to begin with, it was the most remarkable chicken that was to have made the famous pie for thanksgiving. but alas! a sad mishap befell the pepper family.
in the first place none of the family ever knew where it came from. ebenezer, or ben, as he was usually called, found it one day in a swamp, down by the meadow as he was digging sweet-flag to sell, in order to get some money to buy a pair of boots for the coming winter. it was not hurt, only it couldn’t get out. the wonder is, how it ever got there. however, ben didn’t stop to think of that; he must set to work to get master chick out. so, forgetting flag-root in his eagerness, he took an old fence rail, and by dint of poking and urging it, and tumbling around in the bog till he was pretty wet himself, he at last had the satisfaction of obtaining his prize.
[2]it proved to be a fine black chicken, a shanghai, and grasping it tightly under one arm, its eyes protruding with fright, ben flew home, and bursting into the door of the little brown house, astonished them all by thrusting the long-legged black fowl before their faces, nearly upsetting polly as he did so, who was helping her mother pull out the basting-threads of the coat mrs. pepper had just finished on the edge of the twilight.
the chicken gave a shrill scream, and this was the first introduction to its future home.
“goodness me, ben!” ejaculated polly, “you scared me ’most to death, and you’ve broken my box.”
“what is it?” exclaimed mrs. pepper; “is it a crow?”
“ho! ho! crow, mother?” replied ben, holding the chicken firmly by one leg, “it’s the—well, the most beautiful bird you ever saw! hey, polly, look!” he flapped the shanghai over polly’s brown head as she disconsolately groped around on the kitchen floor for her scattered spools, and the cover of her cherished box.
“i don’t care for any old birds, ben pepper. see there!” and she brought to light from under her mother’s chair the dilapidated cover.
[3]“oh, polly, i’m real sorry. come, i’ll give you half of the chicken. see, he’s real big, and won’t he grow into a buster! and then, perhaps,—hooray, polly; why, then we’ll have him for thanksgiving, and you can make your pie, you know.”
“will you really, ben?” relented polly, as she sat on the floor.
“yes, certain true, black and blue!” solemnly said ben.
“hooray, then!” screamed polly, “and, bensie, i’ll make the crust awfully thick, and it’ll be ’most all drumsticks,” and she danced a whirligig in the middle of the old kitchen floor.
“queer kind of crust, i should think; drumstick crust,” retorted ben.
“oh, you benny goose!” flung back polly, as she went up to hug her mother’s neck; “mammy, when is thanksgiving? is it more than six weeks, anyway, before it comes?”
“let me see,” said mrs. pepper, laying down her work. “oh, yes, it’s july now. yes, you’ll have to wait four months. but perhaps you can’t have it at all, for if the chicken belongs to anybody round here you must give it back. let me see it, ben,” and his mother grasped the[4] leg of the bird, which all this time was squawking dismally, and amid the groans from ben, and the wails from polly, she repeated: “yes, if you can find out where it belongs, you’ve got to carry it back.”
“what, and have no chicken pie!” exclaimed polly. “why, we can’t, mother, we’ve waited so long for our pie, and i’ve never tasted one. we can’t give it back!”
“for shame, polly,” said mrs. pepper, sternly, “the chicken doesn’t belong to you, and i should rather you’d never taste a morsel of chicken pie than to get one underhand. but put him away now, children,” she said in a kinder tone, as she saw the sorrowful faces before her; “he can sleep in the box the gray goose had in the shed, for to-night anyway, and then in the morning we’ll send him home if he’s got any to go to.”
“and we won’t have anything left but the old gray goose,” mourned polly; “i wish the old thing was dead, i do!”
“why, polly pepper! and then we wouldn’t have anything,” said ben, preparing to take his chicken out to its quarters for the night.
“well, i don’t care,” said polly, as she followed; “i’m tired of seeing her round, anyway.”
[5]now, all this time, the younger peppers were away by chance from the old kitchen, or there would have been more of an uproar still, over the advent of the chicken. the two small boys were busy on the edge of farmer brown’s cow-yard, where in a dirty pool of water they were having the highest glee over the sailing of a boat, composed of one of polly’s old shoes with a rag for a sail. well was it for the chicken that they were missing at the reception, else it would have been almost torn to death with delight. and sophronia, or phronsie, had been put to bed early this afternoon, so she was tucked away fast asleep under the gay, patched bedquilt of the old crib.
there was no father in this pepper household. he died when phronsie was a baby, and mrs. pepper struggled along bravely, making coats to put bread into her own and her children’s mouths. and the children, healthy and rugged, and happy-go-lucky, came up or “scrambled up,” as mrs. pepper said, and fairly made the little old brown house ring with their cheery life.
polly was ten, and ben one year older, and it was the one great ambition of their lives “to help mother.” the only thing in which ben could really boast superiority over polly,[6] aside from his being a boy while she was only a girl, was the fact that once on a great and memorable visit with his father to a neighboring farm, he had eaten a piece of chicken pie; oh, so perfectly splendid! and to polly, who had never tasted or even seen one, he dilated upon it, till she was nearly wild with curiosity and longing at the delightful vision he brought up.
“oh, ben, was it good?” she would say the five-hundredth time, as in some interval when work “slacked up,” perhaps when they crouched at dusk on the kitchen floor, the wink of fire from the old stove lighting up their absorbed little faces, they imagined or played they had all their fancied dreams or wildest wishes realized.
“yes, you better believe!” ben smacked his lips; “seem’s if i taste it now!”
“well, how did it taste?” questioned polly, still for the five-hundredth time.
“oh, like,—well, like everything nice; there was fat, and wing, and oh, the wishbone, polly, and a thick crust, oh, thicker’n my hand, and the juice was prime, and, well, it was all the nice tastes together you ever had in your life, polly pepper!”
“o dear!” polly would sigh, “don’t you s’pose we’ll ever have one, ben? i could make[7] one, i know; i can ’most see one now, you’ve told me about it so many times.”
and polly would shut her eyes, and give herself up to the delicious thought till she had to hop up to put the children to bed, or to help mother in the many ways in which she knew so well how to save her steps. and now here was a fine chicken come right to their very door!
the pepper family had no cow, nor pig, nor even a chick. the only thing of life in the animal kingdom belonging to the household was an old gray goose; too old and tough to benefit any one by her death. she was just as cross as she could be, or at least she might have amused the children and been of some comfort. she had grown for ever so long in her present quarters, wandering around the poor little brown house and shed, picking up a scanty living and taking thanklessly all the bits that the children still conscientiously fed her.
polly and ben had glorious visions of the day when they would “buy mammy a cow,” and many were the talks and plans as to exactly what kind it should be. but nothing ever came their way, until this black chicken appeared right in the old kitchen, and all for thanksgiving, too![8] that is, if they could keep him; for polly and ben, albeit the conflict within, conscientiously obeyed the commands of their mother and made inquiries far and near as to the ownership of master shanghai. nobody knew anything of him, and he seemed indeed to have dropped down from the clouds. clearly he was to remain at the peppers’, and, as day after day passed by and they were not forced to give him up, their spirits rose, until the gayety over the future festival assumed the jolliest aspect. they already saw in imagination the glorious pie completed, and decking the festival board which polly declared “must be trimmed with flowers.”
“whew! where are you going to get flowers?” demanded practical ben.
“i don’t care; we must!” persisted polly. “folks always have them at a party, and we’ll get them someway; you’ll see.”
but although ben always stanchly pinned his faith to whatever polly said, on this occasion he only gave a little sniff. it was too good to be true.
so time passed on. the chick was fed, often by the scrimping of polly’s, or ben’s, or joel’s, or david’s, or little phronsie’s plate, or, as it[9] frequently happened, by all of them, each stealing out secretly to do it. consequently he grew and throve famously, his thin frame filling out, until he enjoyed his new quarters so well that he confided in a burst of delight one day to the old gray goose his pleasure and delight at the attention he was receiving.
“humph!” said the old goose, with a knowing look, “you don’t know as much as you will in a short time, say in november.”
now what these mysterious words of the cross old goose meant, or even what november was, the chicken was unable to tell, having never in his short life seen a november; so he went to work, digging and scratching over the old stony ground, and soon forgot all about it.
but as time passed on, the hints of the goose grew broader and deeper, till at last the shanghai, politely but plainly one day, asked her to explain and tell him exactly what she did mean. this was the week before thanksgiving, a cold, dreary afternoon, and the two inhabitants of the old worn shed were perched on a rail shivering with the cold, and engaged in a conversation that caused shanghai to shiver even more with fright. inside the house, the fun had commenced.
[10]the plans were all made, it is true, weeks before; but there remained that mysterious consulting and “talking over” which is half the pleasure, and at last it was decided that ben could actually go up to the store to-night when he carried home mr. atkins’s coat, and buy half a pound of raisins for the pudding. for mrs. pepper, seeing the joy and excitement of the children, scrimped and twisted her scanty earnings till she could contribute to the feast, and “you shall have the pudding, children,” an announcement which was received with a perfect babel of delight. and joel stood on his head in the corner, and waved his feet in the air, unable to express his joy in any other appropriate way.
now, nothing remained but to kill the black chicken, which ben was to do on the morrow morning, for polly declared, as that would be saturday, it must be done that day, “and then we shan’t have to think it’s got to be done, over sunday, you know, bensie, dear.”
the feathers, david said, must be for a pillow to put at the mother’s back when she sewed; a proposition that made mrs. pepper beam an appreciative smile, for davie was “mother’s boy.”
[11]“and, oh, ben, you can’t think how perfectly elegant the crust is going to be! mamsie, now, don’t i know?” and polly began a rapid jargon of the directions her mother had given her of the way they made chicken pies when she was a girl.
poor woman! very few had come in her way during her married life. thankful enough was she when bread and milk were plentiful; and of late years mush and brown bread took the place of more elaborate fare.
“oh, and i say,” broke in joel, “i’m going to have the wishbone—so there!”
“no, you mustn’t, joel; davie’s younger,” said polly, decisively.
“well, phronsie’s youngest,” retorted joel.
“yes, you’re right there,” declared ben. “phronsie, you’re the girl for the wishbone. do you hear, puss, and you must wish with me,” tossing her up in the air.
“no, no, i spoke for you, phronsie,” screamed joel. “say you’ll wish with me.”
“what is it, ben?” said little phronsie; “what is a wissbone?”
“oh, you little goose,” began joel, but polly gave him a pinch to make him stop.
“let her alone, joel,” said she. “phronsie,[12] you’ll see when thanksgiving comes, and that’s next week. come and see, now, if the flour is all right.”
and polly spun along to the little old cupboard in the corner, the whole troop at her heels, to inspect the precious materials. the flour had been measured out certainly a week or more, and there it stood in the bag in the old yellow pudding-dish. everything was in readiness. there was the lard near by in a cracked bowl, and to the five pairs of happy, expectant eyes directed to these festive preparations, no sight could have been more delightful.
“well, children,” said polly, as she shut the cupboard door fast with an important air, “we must get up early in the morning, there’ll be so much to do. now, phronsie, it’s time for you to go to bed.”
“oh, no, i’m not one bit tired,” protested phronsie, in an injured tone. but while polly went to bring the little flannel nightgown to undress her by the kitchen fire, phronsie’s little yellow head bobbed ominously, and she nearly fell off her stool, so that ben had to carry her in his arms into the bedroom, after all.
all this while, in the thick dreary november[13] twilight, the old gray goose and the black chicken were talking busily. the old goose was so jealous and determined to make the last hours of the chicken very miserable, that she dilated at length and with great exactness on the dreadful fate that awaited him on the morrow; and painted in fearful words the awful ending of being baked in pieces in a pie!
“i’ve seen ’em!” she declared, with the air of one who knew what she was talking about. “year after year, hens and chickens, yes, and geese, too, stepping around in the morning, oh, so happy and smart, and then at evening they would go past here to market all stiff and stark, with their heads off, and mr. brown’s boy holding ’em by their legs! all for pies, and so that people may eat themselves sick. and they call that a thanksgiving!”
how the chicken shook! it almost fell from its perch; but it was very dark, so the old goose couldn’t see very well. shanghai wouldn’t, for all the world, have had her jealousy rewarded by a sight of the terror she had inspired, so he controlled himself like a brave little fellow, and although his heart was beating dreadfully, he commanded his voice enough to ask, “well, why[14] weren’t you, then, baked in a pie along with the others?”
“what,—why—well,” stammered the goose, “they were going to kill me time and again, but, well, the fact is, they thought so much of me they couldn’t bear to.”
in spite of its fright, the black chicken couldn’t help laughing softly to himself as he sat there on the rail.
“well, come, you’d better go to bed,” snapped the old goose; “they’ll come for you bright and early in the morning. i heard ’em saying so.”
“in that case,” declared the black chicken, drawing himself up on his long legs, “they won’t find me here; that’s all i’ve got to say.”
“why, where will you go?” demanded the old goose, sticking out her long neck in amazement.
“oh, i’m going to set out for my fortune,” gayly replied the chicken. “at any rate, i can’t fare worse than to be baked in a pie. baked in a pie, forsooth! i think i see myself staying here for that! no, good night, mrs. goose. thank you, for all your kindness; i’m off!”
“yes, and be stuck again in a bog for your pains,” scornfully hissed the old goose, seeing it was useless to remonstrate further. the black[15] chicken had hopped off from the rail, and, its long legs going at a pretty smart pace down the hill, it was soon out of sight.
brightly rose the sun next morning, clear and cold. the air smelt of everything spicy and suggestive of the approaching holiday. ben sharpened the old hatchet, the other children running away, for at the last minute they declared they didn’t want the chicken killed. they’d rather go without the pie. but mrs. pepper and ben talked until they made them see it was no worse than if they had bought the chicken. fowls had to be killed and eaten, and they couldn’t afford to keep the black chicken any longer. and the mother stopped phronsie’s screams as she ran to hide her head in her lap, and wiped away the tears that ran down the little cheeks. joel and david relented at last, and joined ben as he hurried out of doors. and polly, as she began to wash the breakfast dishes to be ready to help pick the chicken, tried to be gay, and to hum a scrap of a song to reassure phronsie, when joel burst into the old kitchen and after him, little davie.
“’tisn’t there!” shouted joel. “no, ’tisn’t either!” gasped little david.
[16]polly whirled around with the dish-cloth in her hand, and stared. “what?” she exclaimed.
“no, ’tisn’t, i say,” screamed joel, and then he began to cry as hard as he could.
“oh, joe, what is the matter?” implored polly, and then mrs. pepper, thinking that joel was hurt, dropped her work to hurry over. and ben came running in, his ruddy face quite white, and his blue eyes big with distress.
“come, boys, quick, and help me look for him,” and he seized joel’s arm. “the chicken’s gone,” he explained to the distressed group.
joel gave a louder scream at that.
“stop, joel,” said polly. “oh, isn’t it under the shed, ben?” and she rushed out, dish-cloth in hand, followed by mrs. pepper and all the others.
“i don’t believe he’s there,” said ben, gloomily, and so it proved. neither there, nor in any other hiding-place, no matter how long and thoroughly they searched, could they see the black chicken. there was the old gray goose as usual, stalking around and stretching her long neck to see everything, while the children flew hither and thither calling the chicken. they searched adjoining meadows, and little david ran down to the brook to see if he had fallen in there.
[17]at last, toward noon, tired and hot, they were obliged to give up all hope. and a most distressed little bunch of children went slowly into the little brown house; and oh, dismal enough, a pouring rain set in, splashing the small-paned window as if crying with them.
“don’t you see you’re making mamsie feel bad?” whispered polly, hoarsely, to joel, and she pointed over to the corner where mrs. pepper was trying to sew.
little david, at that, went behind the door and struggled to keep back the tears. “i can’t help it,” sniffled joel; “now we can’t,—we can’t,—”
“be still,” said polly, pulling his sleeve, and turning her back on the old cupboard, where the flour bag stood up so smartly, all ready in the old yellow bowl. “oh!” then she gave a jump into the middle of the floor.
“oh, what is it?” they all screamed. little davie ran out from behind the door to hear.
“why,” and polly’s brown eyes grew very big, “oh, let’s have the old gray goose!”
“the old gray goose!” they all echoed, dreadfully disappointed, while joel cried harder than ever, and little davie slipped off toward the door again.
“i shouldn’t think you’d say so,” said ben, in[18] disapproval, and wondering at polly, for she always helped out in any trouble.
“well, now, i think polly’s plan is a very good one,” said mother pepper, over in her corner. “you can’t get the chicken, and you must have your pie; it’s as good as commenced, and the old goose ought to be killed anyway; she’s getting so cross, it isn’t safe to have her around after she bit sally brown the other day. so, as polly says, why not try it? there’ll be a pie anyway.”
“oh, mamsie!” cried polly, flying over to her with rosy cheeks to throw her arms around her neck. “i’m so glad you think it’s right to try it,” smothering a sigh at thoughts of the pie they might have had.
“indeed, i do, polly,” said mrs. pepper, with a little pat on the brown head; “there, child, now run off to your work,” and she picked up her needle to make it fly faster than ever.
“it won’t be chicken pie,” said joel, disconsolately, who had wiped his black eyes at these first signs of cheer.
“well,” said ben, stoutly, and swallowing hard, “if we can’t have chicken pie, why, we must take the next best, and that’s goose,” and he pretended to laugh heartily at his joke.
[19]“and,” said polly, running back to the little bunch of peppers in the middle of the kitchen, for davie wisely concluding since mamsie thought polly was right, everything was coming out well somehow, had hurried back to the others, “it’s all we’ve got left; but why didn’t the old goose run away, i wonder!”
the idea of the old gray goose running away, set them all into such a fit of laughter, that when they came out of it, the affair was as good as settled. the chicken pie was to be goose pie, and such a goose! the tables were turned decidedly; the old goose, huddling into the shed from the november rain and chuckling to herself, had called down on her own head a sure retribution.
the old gray goose was killed. polly went bravely to work as if the pleasure of making the most beautiful chicken pie in all the world was before her. and the “children,” as polly and ben always called the three younger ones in the pepper brood, laughed and sang and danced about, through all the preparations when they couldn’t help them forward, and almost forgot they had ever intended to have a chicken pie.
and they had a pudding on thanksgiving day. oh, yes, and a famous one it was! and at the[20] last minute, old mrs. beebe, whose husband kept a little shoe-shop in badgertown centre, stopped in their old wagon, with some beautiful asters.
“here, children, ’s some posies for your table. i’ve got more’n i want; i’m real sorry you had such a time about your pie.” and afterward, in the midst of the festivities at home, she broke out, “i declare, i was ’most beat to see them little dears behave so nice, and flyin’ round pretendin’ they’d rather have a tough old goose than not.”
so polly had her flowers after all, and she dressed the pie gayly with them, stifling a sigh as she put them over the old goose; and they laughed and ate, to be sure, not so much as if tender chicken had been on their plates. however, it turned out better than they had expected, polly having persistently boiled it before it was cut up to be baked in the pie. and so they hurried over that part of the repast; they were all in such a hurry to get to that elegant pudding. that was just magnificent, and done to a turn; and to joel’s great delight, fairly beaded with plums. wasn’t it splendid, though!
but at last the feast was all over, and they finally pushed back their chairs, leaving the biggest part of the goose pie untouched.
[21]“now,” said phronsie, “where’s my wissbone, polly? i want my wissbone, i do.”
“oh, darling,” cried polly, catching her up from the high-chair, “you’ll have to wait for next thanksgiving for that. ’tisn’t our fault you can’t have it, phronsie; the black chicken ran away with it.”
