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THANKS(.ilVIXG IX TKUE
FASHION.
By Inez A. Godman.
Te Deum Laudamus.
AMEEICAX
"It is the bouden duty of every native-born
American to celebrate Thanksgiving Day in
true American fashion. There is no holiday
so characteristically our own or so entirely calculated
to foster American traditions." So
"wrote my fervid friend.
I sighed. Sitting alone upon the veranda of
my little summer home, I looked out over the
quiet fall landscape and wondered a bit. I
thought hack:
Thanksgiving, 1908, was spent upon the
porch of a tiny Florida cottage with my dear
daddy's worn face opposite me. The
dinner
choked me, for I Imew that I should soon be
alone.
Thanksgiving, 1909, I was alone, propped up
in a hospital bed endeavoring to eat from a
tray of most hygienic nourishment.
Thanksgiving, 1910, I opened and warmed
my summer cottage and prepared a dinner for
se\'eral shop women from a near-by city, only
to find myself shut in by torrents of rain, alone
with a "whole roast turkey and three pumpkin
pies.
Thanksgiving, 1911, I ate my dinner in the
restaurant of a city railroad station, where a
belated train landed me t^\"enty miles from my
place at the table of a real Xew England
grandma.
Thanksgiving, 191'3.
Thanksgiving, 1912, was approaching, and
there I was, reading that accusing paragraph
from my friend's letter.
Well, I resolved to take matters into my own
hands and sent for Peggy.
"Peggy," said I, "are you and grandma to
have a turkey"
"Turkey! Well, I should say not. Mrs.
Jones will send us some of her chicken pie, 1
reckon, and we'll get up a few concomitants
with it."
"Suppose I send you a turkey," said I. "Will
you cook it and invite me to dinner "
Peggy was sitting on the porch rail and she
fell ofl:, as if I had struck her.
"'Will I "' she ejaculated, rubbing her elbow
as she drew up to a sitting posture. "'Jumping
Jenny, won't I Please excuse the slang,
Miss Old .Maid, and don't hit me so sudden
again. But you didn't really mean it"
"I surely did. I have no place to eat my
Thanksgiving dinner, and should love to join
you and grandma."
"Well, well, I just can't take it in," gasped
Peggy. Her dark eyes grew Imninous.
••TVe'll eat it right in the kitchen," she said
THE CHRISTIAN NATION. Vol. 81.
musingly. "On the old taWe, over the rag rug;
and I'll put some antique things on the highboy,
and—0, I just love grandma's old things.
There is the little old side table for the pie. 0 !"
She looked unutterable things at me. "Do you
know I've never cooked a real Thanksgiving
dinner Xever. We could not afEord a turkey,
and just for two it did not seem worth while
to bother very much any way, but if 3'ou come
— 0 , do you suppose I can cook the turkey
right Grandma will show me, "won"t she Aud
the pie—she shall make it herself. 0, Miss Old
Maid, 3Iiss—Old—Maid!" As the books say,
"Peggy dissolved in tears." But she did not
all dissolve. Quite a respectable amount of
her—I should say one hundred and twenty-five
pounds—jumped up and down on the porch
until the windows shook, and then she rushed
ofl: to tell grandma, and rushed back to ask if
she might invite another lone lady, and, receiving
permission, literally flew down the hill
on the wings of her red-lined cape. The fall
was mild and I would dare remain in the cottage,
I thought. I kept the kitchen warm and
cozy and at night trudged across the fieldsto a
neighbor's.
But the atmosphere grew threatening. I resolved
to lea\e permanently when I went to
Pegg"y"s, Thanksgiving morning.
Alas! Thanksgiving Eve I found a letter at
the neighbor's awaiting me. It stated in
Pegg3''s most vigorous and emphatic English
that some relatives had borne do"wn upon them
and carried her and grandma ofE willy-nilly to
share their Thanksgiving. I hurried to the
'phone and countermanded the order for the
turkey to have been delivered early the nexi
morning.
The next morning I walked heavily across
the fieldsfor another Thanksgiving alone in my
cottage, ily neighbor had gone to dine with
friends, but she had given me what her larder
afforded—part of a cold chicken and a glass
of jelly. I had flour,so contemplated a pan of
hot biscut. Xot such a bad menu—considering.
I placed the fowl on the table in the cool dining
room and sat down by the kitchen fireto
make up a much neglected correspondence. My
back was to the light and for two solid hours
I did not glance outside. Then—^my Httle cot
was transformed into a fairy palace set under
great Gothic arches of snowy white. The hill "They wouldn't come 'cause it rained.
rolled away before me in pearly, feathery billows
Wouldn't that get you Schmidt said 'Shame,'
to meet the steel-blue mirror of the sea. and they dared her to come, said they'd pay her
I stepped out upon the veranda. Not a fare."
breath stirred in that magic world. Wrapped One bare haud clutched the neck of her wet
in a great blanket I sat me down in the midst
of all the beauty and forgot the open door behind.
coat, the other
quarter.
opened to display a silver
Wlien hunger forced its notice upon me "They gave Sclmiidt two quarters aud dared
and I hastened inside, my chicken was missing,
and a line of pussy tracks led through the
her to come in the storm. Schmidt's neither
snow. To add to my dismay the fire was out.
Wonderingly I sought the reason and found a
disjointed pipe that would not stay in place until
fastened to the ceiling.
At 3 p. m. I sat down to stcAV (made from
carrots dug from under the snow in the garden),
hot biscuit and jelly.
My
Five Lonely Thanksgivings.
I ate upon the veranda surrounded by the
beautiful silence, and thought upon my five
lonely Thanksgivings.
And thus thinking I
celebrated; celebrated for all four years beliind
nie as well as for the present day; cerebrated
by heartily indorsing my friend's statement that
Thanksgiving is our holiday most truly calculated
to foster American tradition.
That sorrowful Thanksgiving on the porch
of the little Florida cottage—when death sat
between my dear daddy and me—was brightened
by the cheery face of an Irish grandma, who
had trudged over the hot roadway carrying a
great basket so that the sick stranger should
not miss anything from his Thanksgiving
dinner.
"I am well acquainted with that stove of
3rours, miss. The oven would not hold a sizable
chicken, let alone a turkey, and no respectable
pie would consent to bake in it. 'Tis
myself that believes in a rale American dinner
on Thaiil\:sgi%ang Day," she continued, coaxing
a smile to daddy's face as she set down a great
bowl of cranberry jelly, "and the mince meat
was made by my own hand, and my own eye
saw every bit that entered into it." Daddy looked
after her thoughtfully. "The lump of American
leaven may be small," he said, "but it has
great power."
One year later in the hospital my Scotch
nurse smiled as she set the tray before me.
"You canna have turkey today, but you may
eat the onions, the cranberry and the fillingof
the pie. Can you be thankful on that"
She drew up a chair and read to me the proclamations
of the President and Governor. Her
face shone with interest and loyalty as she told
how her family had gathered the year before
and how royally American they had felt. "Such
a bonnie home day," she said.
The third year, when I sat alone on my
little porch inclosed by sheets of rain, a hack
struggled up the hill and a little body scrambled
out and up the steps.
"It's just Schmidt, nobody but Schmidt," she
cried.
It was the little janitress of the apartment
house where the women lived "whom I had expected.
sugar no'r salt."
She was very "wet and I endeavored t(
move her coat.
"Just guess what Schmidt's got on," and
swinging off the wrap she pirouetted about the
room in the glory of a light blue party dress I
had helped her to make the year before. It "was
patched together from some scraps people had