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

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

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

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

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

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

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