A Thanksgiving Reunion.
How should I forget that good, kindly Aunt Polly—very severe in her turban, and with her meeting-house face upon her, but full of a great wealth of bonbons and dried fruits on Saturday afternoons, in I know not what capacious pockets; ample, too, in her jokes and in her laugh; making that day a great maelstrom of mirth around her?
H—— sells hides now, and is as rich as Crœsus, whatever that may mean; but does he remember his venturesome foray for a little bit of crisp roast pig that lay temptingly on the edge of the dish that day?
There was Sarah, too,—turned of seventeen, education complete, looking down on us all—terribly learned (I know for a fact that she kept Mrs. Hemans in her pocket); terribly self-asserting, too. If she had not married happily, and not had a little brood about her in after years (which she did), I think she would have made one of the most terrible Sorosians of our time. At least that is the way I think of it now, looking back across the basted turkey (which she ate without gravy) and across the range of eager Thanksgiving faces.
There was Uncle Ned—no forgetting him—who had a way of patting a boy on the head so that the patting reached clear through to the boy's heart, and made him sure of a blessing hovering over. That was the patting I liked. That's the sort of uncle to come to a Thanksgiving dinner—the sort that eat double filberts with you, and pay up next day by noon with a pocketknife or a riding whip. Hurrah for Uncle Ned!
And Aunt Eliza—is there any keeping her out of mind? I never liked the name much; but the face and the kindliness which was always ready to cover, as well as she might, what wrong we did, and to make clear what good we did, make me enrol her now—where she belongs evermore—among the saints. So quiet, so gentle, so winning, making conquest of all of us, because she never sought it; full of dignity, yet never asserting it; queening it over all by downright kindliness of heart. What a wife she would have made! Heigho! how we loved her, and made our boyish love of her—a Thanksgiving!
Were there oranges? I think there were, with green spots on the peel—lately arrived from Florida. Tom boasted that he ate four. I dare say he told the truth—he looked peaked, and was a great deal the worse for the dinner next day, I remember.
Was there punch, or any strong liquors? No; so far as my recollection now goes, there was none.
Champagne?
I have a faint remembrance of a loud pop or two which set some cousinly curls over opposite me into a nervous shake. Yet I would not like to speak positively. Good bottled cider or pop beer may possibly account for all the special phenomena I call to mind.