We all knew, as I said, when it was coming. We had a stock of empty flour barrels on Town-hill stuffed with leaves, and a big pole set in the ground, and a battered tar barrel, with its bung chopped out, to put on top of the pole. It was all to beat the last year's bonfire—and it did. The country wagoners had made their little stoppages at the back door. We knew what was to come of that. And if the old cook—a monstrous fine woman, who weighed two hundred if she weighed a pound—was brusque and wouldn't have us "round," we knew what was to come of that, too. Such pies as hers demanded thoughtful consideration: not very large, and baked in scalloped tins, and with such a relishy flavor to them, as on my honor, I do not recognize in any pies of this generation....
The sermon on that Thanksgiving (and we all heard it) was long. We boys were prepared for that too. But we couldn't treat a Thanksgiving sermon as we would an ordinary one; we couldn't doze—there was too much ahead. It seemed to me that the preacher made rather a merit of holding us in check—with that basted turkey in waiting. At last, though, it came to an end; and I believe Dick and I both joined in the doxology.
All that followed is to me now a cloud of misty and joyful expectation, until we took our places—a score or more of cousins and kinsfolk; and the turkey, and celery, and cranberries, and what nots, were all in place.
Did Dick whisper to me as we went in, "Get next to me, old fellow"?
I cannot say; I have a half recollection that he did. But bless me! what did anybody care for what Dick said?
And the old gentleman who bowed his head and said grace—there is no forgetting him. And the little golden-haired one who sat at his left—his pet, his idol—who lisped the thanksgiving after him, shall I forget her, and the games of forfeit afterwards at evening that brought her curls near to me?
These fifty years she has been gone from sight, and is dust. What an awful tide of Thanksgivings has drifted by since she bowed her golden locks, and clasped her hand, and murmured, "Our Father, we thank thee for this, and for all thy bounties!"
Who else? Well, troops of cousins—good, bad, and indifferent. No man is accountable for his cousins, I think; or if he is, the law should be changed. If a man can't speak honestly of cousinhood, to the third or fourth degree, what can he speak honestly of? Didn't I see little Floy (who wore pea-green silk) make a saucy grimace when I made a false cut at that rolypoly turkey drumstick and landed it on the tablecloth?
There was that scamp Tom, too, who loosened his waistcoat before he went into dinner. I saw him do it. Didn't he make faces at me, till he caught a warning from Aunt Polly's uplifted finger?
