Book: Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know

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




"I think Sarah and Submit and all of you are very foolish about it,"
said Mrs. Thompson severely. "What difference does it make if one
weighs a pound or two more than the other, if there is enough to go
round?"

"Submit looks as if she was sorry ours weighed the most now," said
Jonas.

"My thumb aches," said Submit.

"Go and get the balm of Gilead bottle, and put some more on," ordered
her mother.

That night when she went to bed she could not say her prayers. When
she woke in the morning it was with a strange, terrified feeling, as
if she had climbed a wall into some unknown dreadful land. She
wondered if Sarah would bring Thankful over; she dreaded to see her
coming, but she did not come. Submit herself did not stir out of the
house all that day or the next, and Sarah did not bring Thankful until
next morning.

They were all out in the kitchen about an hour before dinner.
Grandfather Thompson sat in his old armchair at one corner of the
fireplace, Grandmother Thompson was knitting, and Jonas and Submit
were cracking butternuts. Submit was a little happier this morning.
She thought Sarah would never bring Thankful, and so she had not done
so much harm by cheating in the weight of the turkey.

There was a tug at the latch of the kitchen door; it was pushed open
slowly and painfully, and Sarah entered with Thankful in her arms. She
said not a word to anybody, but her little face was full of woe. She
went straight to Submit, and laid Thankful in her lap; then she turned
and fled with a great sob. The door slammed after her. All the
Thompsons stopped and looked at Submit.

"Submit, what does this mean?" her father asked.

Submit looked at him, trembling.

"Speak," said he.

"Submit, mind your father," said Mrs. Thompson.

"What did she bring you the doll baby for?" asked Grandmother
Thompson.

"Sarah--was going to give me Thankful if--our turkey weighed most, and
I was going to--give her my work-box if hers weighed most," said
Submit jerkily. Her lips felt stiff.

Her father looked very sober and stern. He turned to his father. When
Grandfather Thompson was at home, every one deferred to him. Even at
eighty he was the recognized head of the house. He was a wonderful
old man, tall and soldierly, and full of a grave dignity. He looked at
Submit, and she shrank.

"Do you know," said he, "that you have been conducting yourself like
unto the brawlers in the taverns and ale-houses?"

"Yes, sir," murmured Submit, although she did not know what he meant.

"No godly maid who heeds her elders will take part in any such foolish
and sinful wager," her grandfather continued.

Submit arose, hugging Thankful convulsively. She glanced wildly at her
great-grandmother's musket over the shelf. The same spirit that had
aimed it at the Indian possessed her, and she spoke out quite clearly:
"Our turkey didn't weigh the most," said she. "I put the Revolutionary
bullets in his crop."

There was silence. Submit's heart beat so hard that Thankful quivered.

"Go upstairs to your chamber, Submit," said her mother, "and you need
not come down to dinner. Jonas, take that doll and carry it over to
the Adams' house."

Submit crept miserably out of the room, and Jonas carried Thankful
across the yard to Sarah.

Submit crouched beside her little square window set with tiny panes of
glass, and watched him. She did not cry. She was very miserable, but
confession had awakened a salutary smart in her soul, like the balm
of Gilead on her cut thumb. She was not so unhappy as she had been.
She wondered if her father would whip her, and she made up her mind
not to cry if he did.

After Jonas came back she still crouched at the window. Exactly
opposite in the Adams' house was another little square window, and
that lighted Sarah's chamber. All of a sudden Sarah's face appeared
there. The two little girls stared pitifully at each other. Presently
Sarah raised her window, and put a stick under it; then Submit did the
same. They put their faces out, and looked at each other a minute
before speaking. Sarah's face was streaming with tears.

"What you crying for?" called Submit softly.

"Father sent me up here 'cause it is sinful to--make bets, and Aunt
Rose has come, and I can't have any--Thanksgiving dinner," wailed
Sarah.

"I'm wickeder than you," said Submit. "I put the Revolutionary bullets
in the turkey to make it weigh more than yours. Yours weighed the
most. If mother thinks it's right, I'll give you the work-box."

"I don't--want it," sobbed Sarah. "I'm dreadful sorry you've got to
stay up there, and can't have any dinner, Submit."

Answering tears sprang to Submit's eyes. "I'm dreadful sorry you've
got to stay up there, and can't have any dinner," she sobbed back.

There was a touch on her shoulder. She looked around and there stood
the grandmother. She was trying to look severe, but she was beaming
kindly on her. Her fat, fair old face was as gentle as the mercy that
tempers justice; her horn spectacles and her knitting needles and the
gold beads on her neck all shone in the sunlight.

"You had better come downstairs, child," said she. "Dinner's 'most
ready, and mebbe you can help your mother. Your father isn't going to
whip you this time, because you told the truth about it, but you
mustn't ever do such a dreadful wicked thing again."

"No, I won't," sobbed Submit. She looked across, and there beside
Sarah's face in the window was another beautiful smiling one. It had
pink cheeks and sweet black eyes and black curls, among which stood a
high tortoise-shell comb.

"Oh, Submit!" Sarah called out, joyfully, "Aunt Rose says I can go
down to dinner!"

"Grandmother says I can!" called back Submit.

The beautiful smiling face opposite leaned close to Sarah's for a
minute.

"Oh, Submit!" cried Sarah, "Aunt Rose says she will make you a doll
baby like Thankful, if your mother's willing!"

"I guess she'll be willing if she's a good girl," called Grandmother
Thompson.

Submit looked across a second in speechless radiance. Then the faces
vanished from the two little windows, and Submit and Sarah went down
to their Thanksgiving dinners.




BEETLE RING'S THANKSGIVING MASCOT[2]

BY SHELDON C. STODDARD.

Beetle Ring had the reputation of being the toughest lumber
camp on the river. The boys were certainly rough, and rather
hard drinkers, but their hearts were in the right place,
after all.


Six months of idleness following a long run of fever, a lost position,
and consequent discouragement had brought poverty and wretchedness to
Joe Bennett.

The lumber camp on the Featherstone, where he had been at work, had
broken up and gone, and an old shack, deserted by some hunter, and now
standing alone in the great woods, was the only home he could provide
for his little family. It had answered its purpose as a makeshift in
the warm weather, but now, in late November, and with the terrible
northern winter coming swiftly on, it was small wonder the young
lumberman had been discouraged as he tried to forecast the future.

His strength had returned, however, and lately something of his old
courage, for he had found work. It was fifteen miles away, to be sure,
and in "Beetle Ring" lumber camp, the camp that bore the reputation of
being the roughest on the Featherstone, but it was work.

[Footnote 2: From the _Youth's Companion_, November 30, 1905.]

He was earning something, and might hope soon to move his family into
a habitable house and civilization.

But his position at Beetle Ring was not an enviable one. The men took
scant pains to conceal their dislike for the young fellow who
steadfastly refused to "chip in" when the camp jug was sent to the
Skylark, the nearest saloon, some miles down the river, and who
invariably declined to join in the camp's numerous sprees. But Bennett
worked on quietly.

And in the meantime to the old shack in the woods the baby had
come--in the bleak November weather.

Night was settling down over the woods. An old half-breed woman was
tending the fire in the one room of the shack, and on the wretched bed
lay a fair-faced woman, the young wife and mother, who looked
wistfully out at the bleak woods, white with the first snow, then
turned her wan, pale face toward the tiny bundle at her side.

"Your pappy will come to-night, baby," she said, softly. "It's
Saturday, and your pappy will come to-night, sure." She drew the
covers more closely, and tucked them carefully about the small figure.

"Mend the fire, Lisette, please. It's cold. And, Lisette, please watch
out down the road. Sometimes Joe comes early Saturdays."

The old woman shook her head and muttered over the little pile of
wood, but she fed the fire, and then turned and looked down the long
white trail.

"No Joe yet," she said, with a sympathetic glance toward the bed. She
looked at the thick gray clouds, and added, "Heap snow soon."

But the night came down and the evening passed, while the women waited
anxiously. It was near midnight when the wife's face lighted up
suddenly at a sound outside, and directly there was a pounding,
uncertain step on the threshold. The door opened and Bennett came in
clumsily.

The woman's little glad cry of welcome was changed to one of
apprehension at her husband's appearance. The resolute swing and
bearing of the lumberman--that had returned as he regained his
strength--were gone. He clumped across the room unsteadily on a pair
of rude crutches, his left foot swathed in bandages--a big, ungainly
bundle.

"What is it, Joe?" the wife asked anxiously.

"Just more of my precious luck, that's all, Nannie." He threw off the
old box coat and heavy cap, brushed the melting snow from his hair and
beard, and without waiting to warm his chilled hands at the fire,
hobbled to the bed and bent over the woman and the tiny bundle.

"Are you all right, Nan?" he asked anxiously.

"All right, Joe; but I've been so worried!"

"And the baby, Nan?"

The wife gently pushed back the covers and proudly brought to view a
tiny pink and puckered face. "Fine, Joe. She's just as fine, isn't
she?"

A proud, happy light flickered for a moment in the man's eyes as he
stooped to kiss the tiny face; then he shut his teeth hard and
swallowed suddenly.

"What is it, Joe?" his wife asked, looking at the rudely bandaged
foot.

"Cut it--nigh half off, and hurt the bone. It'll be weeks before I can
do a stroke of work again. It means--I don't know what, and I daren't
think what, Nannie. The cook sewed it up." He glowered at the injured
member savagely.

His wife's face grew paler still, but she only asked tenderly, "How
did you ever get here, Joe?"

"Rode one of Pose Breem's hosses--his red roan."

"Fifteen miles on horseback with that foot? I should have thought it
would have killed you, Joe."

"I had to come, Nan," said the lumberman. "I didn't know how you were
getting on, and I had to come."

"I didn't suppose they'd let you have a horse, any of 'em, now
sleighing's come."

"They wouldn't--if I'd asked 'em. They don't seem to like me very
well, and I didn't ask."

His wife's big, wistful eyes were turned upon him in quick alarm. "I'm
scared, Joe, if you took a horse without asking. What'll they think?
Where is it, Joe?"

"Don't ye worry, Nan. I've sent the horse back by Pikepole Pete. He'll
have him back before morning--Pose won't miss him till then--and I
wrote a note explaining. Pose will be mad some, but he'll get over
it."

The young lumberman listened uneasily to the storm, which was
increasing, looked at his wife's pale face a moment, and added:

"I had to come, Nan. I just had to."

But the woman was only half reassured. "If anything should happen,"
she said, "if he shouldn't get it back, they'd think you--you stole
it, and--"

"There, there, Nan!" broke in her husband, "don't be crossing bridges.
Pete'll take the horse back. I've done the fellow lots of favours, and
he won't go back on me. Don't worry, girl!"

He moved the bandaged foot and winced, but not from the pain of the
wound. The hard look grew deeper on his face. "I'm down on my luck,
Nan," he said, hopelessly. "There's no use trying. Everything's
against me, everything--following me like grim death. And grim death,"
he jerked the words out harshly, "is like to be the end of it, here in
this old shack that's not fit to winter hogs in, let alone humans.
There's not wood enough cut to last a week. You'll freeze, Nan, you
and the baby, and I'm--just nothing."

He took two silver dollars from his pocket, and said, almost savagely,
"There's what we've got to winter on, and me crippled."

But his wife put her hand on his softly. "Don't you give up so, Joe,"
she said. And presently she added: "Next Thursday's Thanksgiving.
We've seen hard times, and we may see harder, but I never knew
Thanksgiving to come yet without something to be thankful
for--never."

Outside the storm continued, fine snow sifting down rapidly. "Pikepole
Pete" found stiff work facing it, and bent low over the red roan's
neck.

"Blue blazes!" he muttered. "Bennett's a good fellow all right, and
he's hurt; but if he hadn't nigh saved my life twice he could get this
critter back himself fer all of me!" He glanced at the dark woods and
drew up suddenly. "The road forks here, and Turner's is yonder--less
than a mile. I'll hitch in his barn a spell and go on later," and he
took the Turner fork.

But at Turner's Pete found two or three congenial spirits--and a jug;
and a few hours later the easy-going fellow was deep in a tipsy sleep
that would last for hours.

The following Sunday morning came bright and clear upon freshly fallen
snow that softened all the ruder outlines of town and field and woods.
Beetle Ring camp lay wrapped in fleecy whiteness.

The camp was late astir, for Sunday was Beetle Ring's day--not of
rest, but of carousal. Two men had started out rather early--the
camp's jug delegation to the Skylark. Presently the men began to
straggle out to the snug row of sheds where the horses were kept.
Posey Breem yawned lazily as he threw open the door of his particular
stall, then suddenly brought himself together with a jerk and stared
fixedly.

"What ails you now, Pose? Seen a ghost?"

"Skid" Thomson stopped with the big measure of feed which he was
carrying.

"No, I've seen no ghost," said Breem slowly, still staring. "Look
here, Skid!" Thomson looked into the stall, and nearly dropped the
measure.

"By George, Pose!" he said. "By--George!"

The news flew over the camp like wildfire. Posey Breem's red roan, the
best horse in the camp, had been stolen! The burly lumbermen came
hurrying from all directions. There was no doubt about it--the horse
was gone, and the snow had covered every trace. There was absolutely
no clue to follow. Silently and sullenly the men filed in to
breakfast. In a lumberman's eyes hardly a crime could exceed that of
horse stealing.

"What I want to know is," said Breem, as he glanced sharply round the
long room of the camp, "what's become of that yellow-haired
jay--Bennett?"

"By George!" said Skid Thomson, "that's right! Where is the critter?"

"Skipped!" said Bill Bates, sententiously, after a quick search had
been made. "It's all plain enough now. I never liked the close-fisted
critter."

"Nor I, either!" growled Skid. "Never chipped in with the boys, but
was laying low just the same."

"You won't catch him, either," said Bates. "They're sharp--that kind.
The critter knew 'twould snow and hide his tracks."

"And I'd just sewed up his blamed foot!" muttered the cook in disgust.

"Maybe we'll catch him. Up to Fat Pine two years ago," began Breem,
reminiscently, "Big Donovan had a horse stole. They caught the
fellow."

"Yes, I remember," said Skid Thomson. "I was there. We caught him up
north." The men nodded understandingly and approvingly.

"Wuth a hundred and fifty dollars, the roan was," said Breem.

Beetle Ring camp passed an uneasy day, the "jug" for once receiving
scant attention. Late in the afternoon "Trapper John," an old
half-breed who hunted and trapped about the woods, stopped at the camp
to get warm.

"Didn't see anybody with a horse last night or this morning, eh,
John?" asked Posey Breem.

"Um, yes," responded the old trapper, quickly. "Saw um horse las'
night--man ride--big foot--so." Old John held out his arms in
exaggerated illustration.

Beetle Ring rose to its feet as one man. "What colour was the horse,
John?" asked Breem softly.

"Huh! Can't see good after dark, but think um roan." Breem looked
slowly round the silent camp, and Beetle Ring grimly made ready for
business.

It was evening when the men stopped a few rods below the shack. A
light shone out from a window, lighting up a little space in the
sombre woods.

"The fellow's got pals prob'bly," said Posey Breem. "You wait here
while I do a little scouting."

Breem crept cautiously into the circle of light, and glancing through
the uncurtained window, saw his man--with his "pals." He saw upon the
miserable bed a woman with a thin, pale face and sad, wistful eyes,
eyes that yet lighted up with a beautiful pride as they rested upon
the man, who sat close by, holding a tiny bundle in his arms.

The man shifted his position a little, so that the light fell upon the
bundle, and then the watcher outside saw the sleeping face of a baby.

There was a rumour in the camp that Posey Breem had not always been
the man that he was--that a woman had once blessed his life. But since
they had carried the young mother away, with her dead baby on her
breast, to place the two in one deep grave together, he had gone
steadily downward.

With hungry eyes Breem gazed at the scene in the poor little house,
his thoughts flying backward over the years. A sudden sharp, impatient
whistle roused him, and he strode hastily back to the waiting men.

"Well, Pose?" interrogated Skid impatiently.

"He's there, all right," said Breem, in a peculiar tone. "I ain't
overmuch given to advising prowling round folks' houses, but you
fellows just look in yonder." He jerked his head toward the shack. And
a line of big, rough-looking men filed into the little illumined
space, to come back presently silent and subdued.

"Now let's go home," said Breem, turning his horse toward camp.

"And your horse, Pose?" questioned Bates.

"Burn the horse!" said Breem quickly. "D'ye think the like of yonder's
a horse thief? I ain't worrying 'bout the horse." And the men rode
back to camp silently.

The next morning, when Breem swung open the door of the stall, he was
not surprised to find the red roan standing quietly by the side of his
mate. A bit of crumpled paper was pinned to the blanket. Breem read:

I rode your horse. I had to. I'll surely make it right.

BENNETT.

"Course he had to!" growled the lumberman, and he passed the paper
round.

"Oncommon peart baby," said Skid, at last.

"Dreadful cold shack, though!" muttered Bates, conveying a quarter of
a griddlecake to his mouth.

"That's just it," said Pose, scowling. "Just let a stiff nip of winter
come, and the woman yonder and the little critter, they'd freeze,
that's what they'd do, in that old rattletrap."

The men looked at one another in solemn assent. "And I've been
thinking," continued Breem, "since Bennett there belonged to the camp,
and since we kind of misused the fellow for being stingy--for which we
ought to have been smashed with logs--that we have a kind of a claim
on 'em, as 'twere, and they on us. And we must get 'em out of that
yonder before they freeze plumb solid." He stopped inquiringly.

"Right as right," assented several.

"And I've been thinking," said Bates suddenly, "about that storeroom
of ours. It's snug and warm, and there's a lot of room in it, and we
can put a stove into it and--" But the rest of Bates's suggestion was
drowned in a round of applause.

"And _I've_ been thinking, just a little," put in Skid Thomson, "and
if I've figured correct, next Thursday's Thanksgiving--don't know as
I've thought of it in ten years--and if we stir round sharp we can get
things ready by then, and--well, 'twouldn't hurt Beetle Ring to
celebrate for once--" But Skid was also interrupted by a cheer.

"And it's my firm belief," reflected Bates with an air of profound
conviction, "that that baby of Bennett's was designed special and, as
you might say, providential, for to be Beetle Ring's mascot. Fat Pine
and Horseshoe have 'em--mascots--to bring luck, and I've noticed
Beetle Ring ain't had the luck lately it should have."

Bates paused, and the camp meditated in silent delight.

Thanksgiving morning was a cold one, but clear. More snow had fallen,
and the deep, feathery whiteness stretched away until lost in the dark
background of the pines and spruces. A wavering line of smoke rose
over the roof of the little old shack in the woods.

Bennett was winding rags round the armpieces of the rough crutches. He
had dragged in some short limbs the day before for fuel, but in so
doing had broken open the wound, which gave him excruciating pain.

"Joe," said his wife, suddenly, "where are you going?"

"I'm going to try for help, Nan. We're out of nigh everything, and my
foot no better."

"You can't do it, Joe. You--you'll die, if you try, Joe, alone in the
woods. Oh, Joe!"

The look of hope that had never wholly left the woman's eyes was
slowly fading out.

"We'll all die if I don't try, Nannie. I'm--"

"Huh!" suddenly exclaimed the old woman, peering out of the little
window. "Heap men, heap horses! Look, see 'em come!"

Bennett turned hastily, and saw a long line of stalwart men and sturdy
horses threshing resolutely through the deep snow and heading directly
for the shack. He looked keenly at the men, and his face paled a
little, but he said steadily, "It's the Beetle Ring men, Nan."

His wife gave a sharp cry. "It's the horse, Joe! It's the horse!
They're after you, Joe, sure!" She caught her husband's arm.

The men were now filling up the little space before the shack.
Directly there came a sounding knock. Bennett opened the door to admit
the burly frame of Posey Breem. He said quietly:

"I'm here all right, Pose, and I took your horse, but--"

"Burn the hoss!" said Breem explosively. "That's all right. Shake,
pard!" He held out a brawny hand. Bennett "shook" wonderingly.

"Wife, pard?" asked Breem, gently, nodding toward the bed. Bennett
hastily introduced him.

"Kid, pard?" Breem pointed a stubby finger at the little bundle.

Bennett nodded.

The lumberman grinned delightedly, then coughed a little, and began
awkwardly:

"Pard, th' boys over at Beetle Ring heard--as you might say,
accidental"--Breem coughed into his big hand--"about your folks over
here, your wife _and_--the baby. They were powerful interested,
specially about the baby. Why, pard, some of the boys hain't seen a
baby in ten years, and we thought as you belonged to the camp, maybe
you and your wife would allow that the camp had a sort of claim on the
little critter yonder." He eyed the tiny bundle wistfully.

"And another thing that hit the boys, pard," he went on. "Up at Fat
Pine they got what they call a mascot, bein' a tame b'ar; an' up at
Horseshoe they got a mascot, bein' a goat. Lots of camps have
'em--fetches luck. And the boys are sure that this baby of yours was
designed special to be Beetle Ring's mascot. Now, pard, Beetle Ring,
as you know, ain't what you'd call a Sunday-school, but the boys
they'll behave. They fixed up that storeroom to beat all, nice bed,
big stove, and lots of wood, and so on, and we've got a cow for the
woman and baby. Say, we want you powerful. Got a sleigh fixed, hemlock
boughs and a cover of robes and blankets, and Skid'll drive careful.
He's a master at drivin', Skid is. You'll come, won't you? The boys
are waitin'."

Big tears were in the woman's eyes as she turned toward her husband.
"Oh, Joe," she said, and choked suddenly; but she pressed the baby
tightly to her breast. "I knew 'twould come Thanksgiving."

"There, pard," said Breem, after blowing his nose explosively, "you
just see to wrappin' up the woman and the kid, and me and Skid, being
as you're hurt, you know, 'll tote 'em out to the sleigh."

The young mother was soon placed carefully in the sleigh, the old
woman following. But when Skid Thomson appeared in the door of the old
shack, bearing a tiny form muffled up with wondrous care, the whole of
Beetle Ring shouted.

Breem led up a spare horse for Bennett's use. The latter stopped
short, with a curious expression on his face. The horse was the red
roan.

But Breem only said, his keen eyes twinkling:

"Under such circumstances as these, pard, you're welcome to all the
hosses in Beetle Ring."

With steady, practiced hand Skid Thomson guided his powerful team
through the deep snow, over the rough forest road; and sometimes
brawny arms carried the sleigh bodily over the roughest places.

* * * * *

At the close of the day an anxious consultation took place in the big
main room of Beetle Ring, and presently two men appeared outside.

They walked slowly toward what had been the camp's storeroom, but
halted before the door hesitatingly.

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