CHAPTER IV—THE TROPIC AND THE TEMPERATE
WHEN a chicken drinks,” said Dr. Ulswater, “he lifts his head and thanks God, but when a man drinks he doesn't say anything. That is a West-Indian proverb.”
I said: “It's a good proverb.”
“Well,” he went on, “I should say it was, with the chicken, possibly, so to speak, a somewhat mechanical ritual.”
We were nearing the end of our cruise. I never wanted less to go back to Portate, but my health was too boisterously good to be denied. It was toward the end of November. In the land of steadfast people, the frost would be on the grass, the wind in the yellow corn-shocks, the good folk gathering to their annual feast of gratitude, far from these lazy seas. Old women with white hair and knitting, old men walking with canes, pink-cheeked girls and big-handed men, children storming the banisters—they would all be there.
“What will you do on Thanksgiving day?” I asked, thinking of the cool cornfields and familiar faces, of farm-yards and houses where chickens used to drink in prayerful attitudes, where men also thanked God when they drank, or ate.
“I have left it to Mrs. Mink. She is considering it.”
“How?”