“‘Well,’ the traveller went on, ‘you shan’t miss the Day this year for want of a paper any how. There’s the “Democrat” of week before last, with the Governor’s Proclamation and all. It’s the 29th you see, four weeks from to-morrow.’
“‘What does Thanksgiving mean?’ asked little Nanny, who was perched on the stranger’s knee. ‘Tell us the ’tory about it.’
“So the traveller, who was a kind man, made quite a story to amuse the children. He told how, long ago, when the land was all wild woods in which only Indians lived, a shipload of English people came across the sea, in the freezing winter, to make a home for themselves in the wilderness. How they suffered hunger, cold, and all sorts of hardships: and at last, after many months, housed their first harvest from a few scanty fields; and, in gratitude for this food which saved them from starvation, set aside a day to be spent in giving God thanks for it. And how, ever since, among their descendants, this day of Thanksgiving had been kept up, and solemnly observed every autumn after the gathering in of the crops.
“Then he told them that in New England, on this day, all the sons and daughters come to the old homestead with their families; and how the long dinner-tables are set out with good things,—turkeys, pumpkin pies, cranberry sauce, and Indian pudding. And then, last of all, he drew from his pocket a paper, and read aloud the Governor’s Proclamation, calling on all citizens to observe the 29th of November as Thanksgiving Day.
“Before the stranger had finished the children were wild with excitement. But their Mother buried her face in her apron, and sobbed bitterly. That night, after the traveller had gone to bed, she talked more about her old home than ever she had done before, and told Polly a great many things of Massachusetts and its people.
“All the next day the children could think of nothing but the stranger’s wonderful story. Why couldn’t they have Thanksgiving too? they asked their Mother. The Governor said they might.
“‘But we haven’t any thing to keep it with,’ said Mrs. Fiske.
“Oh, yes! there was one big squash left. Wouldn’t Mother make some pies out of it for them?
“‘But there are no eggs, or ginger, or lemon-peel,’ answered the poor, discouraged Mother.
“However, the children begged so hard, that at last she said she would try to make some pies. But then Thanksgiving was nothing without a turkey.