resulted in very
materially increasing the weight of their load.

It was a raw, cloudy day, and had begun to "spit snow"; and as it drew
toward noon, they stopped beside the road at a place where a large
pine and several birches leaned out from the brink of the deep gorge
through which the Little Androscoggin flows to join the larger stream.
Here they fed their horses on the last of the three bagfuls of hay,
but had nothing to cook or eat in the way of food themselves. The
weather was chilly, and my young Great-uncle Nathaniel said to
Jonathan:

"If you will get some dry birchbark, I will flash the pan. We will
kindle a fire and warm up."

Jonathan brought the bark, and meanwhile Nathaniel drew the charge
from the old "Queen's arm," then ignited some powder in the pan with
the flintlock, and started a blaze going.

The blaze, however, had soon to be fed with dry fuel, and noticing a
dead firtop lying on the ground a few steps away, Jonathan took the
axe and ran to break it up; and the axe strokes among the dry stuff
made a considerable crackling.

Throwing down the axe at last, Jonathan gathered up a large armful of
the dry branches, and had turned to the fire, when they both heard a
strange sound, like a deep grunt, not far away, followed by sharp
crashes of the brush down in the basin.

"What's that?" Nathaniel exclaimed. "It's a bear I guess," and he
snatched up the empty gun to reload it. Jonathan, too, threw down his
armful of boughs and turned back to get the axe.

Before they could do either, however, the strange grunts and crashes
came nearer, and a moment later a pair of broad antlers and a huge
black head appeared, coming up from the gorge.

At sight of the snorting beast, Jonathan turned suddenly. "It's a
moose, Nat!" he cried. "A big bull moose! Shoot him! Shoot him!"

Nat was making frantic efforts, but the gun was not reloaded.
Recharging an old "Queen's arm" was a work of time.

Fortunately for the boys, the attention of the moose was full fixed on
the horses. With another furious snort, it gained the top of the bank
and bounded toward where they stood hitched, chewing their hay.

The tired white horses looked up suddenly from their hay, and
perceiving this black apparition of the forest, snorted and tugged at
their halters.

With a frightful bellow, half squeal, half roar, the moose rose twelve
feet tall on his hind legs, and rushed at the one hitched nearest. The
horse broke its halter, ran headlong against its mate, recoiled,
bumped into a tree trunk, and then--the trees standing thick in front
of it--backed over the bank and went out of sight down the bluff, the
moose bounding after it, still bellowing hoarsely.

The other horse had also broken its halter and ran off, while the two
boys stood amazed and alarmed at this tremendous exhibition of animal
ferocity.

"Nat! Nat! He will kill that horse!" Jonathan exclaimed, and they both
ran to look over the bank. Horse and moose were now down near the
water, where the river ran deep and swift under the steep bank, the
horse trying vainly to escape through the tangled alder brush, the
moose savagely pursuing.

The sight roused the boys to save their horse. Axe in hand, Jonathan
ran and slid down the bluff side, catching hold of trees and bushes as
he did so, to keep from going quite into the river. Nat followed him,
with the gun which he had hastily primed. Both horse and moose were
now thrashing amidst the alder clumps.

"Shoot him, shoot him!" Jonathan shouted. "Why don't you fire? Oh, let
me have that gun!"

It is not as easy as an onlooker often thinks to shoot an animal, even
a large one, in rapid motion, particularly among trees and brush;
something constantly gets in the way. Both animals were now tearing
along the brink of the deep stream, stumbling headlong one second, up
the next, plunging on. As often as Nat tried to steady himself on the
steep side of the bluff for a shot, either the horse was in the way or
both animals were wholly concealed by the bushes. Moreover, the boys
had to run fast through the brush to keep them in sight. Nat could not
shoot with certainty, and Jonathan grew wild over the delay.

"Shoot him yourself, then!" Nat retorted, panting.

Jonathan snatched the gun and dashed forward, Nat picking up the axe
and following after. On they ran for several hundred yards, barely
keeping pace with the animals. Jonathan experienced quite as much
difficulty in getting a shot as Nat had done.

At last he aimed and snapped--and the gun did not go off.

"You never primed it!" he exclaimed indignantly. Nat thought that he
had done so, but was not wholly certain; and feeling that he must do
his part somehow, he now dashed past Jonathan, and running on,
attempted to head the horse off at a little gully down the bank to
which they had now come. It was a brushy place; he fell headlong into
it himself, and rolled down, still grasping hard at the axe. He was
close upon the horse now, within a few yards of the water, and looking
up, he saw the moose's head among the alder brush. The creature
appeared to be staring at him, and regaining his feet, much excited,
Nat threw the axe with all his strength at the moose's head.

By chance rather than skill, the poll of the axe struck the animal
just above the eyes at the root of the antlers. It staggered, holding
its head to one side a moment, as if half-stunned or in pain. Then,
recovering, it snorted, and with a bound through the brush, jumped
into the stream, and either swam or waded across to the low sandy bank
on the other side. There it stood, still shaking its head.

Jonathan had caught up with Nat by this time, and they both stood
watching the moose for some moments, hoping that the mad animal had
now had enough of the fracas and would go his way. The horse was in
the brush of the little gully, sticking fast there, or tired out by
its exertions; and they now began considering how they could best
extricate it and get it back up the bluff.

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