"Submit! Submit!" called a voice from the Thompson house.
Submit slowly got down from the wall. "His feathers are a good deal thicker than ours," she said, defiantly, to Sarah.
"Submit," called the voice, "come right home! I want you to pare apples for the pies. Be quick!"
"Yes, marm," Submit answered back, in a shrill voice; "I'm coming!" Then she went across the yard and into the kitchen door of the Thompson house, like a red robin into a nest. Submit had been taught to obey her mother promptly. Mrs. Thompson was a decided woman.
Sarah looked after Submit, then she gathered Thankful closer, and also went into the house. Her mother, as well as Mrs. Thompson, was preparing for Thanksgiving. The great kitchen was all of a pleasant litter with pie plates and cake pans and mixing bowls, and full of warm, spicy odours. The oven in the chimney was all heated and ready for a batch of apple and pumpkin pies. Mrs. Adams was busy sliding them in, but she stopped to look at Sarah and Thankful. Sarah was her only child.
"Why, what makes you look so sober?" said she.
"Nothing," replied Sarah. She had taken off her blanket, and sat in one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs, holding Thankful.
"You look dreadful sober," said her mother. "Are you tired?"
"No, marm."
"I'm afraid you've got cold standing out there in the wind. Do you feel chilly?"