“Never mind,” went on November, more kindly. “We won’t discuss the point of our respective honesties, I think! But I must confess that we Months are not as conscientious as we should be. Every one of us steal something wherever we go; and the worst of it is, that we never bring what we steal back again. Heigho!” And he looked silently into the fire for some time.
By this the last mouthful of pie had disappeared; and Thekla had carried off the dish and the spoons, and put them out of sight.
“Was it good?” asked November, meeting her eye with a smile.
“Very, very good,” she answered. “I never tasted any pies like it. Do you know what it is made of, sir?”
“I believe,” said November, “the exact recipe runs thus: ‘As little pumpkin as possible, and as much of every thing else as possible.’ But it’s no use your trying to make one. They don’t succeed anywhere except in that country on the other side the ocean, where this came from. There they have a knack at ’em.”
“Oh, tell us about the other side the ocean!” cried the children.
“I’m going to,” replied November. “That’s where my story happened.
“It was way out on the Western frontier—Do you know what a frontier is?” suddenly interrupting himself.
No, the children did not know what a frontier was.
“A frontier,” continued November, “is the edge of civilization; and rough and shaggy enough it is, as edges are apt to be. It is the battle-ground where men and Nature meet and fight it out. Ah! the men have hard times there, I can tell you. They have to turn to and use every bit of stuff that is in them, or they get the worst of the conflict. But Nature is a friendly foe. When she has proved them, she grows kind. The trees fall, the stumps come out of the ground. Every year the work done tells more and more; and the frontier is pushed farther and farther away. By and by there won’t be any frontier left, the whole land will be civilized; and people will have every thing they desire,—brick houses, churches, shops, ice-cream saloons, and copies of Tupper’s Proverbial Philosophy.