Visits in those days did not mean calls. Company came from miles away to spend the day, often uninvited, but not unwelcome. To “drop in and take pot luck” was not, as to-day, a figure of speech, but literally true, for a “boiled dish” was the regulation dinner. Corned beef, salt pork, and vegetables were served together on a big pewter platter, with a boiled bag-pudding of Indian meal. This may not sound as well as Beef à la mode, entrées and desserts; but, when well cooked, it was by no means to be despised; and on it our ancestors lived; thrived, and were content, thankful and happy. Possibly it did give them bilious and depressed views of the hereafter!
Sunday began Saturday night, when the sun went down behind the hills. With the lengthening shadows came a seeming stillness, in advance of the long day of rest to follow. The Sunday breakfast was early, giving plenty of time for the long drive to “meeting.” Come sun, come rain, snow or wind, nothing but sickness excused absence from the two long sermons, morning and afternoon, with prayer meeting between. The day was kept to the very letter of the old Sabbatical law. Dinner was prepared Saturday, and eaten cold. For Sunday reading, the leather-bound Family Bible and Psalm Book were brought out; also Baxter’s Saints’ Rest, Pilgrim’s Progress, and the Book of Martyrs. A walk beyond the garden and dooryard was not allowed, till after sundown; a drive, except in case of necessity, was never thought of. Only “York State folks” did that. A maiden aunt reproved me for cracking nuts on Sunday, giving me to read the Fourth Commandment, and Isaiah 58: 13-14, “If thou turn away thy foot from the Sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day,” etc. The remembrance of those well-kept, solemn Sundays still remains; and, to this day, my inherited New England conscience never fails to accuse any transgression of the Fourth Commandment. Howells says, “The devout spirit of the old Puritans remained to their descendants long after the stern creed that had embodied that spirit had passed away.”
Fast Day, too, was strictly kept in Puritan households, without reference to Good Friday. We might ramble in the woods for wild flowers, however, gather wintergreen, birch and sassafras for root beer, and have fritters and maple syrup for supper.
Thanksgiving was the great feast day of the whole year. Then, the children to the third and fourth generation came trooping back, filling the low-ceiled rooms under the old rooftree; and for them high festival was held.
For days before, great preparations were made. The “buttery” was full of good things. On the shelves were rows of mince, pumpkin and tart pies, the last named made from cider apple sauce,—a lost art,—and pans of doughnuts and crullers, flanked by the sage cheese, ready to be cut. Baking in the brick oven was an immense chicken pie, made with cream crust,—another lost art,—and an Indian pudding rich with suet—still another lost art.
The turkey, the choicest young gobbler of the flock, stuffed with savory dressing, also a pig with an ear of corn in its mouth, were roasting in a Dutch oven on the hearth, all these together filling the house with an odor of good cheer.
Oscar, of the Waldorf-Astoria, can do mighty deeds in his line, but, with all his skill, cannot equal one of those real old-fashioned Thanksgiving dinners.
After all the kin had come and gone, there was abundant “skippin” for the worthy poor; yes, and for the unworthy, who might come to partake of the free bounty of the ever charitable.
The winters were long, shutting families indoors by themselves. Books and papers were few, but these early settlers kept abreast of the events of the day, and they had clear-cut, strong opinions, which they expressed with no uncertain sound. In the long evenings they gathered around the great fireplace, listening with never-failing interest to the oft-told tales of Indians, of Tory raids, and of hardships and suffering in camp and field.
“Shut in from all the world without,
They sat, the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door;
. . . . . . . . . .
And for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andirons’ straddling feet,
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row,
And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October’s wood.”