here it is, the old bright day, the day fragrant of home, brought about once again by the whirligig of time. the new england snows are deep beneath the windows in the house where i was born, and iridescent icicles hang over the door; the city that is beyond is given up to joy and plenty,
"and all that mighty heart is lying still."
i sit quite solitary among you in a far-away corner, forgetfully turning the pages of a book, and letting my thoughts take wing for other scenes and other years. in memory there arises a succession of thanksgivings, long gone into dust and ashes, so different from this, so careless and kind and merry, that it seems like wronging them to be sad for them even at this distance. then all the world was golden, and our wilful,-99- loving lives were jewels set in the heart of it. then the air tingled, and the sun was jolly as harlequin. then there was a little brook in those familiar fields, delicately sheathed in ice every thanksgiving morning, and lending itself to a childish holiday frolic just in the nick of time; and a stone, squirted along its surface, made the daintiest bird-like sound imaginable, and died into silence so delightfully that you sent innumerable pebbles after it, to see if they could sing as sweetly as the first. then everybody was so considerate and tender that poor people could not want or suffer on that day, if they tried; then grown people were indulgent, and wee people docile and frisky as lambs. then we used to have pop-corn and ginger-snaps and chestnuts and ruddy apples—and turkey! well, we can have turkey yet, on any thanksgiving, a sort of in memoriam turkey, eaten in foreign lands, and made melancholy with recollections and vain wishes; so, of course, it is not the same turkey at all.
what a hospitable, social old festival it was! how gentle we tried to be, that not one harsh word should spoil it! we were taught to make out of the severely pious thanksgiving of the puritans, their dismal, unpicturesque opposition-christmas, a day lovely and blithe and helpful beyond any in the calendar. there was a great halloo going on the whole time in the cheerful rambling old house, quartering an army of children: merry-making in the pantry, in the corridors, in the porches, where hungry sparrows gathered to squabble over hundreds of crumbs; and in the lively fire that winked and sputtered, and tossed the pans and kettles, and nearly burst a-laughing over the fat plum-pudding. as for the other lords and ladies of misrule, you could not swing your arm anywhere without brushing a little boy or a little girl. you heard the patter of their tireless feet, the noise of their drums and doll-carriages, and the echo of their shrill voices upstairs and down,—some of them rolling about on the rugs in the sunny room, where the bare elms, with their battered nests, rattled against the pane on windy days; some-101- strumming on the venerable piano in the hall, just at the balustrade's foot, and singing a little tyrolese catch they had learned together; some grouped in the shadowy and quiet library (where the ceiling shone blue with its myriad stars, like a real summer's sky), telling over how good a king king arthur was, or how queer was the old man of the sea, or how sad and strange were the adventures of dear sintram, ever and ever so long ago. now other children fill those neglected places, and beautify the hours with associations fresh and fair as ours,—
"and year by year our memory fades
from all the circle of the hills!"
i must not forget the races, and the games, and ninepins on the frosty balcony; the ice-forts, puny for lack of material, and the trojan war, re-fought in snow-balls; and the dinner! the table-cloth was very pretty, with sprays of evergreen festooning it here and there. silver mugs looked particularly shiny. i can see yet, beyond the great steaming dishes, the celery towering with its delicate green; cider sparkling; grapes and oranges crowding one another over the rim; olives floating in colored bottles; jelly clearer than crystal; funny little crackers in funnier shapes, and the ring of hearty faces framing the picture in. near the end, the majestic pudding made his appearance, crowned with blue flame; and blazed away so pompously for a minute that the youngest baby cried, and the boys clapped their hands, and curly-haired helen leaned over against bessy to get out of its way. then came the final jingling of the water-glasses, when the household drank grandmother drapow's health, amid enthusiasm and tears and laughter and rustle of words. it was quite in order to wear your tissue-paper cap, which fell out of the candy-packet, whether it was quaint and odd as could be, or conventional as a beaver. when presently, with all conceivable glee, the whole twenty-six rose to their feet, the chairs and stools made volcanic noises, and the scene looked precisely like the carnival. then a sudden hush fell; and one of the several tall gentlemen who answered to the name of papa, glanced at a certain child at the other end of the table. so the child dropped its bonbons, and gravely took off its gay cocked hat, and folded its brown hands, and lisped the words of the grace, while eugene and little georgie bobbed their innocent heads in cadence at its shoulder. everybody answered "amen!" very loud and clear. and everybody slipped forthwith through the door, like the tide, and left the sunny dining-room deserted.
those thanksgivings will never return. the caps are torn now, and the heads that wore them would fit them no more. we could not meet to be happy again, if we tried, because of the vacant places. the rogue who was made parson would not be present either,—which of us, outside paradise, is quite the same after so many years?—having vanished just as surely as the old friends, and the dear kindred, who have died. for, in your own phrase, little folk, that was me. at least, i like to think it was. perhaps this is all a make-believe story; but if you doubt it, go and ask somebody else who was there.
