To the children, however darker humors might work and sadden among the grown people, (for whatever hue rose-favored writers may choose to throw over scenes and times of festivity, the passions of character are always busy, in holiday and hall, as well as in the strifes of the world,) to the Peabody children this was thanksgiving time indeed—it was thanksgiving in the house, it was thanksgiving in the orchard, climbing trees; it was thanksgiving in the barn, tumbling in the hay, in the lane. It was thanksgiving, too, with the jovial Captain, a grown-up boy, heading their sports and allowing the country as he did, little rest or peace of mind wherever he lead the revel; it was not four-and-twenty hours that he had been at the quiet homestead before the mill was set a-running, the chestnut-trees shaken, the pigeons fired into, a new bell of greater compass put upon the brindle cow, the blacksmith's anvil at the corner of the road set a-dinging, fresh weather-cocks clapped upon the barn, corn-crib, stable, and out-house, the sheep let out of the little barn, all the boats of the neighborhood launched upon the pond. With night, darkness closed upon wild frolic; bed-time came, and thanksgiving had a pause; a pause only, for Mopsey's dark head, with its broad-bordered white cap, was no sooner withdrawn and the door firmly shut, than thanksgiving began afresh, as though there had been no such thing all day long, and they were now just setting out. For half a minute after Mopsey's disappearance they were all nicely tucked in as she had left them—straight out—with their heads each square on its pillow; then, as if by a silent understanding, all heads popped up like so many frisking fish. They darted from bed and commenced in the middle of the chamber, a great pillow-fight amicable and hurtless, but furiously waged, till the approach of a broad footstep sent them scampering back to their couches, mum as mice. Mopsey, well aware of these frisks, tarried till they were blown over, in her own chamber hard by, a dark room, mysterious to the fancy of the children, with spinning wheels, dried gourd-shells hung against the wall, a lady's riding-saddle, now out of use this many a day, and all the odds and ends of an ancient farm-house stored in heaps and strings about.
It was only at last by going aloft and moving a trap in the ceiling, which was connected in tradition with the appearance of a ghost, that they were at length fairly sobered down and kept in bed, when Mopsey, looking in for the last time, knew that it was safe to go below. They had something left even then, and kept up a talk from bed to bed, for a good long hour more, at least.
"What do you think of the turkey, Bill?" began Master Robert Peabody, the flat-featured, rising from his pillow like a homely porpoise.
"I don't know," Peabody Junior answered, "I don't care for turkeys."
Little Sam Peabody, the master of the turkey, took this very much to heart.
"I think he's a very fine one," continued Master Robert, "twice as big as last year's."
"I'm very glad to hear you say that, Cousin Robert," said little Sam Peabody, turning over toward the quarter whence the voice of encouragement came.
"As fine a turkey as I've ever seen," Robert went on. "When do they kill him?"
Little Sam struggled a little with himself, and answered feebly, "To-morrow."
There was silence for several minutes, broken presently by Peabody Junior, fixing his pillow, and saying "Boys, I'm going to sleep."