“Well, I always visit this frontier as I go my yearly rounds; and it was there that I made acquaintance with Mrs. Fiske’s little children.
“Four boys and girls there were, the eldest seven, the youngest not quite three; and none of them had ever seen other children except themselves. Their Mother was a sad, hard-worked woman; their Father, a rough, kind-hearted fellow, too busy to notice the little ones much, except now and then on a Sunday evening. So the children were left entirely to each other for amusement; and they seemed to find plenty of it, for a more merry, contented group I never saw. The rude hut in which they lived was beautiful in their eyes; and the forest, with its birds, berries, squirrels, and flowers, like a delightful playfellow.
“The cabin was off the road for wagon trains: none ever came there. But now and then men on horseback, two or three together, would stop and ask for a meal or a night’s lodging. These were never refused in that hospitable wilderness. The children were glad when this happened; for the men talked about all sorts of interesting things, and brought newspapers, from which their Father read stories and anecdotes. But Polly, the eldest, a bright, observing girl, noticed that after these visits her Mother always looked sadder than before, and sometimes cried.
“Mrs. Fiske came from a State a long way off called Massachusetts. Some of her relations lived there still, and there was the old house where she had been born; but she seldom spoke of it or them. Perhaps she feared to make the children discontented with their lonely life by doing so; and it may be she was wise.
“But the little ones picked up ideas here and there, and made a sort of play of ‘Going to the East,’ where so many wonderful things were. They did not often tell their Mother of these plays: somehow they felt that it gave her pain; but when they were alone with their Father they would talk by the hour, asking questions, and chattering all together like a flock of small crows.
“One night a traveller, who was stopping with them, used a new word.
“‘I don’t know if Thanksgiving gets so far out as this,’ he said.
“Mrs. Fiske only answered by a sigh; but her husband replied, ‘Well, no! We’ve had pretty hard times for a spell back; and we never see no newspapers so’s to know what day’s appointed, and so we’ve kind of let it slide. It’s a pity too, that’s a fact. Why, the kids here don’t even know what Thanksgiving means.’”
“Kids?” asked Max, wonderingly.
“He meant the children,” laughed November. “It’s rather a funny word, but some people use it; and as long as it tells what it means it’s a good word. The little Fiskes were used to it.