FullReads

“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 an’ hot, and the stewed cranberries are red as Laura’s cheeks. Amos and I get the drumsticks; Mary wants the wish-bone to put overthe 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 the lamps are lit in the parlor, when the neighbors come in, and when there is music an’ singin’ 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 an’ 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, an’ 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 Hepsy Newton, and cut each yard with a kiss; for the deacon hez been sort o’ purrin’ round Miss Hepsy for goin’ on two years. Then, aft’r a while, when Mary an’ Helen bring in the cookies, nut-cakes, cider, an’ apples, Mother says: ‘I don’t b’lieve 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 and 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 an’ 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 sha’n’t no mouse hurt her while I’m round; 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 bell-flowers or Baldwins or pippins?’ ‘I like the Baldwins best,’ says I, ”coz they’ve got red cheeks jest 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 ag’in, 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 up-stairs 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-by 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 far-away 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.

1885.