During this eventful preparation week, all the female part of my grandmother’s household, as I have before remarked, were at a height above any ordinary state of mind, – they moved about the house rapt in a species of prophetic frenzy. It seemed to be considered a necessary feature of such festivals, that everybody should be in a hurry, and everything in the house should be turned bottom upwards with enthusiasm, – so at least we children understood it, and we certainly did our part to keep the ball rolling.
At this period the constitutional activity of Uncle Fliakim increased to a degree that might fairly be called preternatural. Thanksgiving time was the time for errands of mercy and benevolence through the country; and Uncle Fliakim’s immortal old rubber horse and rattling wagon were on the full jump, in tours of investigation into everybody’s affairs in the region around. On returning, he would fly through our kitchen like the wind, leaving open the doors, upsetting whatever came in his way, – now a pan of milk, and now a basin of mince, – talking rapidly, and forgetting only the point in every case that gave it significance, or enabled any one to put it to any sort of use. When Aunt Lois checked his benevolent effusions by putting the test questions of practical efficiency, Uncle Fliakim remembered that he ‘d “forgotten to inquire about that,” and skipping through the kitchen, and springing into his old wagon, would rattle off again on at full tilt to correct and amend his investigations.
Moreover, my grandmother’s kitchen at this time began to be haunted by those occasional hangers-on and retainers, of uncertain fortunes, whom a full experience of her bountiful habits led to expect something at her hand at this time of the year. All the poor, loafing tribes, Indian and half-Indian, who at other times wandered, selling baskets and other light wares, were sure to come back to Oldtown a little before Thanksgiving time and report themselves in my grandmother’s kitchen.
The great hogshead of cider in the cellar, which my grandfather called the Indian Hogshead, was on tap at all hours of the day; and many a mugful did I draw and dispense to the tribes that basked in the sunshine at our door.
Aunt Lois never had a hearty conviction of the propriety of these arrangements; but my grandmother, who had a prodigious verbal memory, bore down upon her with such strings of quotations from the Old Testament that she was utterly routed.
“Now,” says my Aunt Lois, “I s’pose we ‘ve got to have Betty Poganut and Sally Wonsamug, and old Obscue and his wife, and the whole tribe down, roosting around our doors, till we give ’em something. That ‘s just mother’s way; she always keeps a whole generation at her heels.”
“How many times must I tell you, Lois, to read your Bible?” was my grandmother’s rejoinder; and loud over the sound of pounding and chopping in the kitchen could be heard the voice of her quotations: “If there be among you a poor man in any of the gates of the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee, thou shalt not harden thy heart, nor shut thy hand, from thy poor brother. Thou shalt surely give him; and thy heart shall not be grieved when thou givest to him, because that for this thing the Lord thy God shall bless thee in all thy works; for the poor shall never cease from out of the land.”
These words seemed to resound like a sort of heraldic proclamation to call around us all that softly shiftless class, who, for some reason or other, are never to be found with anything in hand at the moment that it is wanted.
“There, to be sure,” said Aunt Lois, one day when our preparations were in full blast, – “there comes Sam Lawson down the hill, limpsy as ever; now he ‘ll have his doleful story to tell, and mother ‘ll give him one of the turkeys.”
And so, of course, it fell out.
Sam came in with his usual air of plaintive assurance, and seated himself a contemplative spectator in the chimney-corner, regardless of the looks and signs of unwelcome on the part of Aunt Lois.
“Lordy massy, how prosperous everything does seem here!” he said, in musing tones, over his inevitable mug of cider; “so different from what ‘t is t’ our house. There ‘s Hepsy, she ‘s all in a stew, an’ I ‘ve just been an’ got her thirty-seven cents’ wuth o’ nutmegs, yet she says she ‘s sure she don’t see how she ‘s to keep Thanksgiving, an’ she ‘s down on me about it, just as ef ‘t was my fault. Yeh see, last winter our old gobbler got froze. You know, Mis’ Badger, that ‘ere cold night we hed last winter. Wal, I was off with Jake Marshall that night; ye see, Jake, he hed to take old General Dearborn’s corpse into Boston, to the family vault, and Jake, he kind o’ hated to go alone; ‘t was a drefful cold time, and he ses to me, ‘Sam you jest go ‘long with me’; so I was sort o’ sorry for him, and I kind o’ thought I ‘d go long. Wal, come ‘long to Josh Bissel’s tahvern, there at the Half-way House, you know, ‘t was so swinging cold, we stopped to take a little suthin’ warmin’, an’ we sort o’ sot an’ sot over the fire, till, fust we knew, we kind o’ got asleep; an’ when we woke up we found we ‘d left the old General hitched up t’ th’ post pretty much all night. Wal, did n’t hurt him none, poor man; ‘t was allers a favorite spot o’ his’n. But, takin’ one thing with another, I did n’t get home till about noon next day, an’, I tell you, Hepsy she was right down on me. She said the baby was sick, and there had n’t been no wood split, nor the barn fastened up, nor nothin’. Lordy massy, I did n’t mean no harm; I thought there was wood enough, and I thought likely Hepsy ‘d git out an’ fasten up the barn. But Hepsy, she was in one o’ her contrary streaks, an’ she would n’t do a thing; an’ when I went out to look, why, sure ‘nuff, there was our old tom-turkey froze as stiff as a stake, – his claws jist a stickin’ right straight up like this.” Here Sam struck an expressive attitude, and looked so much like a frozen turkey as to give a pathetic reality to the picture.
“Well now, Sam, why need you be off on things that ‘s none of your business?” said my grandmother. “I ‘ve talked to you plainly about that a great many times, Sam,” she continued, in tones of severe admonition. “Hepsy is a hard-working woman, but she can’t be expected to see to everything, and you oughter ‘ave been at home that night to fasten up your own barn and look after your own creeturs.”
Sam took the rebuke all the more meekly as he perceived the stiff black legs of a turkey poking out from under my grandmother’s apron while she was delivering it. To be exhorted and told of his shortcomings, and then furnished with a turkey at Thanksgiving, was a yearly part of his family programme. In time he departed, not only with the turkey, but with us boys in procession after him, bearing a mince and a pumpkin pie for Hepsy’s children.
“Poor things!” my grandmother remarked; “they ought to have something good to eat Thanksgiving day; ‘t ain’t their fault that they ‘ve got a shiftless father.”
Sam, in his turn, moralized to us children, as we walked beside him: “A body ‘d think that Hepsy ‘d learn to trust in Providence,” he said, “but she don’t. She allers has a Thanksgiving dinner pervided; but that ‘ere woman ain’t grateful for it, by no manner o’ means. Now she ‘ll be jest as cross as she can be, cause this ‘ere ain’t our turkey, and these ‘ere ain’t our pies. Folks doos lose so much, that hes sech dispositions.”
A multitude of similar dispensations during the course of the week materially reduced the great pile of chickens and turkeys which black Cæsar’s efforts in slaughtering, picking, and dressing kept daily supplied.
Besides these offerings to the poor, the handsomest turkey of the flock was sent, dressed in first-rate style, with Deacon Badger’s dutiful compliments, to the minister; and we children, who were happy to accompany black Cæsar on this errand, generally received a seed-cake and a word of acknowledgment from the minister’s lady.
Well, at last, when all the chopping and pounding and baking and brewing, preparatory to the festival, were gone through with, the eventful day dawned. All the tribes of the Badger family were to come back home to the old house, with all the relations of every degree, to eat the Thanksgiving dinner. And it was understood that in the evening the minister and his lady would
look in upon us, together with some of the select aristocracy of Oldtown.
Great as the preparations were for the dinner, everything was so contrived that not a soul in the house should be kept from the morning service of Thanksgiving in the church, and from listening to the Thanksgiving sermon, in which the minister was expected to express his views freely concerning the politics of the country, and the state of things in society generally, in a somewhat more secular vein of thought than was deemed exactly appropriate to the Lord’s day. But it is to be confessed, that, when the good man got carried away by the enthusiasm of his subject to extend these exercises beyond a certain length, anxious glances, exchanged between good wives, sometimes indicated a weakness of the flesh, having a tender reference to the turkeys and chickens and chicken pies, which might possibly be overdoing in the ovens at home. But your old brick oven was a true Puritan institution, and backed up the devotional habits of good housewives, by the capital care which he took of whatever was committed to his capacious bosom. A truly well-bred oven would have been ashamed of himself all his days, and blushed redder than his own fires, if a God-fearing house-matron, away at the temple of the Lord, should come home and find her piecrust either burned or underdone by his over or under zeal; so the old fellow generally managed to bring things out exactly right.
When sermons and prayers were all over, we children rushed home to see the great feast of the year spread.
What chitterings and chatterings there were all over the house, as all the aunties and uncles and cousins came pouring in, taking off their things, looking at one another’s bonnets and dresses, and mingling their comments on the morning sermon with various opinions on the new millinery outfits, and with bits of home news, and kindly neighborhood gossip.
Uncle Bill, whom the Cambridge college authorities released, they did all the other youngsters of the land, for Thanksgiving day, made a breezy stir among them all, especially with the young cousins of the feminine gender.
The best room on this occasion was thrown wide open, and its habitual coldness had been warmed by the burning down of a great stack of hickory logs, which had been heaped up unsparingly since morning. It takes some hours to get a room warn, where a family never sits, and which therefore has not in its walls one particle of the genial vitality which comes from the in-dwelling of human beings. But on Thanksgiving day, at least, every year, this marvel was effected in our best room.
Although all servile labor and vain recreation on this day were by law forbidden, according to the terms of the proclamation, it was not held to be a violation of the precept, that all the nice old aunties should bring their knitting-work and sit gently trotting their needles around the fire; nor that Uncle Bill should start a full-fledged romp among the girls and children, while the dinner was being set on the long table in the neighboring kitchen. Certain of the good elderly female relatives, of serious and discreet demeanor, assisted at this operation.
But who shall do justice to the dinner, and describe the turkey, and chickens, and chicken pies, with all that endless variety of vegetables which the American soil and climate have contributed to the table, and which, without regard to the French doctrine of courses, were all piled together in jovial abundance upon the smoking board? There was much carving and laughing and talking and eating, and all showed that cheerful ability to despatch the provisions which was the ruling spirit of the hour. After the meat came the plum-puddings, and then the endless array of pies, till human nature was actually bewildered and overpowered by the tempting variety; and even we children turned from the profusion offered to us, and wondered what was the matter that we could eat no more.
When all was over, my grandfather rose at the head of the table, and a fine venerable picture he made as he stood there, his silver hair flowing in curls down each side of his clear, calm face, while, in conformity to the old Puritan custom, he called their attention to a recital of the mercies of God in his dealings with their family.
It was a sort of family history, going over and touching upon the various events which had happened. He spoke of my father’s death, and gave a tribute to his memory; and closed all with the application of a time-honored text, expressing the hope that as years passed by we might “so number our days as to apply our hearts unto wisdom”; and then he gave out that psalm which in those days might be called the national hymn of the Puritans.
“Let children hear the mighty deeds
Which God performed of old,
Which in our younger years we saw,
And which our fathers told.
“He bids us make his glories known,
His works of power and grace.
And we ‘ll convey his wonders down
Through every rising race.
“Our lips shall tell them to our sons,
And they again to theirs;
That generations yet unborn
May teach them to their heirs.
“Thus shall they learn in God alone
Their hope securely stands;.
That they may ne’er forget his works,
But practise his commands.”
This we all united in singing to the venerable tune of St. Martin’s, an air which, the reader will perceive, by its multiplicity of quavers and inflections gave the greatest possible scope to the cracked and trembling voices of the ancients, who united in it with even more zeal than the younger part of the community.
Uncle Fliakim Sheril, furbished up in a new crisp black suit, and with his spindle-shanks trimly incased in the smoothest of black silk stockings, looking for all the world just like an alert and spirited black cricket, outdid himself on this occasion in singing counter, in that high, weird voice that he must have learned from the wintry winds that usually piped around the corners of the old house. But any one who looked at him, as he sat with his eyes closed, beating time with head and hand, and, in short, with every limb of his body, must have perceived the exquisite satisfaction which he derived from this mode of expressing himself. I much regret to be obliged to state that my graceless Uncle Bill, taking advantage of the fact that the eyes of all his elders were devotionally closed, stationing himself a little in the rear of my Uncle Fliakim, performed an exact imitation of his counter, with such a killing facility that all the younger part of the audience were nearly dead with suppressed laughter. Aunt Lois, who never shut her eyes a moment on any occasion, discerned this from a distant part of the room, and in vain endeavored to stop it by vigorously shaking her head at the offender. She might as well have shaken it at a bobolink tilting on a clover-top. In fact, Uncle Bill was Aunt Lois’s weak point, and the corners of her own mouth were observed to twitch in such a suspicious manner that the whole moral force of her admonition was destroyed.
And now, the dinner being cleared away, we youngsters, already excited to a tumult of laughter, tumbled into the best room, under the supervision of Uncle Bill, to relieve ourselves with a game of “blind-man’s-buff,” while the elderly women washed up the dishes and got the house in order, and the men-folks went out to the barn to look at the cattle, and walked over the farm and talked of the crops.
In the evening the house was all open and lighted with the best of tallow candles, which Aunt Lois herself had made with especial care for this illumination. It was understood that we were to have a dance, and black Cæsar, full of turkey and pumpkin pie, and giggling in the very jollity of his heart, had that afternoon rosined his bow, and tuned his fiddle, and practised jigs and Virginia reels, in a way that made us children think him a perfect Orpheus.
As soon as the candles were lighted came in Miss Mehitable with her brother Jonathan, and Tina, like a gay little tassel, hanging on her withered arm.
Mr. Jonathan Rossiter was a tall, well-made man, with a clear-cut, aquiline profile, and high round forehead, from which his powdered hair was brushed smoothly back and hung down behind in a long cue. His eyes were of a piercing dark gray, with that peculiar expression of depth and intensity which marks a melancholy te
mperament. He had a large mouth, which he kept shut with an air of firmness that suggested something even hard and dictatorial in his nature. He was quick and alert in all his movements, and his eyes had a searching quickness of observation, which seemed to lose nothing of what took place around him. There was an air of breeding and self-command about him; and in all his involuntary ways he bore the appearance of a man more interested to make up a judgment of others than concerned as to what their judgment might be about himself.
Miss Mehitable hung upon his arm with an evident admiration and pride, which showed that when he came he made summer at least for her.
After them soon arrived the minister and his lady, – she in a grand brocade satin dress, open in front to display a petticoat brocaded with silver flowers. With her well-formed hands shining out of a shimmer of costly lace, and her feet propped on high-heeled shoes, Lady Lothrop justified the prestige of good society which always hung about her. Her lord and master, in the spotless whiteness of his ruffles on wrist and bosom, and in the immaculate keeping and neatness of all his clerical black, and the perfect pose of his grand full-bottomed clerical wig, did honor to her conjugal cares. They moved through the room like a royal prince and princess, with an appropriate, gracious, well-considered word for each and every one. They even returned, with punctilious civility, the awe-struck obeisance of black Cæsar, who giggled over straightway with joy and exultation at the honor.
But conceive of my Aunt Lois’s pride of heart, when, following in the train of these august persons, actually came Ellery Davenport, bringing upon his arm Miss Deborah Kittery. Here was a situation! Had the whole island of Great Britain waded across the Atlantic Ocean to call on Bunker Hill, the circumstance could scarcely have seemed to her more critical.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 274
