LET US ‘GIVE THANKS.
Another year has come and gone
With blessings to the last,
And we, God's eveatures, humbly give.
Thanksgiving for the past.
Let praise and song exultant rise
To the white throne above
In thankfulnesssior blessings from
Our Goll, whose name is love.
Our Father’s free, unsparing hand
Has blessed us‘through the year.
For He has safely guiled us
Through peril anti through fear.
Lo! we should lift our thankful hearts
To God, our all inall;
He gives each day-our earthly bread,
He marks the robin’s fall.
Let us give thinks while life shall last.
And pray for strength and grace
That inthe hereafter we may see
The sunshine of His face.
May we he found among the sheaves
All garnered on His floor
In that great final ‘harvest home
And praise Him evermore.
—Raymonil Monroe.
NOVEMBER.
Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun,
One mellow smile through the soft, vapery ait,
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the Joud winds rum,
Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths
are east,
Aud the blue gentian flower, that,in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beanteous race the last. *
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by ‘the hedge ‘that skirts -the
way.
The ericket ehirps upon the russet lea,
And man delights to linger inthe ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to hear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and dark-
ened air.
—Willlam Cullen Bryant.
MABELS RECOMPENSE.
A Thanksgiving Story,
The high-pitched, insistent, penetrating
tremolo of the electric doorbell rang
through the Terry house, announeing the
hasty visit of the letter-earrier with the
morning mail. This daily oceurrenee nev- 1
er failed to ereate a ripple of interest in
the entire household, from grandma in her
easy-ebair, who looked ap from the mend-
ing-basket with thoughts of the son out in
Oregon, down to Bridget. who ceased for a
moment her clatter among the kettles,
with a quick heartbeat toward a eertain
little stone cabin in Killarney. As it was
Saturday, Mabel, the daughter of the
house, was at home, and it was her nimble
feet that sped down the stairs, and her
quick fingers that gathered up the niail
from the hall floor. This time there were
several papers, bat only one letter, and
that was directed in Aunt Mellieent Eliot’s
own clear delicate handwriting to Mabel’s
self. Mabel lightly retraced her steps with
a happy heart. Aunt Milly had a genius
for doing kindly, sunshiny things, and a
letter from her always meant something
unusually pleasant. Mabel hastened into
her mother’s room with the precious
epistle. ‘‘Mother’s room’’ was at the very
center of home life. It was a confessional,
a dispensary, a council chamber, a hall of
justice, and a wayside inn. Burned fingers
were bound up, tired heads rested, wonnd-
ed feelings soothed and healed. Nohody
ever grecovered from an illness in that
family without a few comforting, peaceful
days on Mother’s sofa, and none of the
little circle ever completed a special toilet
without a last lingering touch hefore Moth-
er’s mirror. Mrs. Terry used to say some-
times, with asmile, that the only thing
she bad in all the world of her very own
was a toothbrush, but one day she dis-
covered small Tommy diligently applying
that article to the cleansing of joints on | «
his beloved wheel, and presented him
with it.
‘It’s from Aunt Milly!” said Mabel,
blithely, as she skipped into her mother’s
presence, tearing open the envelope as she
- spoke. She began to read the welcome
missive aloud, her rosy face growing
brighter by the minute. There was yet
only a month to Thanksgiving, which joy-
ful day the Terrys always spent at Grand-
‘father Eliot's; and Aunt Mellicent had
written as follows:
MY DEAR LITTLE QUEEN MAB: The
«time for our grand annual feast and frolic is
drawing near. Only yesterday, six very
pompous turkeys held a consultation under
one of the kitchen windows, in which they
«discussed the brevity of life and the price of
feather dusters. The South meadow, where
‘the dry corn-stalks are arranged in funny
dittle.wigwams, look like an Indian encamp-
ment, with now and then a great, golden
‘pumpkin shining among the stubble. The
barns piled high with the sweetest hay,
just :the thing for hide-and-seek. Those
pretty red apples that you like so well were
never so plenty and so rosy as this year, and
the nut-trees are heavily laden. There are
five new kittens in the wood-house. Grand-
ma begins ber fruit cakes to-day, and your
auntie has anew rule for chocolate caramels.
Now, as the Eliot family has eight boys in it,
and only ene girl, I write to say that yon
may bring one. of your girl friends with you
to spend Thanksgiving with us. Itisa busy:
morning, so only a word this time, with
much love to you and all from,
AUNT MILLY,
“O mamma!” exclaimed Mabel, as she
finished reading, ‘‘isn’t it lovely of auntie
to plan for anything so nice? But it’s just
like her. Which of the girls will I ask to
go? There's my very particular friend,
Laura Easton. I suppose she’ll he the
one.
“Why, Mabel,” said mamma in sur-
prise, *‘I bad thought that Ella Downs was
you favorite.”
“0 that was last term, mamma, Laura's
the prettiest girl and the best dressed in
the whole school, and T would be proud to
have the folks see her. Then she plays
the piano beautifully, and she recites ‘Paul
Revere’s Ride’ in a way to make
your heart beat like sixty.”
*‘A dangerous person to have around,’
said mamma, with an expression of mock
terror.
*‘O well, you know what I mean,” gaid
Mabel. ‘‘She makes you see Panl Revere
tearing up the road —’’
‘Did he do any other damage?” asked
Mrs. Terry, innocently.
“Now, mamma, you’se most as much of
a tease as Fred. I was only trying to de-
scribe to yon how Laura makes it all co
sort of stirring and—and—vivid, that’s the
word ; and Grandpa Eliot's such a patriot
bea juss perish with delight if he heard
er.
‘“Then she certainly must not go to our
gathering,” declared Mrs. Terry. ‘We
are none of ns ready to part with dear
grandpa yet.”’
‘‘But, mamma, all joking aside, wouldn't
d
a
said Mabel eagerly.
vite her to grandpa’s.’’
matter,”” Mrs. Terry said,
want you to promiseme that you will keep
‘this entirely to yourself for one week. You
might be very sorry if you should speak
‘to the girls at once.”’
read the story of Jesus in
‘house, when He told the proud, exclusive
men who reclined there what sort of hospi-
tality is pleasing to:God and rewarded by
Him.
‘they bid thee again, and airecompense he
made unto thee.”’
over.
battle by herself.
.| mentioned all the week the name-of Anna
Rivers, but every time she had thought of
her aunt’s invitation Anna’s face had
seemed to loak straight into her own. An-
na was a girl about Mabel’s age.
were in the same elass in the publie school.
Anna had been taken from the orphan asy-
tion.
day, “I didn’t ask Laura.
you think of Anna Rivers?’
clothes,’’ said Mrs. Brandt.
old brown cashmere ripped up and sponged
to fix over for her ever since last spring,
but I declare I ain’t had time to attend
to it.”’
Terry.
sewing, and I would like to make the dress
for Anna ”’
a happy party crowded
Eliot’s big wagon at the Long Valley sta-
tion.
her pretty new gown. The brown cashmere
had only sufficed for a skirt, and Mrs.
Terry bad added a crimson waist that was
very becoming to the’ girl’s fair hair and
skin, Anna was freed from the scrubbing
brush and the Brandt babies for one whole
blessed week. The crisp, delicious coun-
try air brightened her pale cheeks and sent
the blood leaping through her veins.
| you be preud to bave Laura with us that
day in-.church? ‘You know what a lovely
| hat with feathers she has, and a seal Eton
jacket that would nearly knock the breath
out of these country people.”
‘‘Mabel dear, 'T donot like to.say to you,
but T think I-ought, that some of those
same plain farmer-folk that you wish to
startle could probably buy ont the Eastons
several times over. 'I have heen sorry to
see your growing fondnes for Laura. The
‘family have the reputation of trying to live
much more stylishly than they can afford,
and of not paying their bills.”’
‘But surely that is not 'Laura’s fault,”
‘‘I'do hope I can in-
Mabel had been whirling about the room
at intervals, and her mother now asked her
ito be seated.
‘“You have plenty of time to decide this
kindly. “I
Mabel gave a reluctant consent, but said
several times during the next week that it
seemed. as if thesecret would choke her.
‘One morning at family prayer Mr. Terry
the Pharisee’s
‘Call not thy rich neighbors; lest
Mabel stole a glance at her mother, and
‘blushed .as she unet Mize. Terry’s wistful
look. The matter of the Thanksgiving visit
was in the mind of.each. When Saturday
«came again Mes. Terry entered the parlor,
where Mabel was dusting the piano, and
said
.
“*Well daughter mine, the probation is
Have vou made your decision ?”’
“Mamma, I still feel as if I wanted to ask
Laura, she’s so pretty and bright and jolly;
but—but I know yoa don’t approve of it,
and somehow I.don’t think Jesus would
approve either. I’ve been thinking of
what papa read the other morning.”
‘‘My dear, you mustsettle this yourself.
The question is, Would you rather have a
recompense from
God 27
the Eastons .or from
Mrs. Terry left Mabel to dight-out her
Mabel had not ounce
They
um hy a neighbor of the Terry’s te wash
dishes und to help with the children out of
school hours.
the class, but the girls had left her pretty
mueh to herself, because of her shy, reti-
eent ways, faded gowns, and humble sta-
Her face would have been attractive |
if her expression had not indicated the sad-
ness that usually filled her mmind and
| heart.
did not mean to be unkind, but thought
she was doing a great work of philanthropy
She was the best scholar in
The woman with whom she lived
n sending the ehild to school ; but she had
never taken Anna inte her heart, and the |
poor girl lived constantly in full view and
sound of loving caressess and words that
never fell to her lot.
she was kept hard at werk about the
house, aud had rarely any chanee to run
and play in the open air like her school-
mates.
Qut of sehool hours
Mabel sat beside Laura Easton in Son-
day school the next day, and had the best
possible chance to speak to her, hut some-
how she did not refer to Auut Milly’s ia-
vitation.
‘““Mamma,’’ she said, after dinaer that
What would
Mrs. Terry answered the question by a
kiss on Mabel’s lips.
‘I don’t know her so very well, mamma,
and I don’t believe she has anything really
fit to wear, but somehow my conscience
has been pointing right at her all the
week.’
“I doubt if Mrs. Brandt can spare her
just at that time,’’ said Mrs. Terry.
“I'm afraid to ask her,”” said Mabel.
‘She’s such ‘a hig, loud-spoken woman.
Won’t you go and see her, mamma !’
*‘Certainly, dear, and you can go with
me.’
“Well, I never!’ exclaimed Mrs. Brandt,
when Mrs. Terry made her errand known,
sitting in the Brandt parlor the next after-
noon, *‘I never saw anything come around
quite so handy. You see, we're all in-
vited up to central New York to spend a
week to Mr. Brandt's folks, and we didn’t
know what on earth to do with Anner.
have lots of help with the younguns up
there, what with his sisters and cousins,
y
Anner’s fare so far, and we didn’t want to
hoard her around here.
stands.
called, going to the head of the basement
stairs.
I
ou know, and we didn’t want to pay
So that’s how it
Anner, Auner, come here !”’ she
Anna was washing dishes from the noon
inner. She did not have time to do them
between sessions, so Mis. Brandt piled
them up and left them for her.
up stairs toiling under the weight of two-
y
in his high chair near the sink. to he
amused by her while she strnggled with
the crockery and cooking utensils.
She came
ear-old Jimmy, who was usually placed
‘‘Anner,” said Mrs. Brands, “you're in
luck ! Here’s Mrs. Terry and her little
girl come to invite you to go up in the
country with them to Thanksgivin.”’
“They don’t mean me!’ said Anua,
quick tears springing to her eyes.
Mabel’s heart had been brimming with
a strange, new sort of gladness while she
bad sat there, and now, atthe sight of
Anna's incredulous surprise that anything
pleasant had come to her, a genuine love
for the poor little serving-maiden arose
within her, and she said :
‘‘Of course, we mean you, Anna! My
untie wrote that I might ask anyone of
the girls, and I thought I wonld rather
select you.
and you will say ‘Yes,’ won’t you ?”’
Mrs. Brandt has consented,
‘I’m afraid she is badly off for good
“I've had my
‘‘Well, just let me take it,’’ said Mus.
“There happens to be a lull in my
The Saturday before Thanksgiving saw
into Grandpa
Anna Rivers hardly knew herself in
“I didn’t know that Anna was go pretty,”’
whispered Mabel to her mother on the way
up to the farm.
Before night Anna had won the hearts of
the whole household, for in the loving,
cheery atmosphere of the Eliot home she
emerged from her awkward shyness, and
was so gentle, so gay, so delighted with
everything about her that her presence
added sunshine to the family gathering.
Mabel found that Anna was better com-
pany than Laura. She was not thinking
of herself. She knew lots of stories and
games, and had a great deal of latent, in-
nocent fun in her, on which her new en-
vironment acted like spring sunlight en
the budded anemones.
‘“There’s one thing about that verse that
puzzles me, mamma,” said Mabel that
night, as she slipped into her mother's
room for a moment to say ‘‘good-night.”’
“What verse, dear?’ asked Mis. Terry.
‘Why, mamma, the one papa read the
other morning. Jesus had ‘been telling
how, if we invite folks that can’t do any-
thing back for us, we shall be recompensed
at the resurrection of the just. But I’ve
bad a recompense already, and it’s only
the first day. Isn't it just lovely to see
Anna? and how we all like her, don’t
we?’
Long Valley had its mansion, a grand
colonial house on West Hill. Squire At-
wood had inherited it from his father,along
with wide acres and a long bank account.
He was a man now in late middle life, and
his wife wasa few years younger. If “Hill-
crest,’’ as the Atwood place was called,
was the most beautiful house in Long Val-
ley, and for miles around, it was also the
loneliest. Years hefore a lovely little
daughter, the only child, had left the
hearts that would gladly have given houses
and lands to keep her with them. The
desolate father had to repress his own grief
that he might comfort his wife, who in her
love and longing had followed the ciiild far
into ‘the valley of the shadow,’”’ and had
only turned back because she must. Since
then the house bad heen partly closed. The
squire and his wife had girdled the earth
with their journeys, had eaten their bread
of affliction on every continent, and had
only come back to Long Valley at widely
separated intervals. They had brought
treasures from every clime, only to repack
and store them in the great garret. The
grand piano in the drawing room had nev-
er been opened since the little girl died.
The oil portrait of the child that bung
over the silent instrument never lacked,
when the mother was at home, its fresh
daily garniture of flowers.
Thanksgiving morning the squire’s wife
stood at her bedroom window looking
across the valley.
‘‘Henry,’’ she said, ‘‘I’m sorry we plan-
ned to get home this week. This is Thanks-
giving Day, you know. It’s the hardest
«day for me in all the year, except Christ-
mas and her birthday.”
“‘Well, Lois, I’ve heen thinking about
it. Suppose we go to church this morn-
ing, and thank God that He’s spared us to
each other, and that we have a hope of
meeting Evelyn again aud living with her
forever. Seems to me it isn’t doing juss
right for us to turn our house into such a
gloomy place, and shut ourselves away
frem everybody and everything. If Eve-
lyn could come and speak to us she wonld
tell ms, [ feel sure, to stop our selfish griev-
ing and do some praising instead. God is
good to us, Lois.”
‘Yes, God is good,’’ she repeated softly,
‘‘but I want my little girl—I want her!”
‘‘Lois,”” went on her busbaud. ‘‘hasn’t
God done a great deal more for her than
we could do? Would you have her back if
you could?”
Yes I would,’” said the mother,
rolling slowly over her cheeks.
Would you have her back to suffer pain
and be disappointed and to sin and to be
lonely, and to see us go away from her one
of these days?’
She would have heen
replied his wife.
(But she is very much happier there,”
said Mr. Atwood, with great tenderness in
his face and voice, ‘‘and we are going to
the same place just as swiftly as the
years can carry us. Come, dearest,”’ and
he went to his wife and took her in his
arms, ‘'let us quit our selfishness, and give
thanks to God for His loving-kindness.”
Thus it occurred that at the morning
Thanksgiving service in the village church
the Atwoods sat in their family pew,
which was directly behind the one occupi-
ed by the Eliotts. Mrs. Atwood was ob-
livious of either hymns or sermon. Her
eyes were fixed on the lovely profile of
Mabel’s friend, Anna Rivers. There was
a remarkable resemblance between Anna’s
face and the portrait over the closed piano
at ‘‘Hillerest.”’
‘‘Look Henry,” she managed to whisper
to her hushand, ‘‘Evelyn!”’
“A wonderful likeness, surely,” he re-
plied, as his eyes filled with tears.
He feared that his wife could not re-
main through the service, but the sight of
the fair young gitl, so like her own van-
ished darling, seemed to feast her hungry
mother-hears. The hard lines that grief
bad traced around ber mouth softened as
she gazed. The woment that the service
was over the held out ber hand to Mr. El-
iott and said eagerly:
“Do tell me who the golden-haired
young girl is with Mrs. Terry’s Mabel!’
*‘A school friend of Mabel’s,”’ replied
the old gentleman, adding heartily, ‘‘and
one of the nicest children I ever set eyes
on. Poor little creeter ! She’s all alone
in the world. Some woman took her out
of an asylum and works her ’most to
death between school hours.’
The next morning Mrs. Atwood’s Vie-
toria steod at the Eliott gate. The coach-
man brought a note from the mistress at
‘‘Hillerest.”” It was addressed to Mis.
Terry, and asked a loan of Mabel and An-
na for an hour or two. Mabel was wild
with delight at the opportunity of going to
the grand house on the hill, for it was sup-
posed to be filled with rare aud interest-
ing bric-a-brac and choice souvenirs of
many lands.
Anna bad never seen such richness and
beauty as were displayed in Mrs. Atwood’s
drawing room, and her brown eyes were
full of quiet wonder. Her hostess. asked
her many questions which she answered
intelligently,but when Mrs. Atwood ended
by taking her in her motherly embrace,
and saying, ‘‘How would you like to be
my little girl ”’ the poor child lost all
power of speech, and could only hide her
face in the soft-white shawl that lay on ber
new friend’s shoulders.
' Squire Atwood paid a visit to the or-
phan asylum the next day, and even trav-
eled out to the Brandt family to interview
Anna’s employer. The result was that
Anna Rivers did not return with the Ter-
ry’s to the city. Mahel’s'cup of blessed-
ness was not embittered by a single drop
of envy, not even at Christmas time, when
she visited Anna in her beautiful home,
and drove with her every day behind the
Atwood bays.
‘‘To think, mamma,’’ she said after her
return, when describing her glorious so-
journ at ‘‘Hillerest’ ‘‘when I ask Anna
what she prizes the most of all the lovely
things that have come to her, she said :
tears
happy here,”
“The love, Mabel, the love, and it was you
who brought it all to me.” And, mamma
when she put her arms around my neck,
looking so happy and so rested, I tell you
I didn’t have to wait for the resurrection
of the just for the whole of my recompense.
I’m so glad that Jesus had bis way with
that invitation.””.—By Elizabeth Cheney
in the Christian Advocate.
HOW IT CAME TO PASS.
It was the day before Thanksgiving. In
the kitchen of the Hunter farm house,great
preparations were being made for to-mor-
row’s feast. Rows of pumpkin pies were
ranged along the pantry shelves, and pies
of cranberry were there also. And the fra-
grance of doughnuts was in the air, min-
gled with odors of fruit cake.
That made John Henry's mouth water,
every time he got a sniff of it. He had tak-
en a staid by the kitchen table when the
concocting of cakes and pies began, aud
that position be had steadfastly maintained
all day, in spite of many peremptory or-
ders and plaintive appeals from his moth-
er to take himself off.
“I wish Thanksgivin’d come once a
week,” he said. after having cleaned off
the last bit of frosting from the knife he
had begged the privilege of licking. “If
there's anything I like, it’s cake, an’ pie,
an’ turkey, an’ 4
‘And anything that’s eatable,’’ said his
mother. “1 never saw such a boy for eating.
You never know when yoa get enough.’
"That's cause vittles keep tastin’ good,’
explained John Henry. *‘I wish my stum-
mick was bigger, so I could hold more.
It’s cause I can’t get enough, to once, that
I wish Thanksgivin’d come ev'ry week.”
“Well, I don’t wish 50,’ sail his moth-
ler, ag she dropped into the rocking chair.
| “What I'm "most thankful for Thanksgiv-
in’ is, that it comes only once a year.”
“I've often thought that maybe you'd
be happier in a home of your own, Mar-
garet, than with relatives, but I don’t
know’s you would, come to think it over.
you don’t have the responsibility a married
woman has. Yon're independent, and
that’s a good deal to be thankful for ’spec-
ially at Thanksgiving time.”
What's independent ma’ asked John
Henry. “Is it bein’ an old maid 2% 3
‘John Henry Hunter start straight for the
woodshed, and don’t you dare show your
face in this kitchen till I tell you you can
come in,’ said his mother, in a tone that
convinced him she meant business.
‘‘I hope you won’t mind hin, Margaret
said Mrs. Hunter. when the door closed up
on John Henry. “You know how it is
with children, they're always saying the
very things they have no business to.
They’re enough to try a saint’s patience,
‘specially John Henry. :*
*‘Ob, I don’t mind being called an old
maid,”’ laughed Margaret Hunter, because
I am one, you know, T was thirty four last
month.” ;
“Tnirey four! I declare, Margaret it
don’t seem possible! You don’t look a
day older, seems to me, than you did ten
years ago. I was telling John yesterday,
not ‘an hour before you came, that I
thought you got handsomer every year,
But just look at me ! Sometimes I think I
look old enough to be John’s mother, but
he just Jaughs and says I look all right to
him,so I don’t mind it if my bair does be-
gin to show gray streaks in it, I hope you
wont think[from what John Henry said, that
John and I ever thought of such a thing,
as calling you an old maid when we've
spoken of you. I don’t see where the boy
got the idea.”’ ,
Don’t worry abont it,”’ responded Mar-
garet. ‘‘As you say, it saves me a great
many worries and troubles, no doubt.
The one unpleasant feature of it is the pos-
sibility that some day I may come to real-
ize that I am in the way, and that John
and you and Hugh and his wife may feel
that it would be a good deal better for all
concerned if I had a home of my own,’
‘Now Margaret Hunter don’t you ever
let me hear you talk like that again!
cri-ed her sister-in-law, indignantly. “Yon
know you’ll always be welcome to a home
with us or with Hugh’s folks = We're al-
ways glad to have you come, and you’d be
welcome to stay forever, if you wanted to.
I’ve heard John say, time and again, that
as long as he had a roof over his head, youn
were welcome to the shelter of it, and I
know Hugh and his wife feel just as we do
ahout it.” : ; :
“I didn’t say what I did, because I
thought you ever entertained’ such an idea
responded Margaret, © ‘‘but I. think it
natural to feel as if it would be better, all
around, if we had homes of our own.
you’d feel that way.if you were in my
place, I'm quite sure.”
Yes, I presume I ‘would; admit-
ted Mrs. Hunter. But, maybe you’ll have
a home of your own, some day, alter all
There's no telling what ‘may happen yon
know. I—I suppose Mr. Blair is coming
over with Hugh’s folks tomorrow, isn’t he.
“Ob, yes I suppose so," answered Mar-
garet, reddening a little, ‘‘It wouldnt
seem like Thanksgiving without him.
Let’s see—how many years has it been
since he began to attend our Thanksgiving
dinners.” i it i
“Six. I guess,”’ answered Mis. Hunter.
‘‘John said at the time that he. rcckoned
there’d be another place to go to Thanks-
givings before long, hut I’ve made up my
mind that—that Mr. Blair hasn't made up
his mind about it,’’ and Mrs. Hunter laugh
ed till her fat sides shook. ‘You don’t
mind my laughing about it I hope? I
can’t help it when I get to thinking about
it. The idea of a man’s being in love year
after year, and not saying so! I wonder
you don’t get ont of patience with him,
Margaret..’
‘I’m not supposed to know what his in-
tentions are,’’ responded Margaret, ‘‘and
not knowing them, I'conld hardly be ex-
pected to do anything about it. I think
he comes from force of habit. I admit
that I used to have some curiosity about it
but I’ve nearly outgrown it now. I ex-
peet him to he part of our Thanksgiving
dinner, just as I expect mince pies and
turkey.”
Mrs. Hunter leaned back in the rocking
chair and laughed till she cried. The com-
ical side of Mr. Blair’s long-drawn-out
courtship appealed very keenly to her
sense of the ridiculous. The first time he
came to share the Thanksgiving feast with
the Hunters, her husband had invited him
hecause, ashe told his wife, he evidently
“meant business,” and he felt like helping
matters along. Being so peculiar and
bashful, it was all right to ‘‘give him a
chance.” Buta year went by, and noth-
ing was said or done by him to declare his
intentions, and next Thanksgiving Hugh
had felt it his duty to include him in the
list who partook of Thanksgiving day and
thus give him ‘‘another chance.” Thusit
had come about that for several years Mr.
Blair had eaten his Thanksgiving dinners
alternately with the Hunters; but the
‘‘chances’’ thrown in the way had never
been taken advantage of. Though she
would not admit it to her brothers, or their
wives, Margaret had more than once got
out of patience with the poor man. It
was absurd to have him, year after year, at
the family gathering, precisely as if he
were a member of the family, yet without
any right to be there.
*‘No man has any right to treat a wom-
an in this way,”’ she told herself. ‘If I
were in his place, I'd speak and let the
worst be known, as they used to sing at
conference meeting. I should think he
could see what a ridieulons position it puts
me in. Bui I suppose he can’t help being
peculiar. The Blairs always were, they
say. Idon’t know, but he has a vague
hope that some of these days I'll declare
my feelings toward him, and that he’s
waiting for this to take place, before he de
clares kis intentions—if he has any.”
Thanksgiving Day ushered in no end of
bustle in the Hunter homestead. Hugh's
folks would arrive about ten o’cloek, and
there was a good deal of work to be done
before they came. ‘‘I like to have plenty
of time for visiting,’’ declared Mrs. Hunt-
er, ‘and the only way to have it is to get
as much of the work as possible out of the
Way early in the morning. I'll see to the
turkey, and the vegetables, and all the
rest that’s to be done in the Kitchen, and
you may see to setting the table, Margar-
et. You'vegot a knack of making things
show to better advantage than I have, and
I like to have things look nice Thanksgiv-
ing Day. It makes the dinuer taste het-
ter. Ob, John Henry, do go out to the
barn or upstairs or somewhere,—I can’
stir without stepping on you or over you.
Go right out of the kitchen this minute, or
I’1l tell your father to not let you have a
uouthful of the fruit cake, when it’s pass-
ed. This threat had the desired result,and
John Henry retired to the dining room,
where he took up his position near the
door, through which, whenever it was
opened delightful whiffs of fragiance came
in from the kitchen beyond, tantalizing
the poor lad almost beyond endurance.
Margaret soon had the dinner table look-
ing very attractive. She gathered some chry-
santhemums from the plants in’ the win-
dow and placed them in the centre of the
festal board, aud looped hack the curtains
to let a little sunshive in, and gave little
deft touches to this thing and that, until
{John Henry, in watching her, came near
forgetting what was going on in the kitch-
en.
“If I was that man Blair, I'd marry her
he thought admiringly. “Ma talked as if
she badn’s the first idee how I come to
think of Aunt Marg’ret’s bein’ an old
maid Don’t she’s s’pose hoys sense things
Mebbe she don’t say old maid to Aunt Mar-
g’'ret’s face, but she thinks it so’ I'd like
10 know which is worse ‘to sey a thing, or
think it? But boys hain’t no right to open
their mouths 'cordin’ to some folks. Just
wait till IT get big. Then see if I don’t
talk when I feel like it, an’ I'll bet they
won’t send me to. the woodshed for it;
neither.”’
From which it will be seen that the
transactions of yesterday{still rankled in
the mind of John Henry.
Presently Margaret went upstairs to get
ready for the reception of the expected
visitors. She put on a pretty gown of
gray crepe that brought out beautifully
the healthy color of her cheeks, and
pinned a cluster of white and pink
carnations at her belt. When she
looked in the glass, before going down-
stairs, she smiléd at what she saw there.
“I wonder if Mr. Blair will like ‘my
looks 2’ she thought. ‘‘Poor man.”’ And
then she laughed as she thought of what his
thoughts must be, during the day—this is,
if used to he supposed, he‘‘had intentions,”
Then she sighed softly’ and looked almost
sober as she hurried downstairs, having
heard sounds that indicated the arrival of
‘“Hugh’s folks.”
Hugh'’s folks had come and so had Mr.
Blair. His face brightened wonderfully as
he saw Margaret standing in the doorway
to welcome them. He held out his hand,
and opened his mouth as if to say some-
thing, but a wave of bashfulness seemed to
sweep over him, and freeze him into si-
lence. He had to ‘‘look the thoughts he
could not utter.”” Margaret could not
help feeling sorry for the poor man. How
he must suffer from “his *‘peculiarities.”’
* * *
Dinner was over, and a little intervals of
‘*visiting’’ followed it. ‘Margaret and Mr..
Blair sat down by the centre-table, and
she showed him family photographs, ex-
actly as she had done at that time of day,
for the last six years.. The: humor: of the
situation struck Margaret very forcibly oc-
casionly, and brought a color to her cheeks
and a twinkle to her eyes ‘that made the
poor fellow sigh, as if for things’ ‘‘so near,
and yet so far—’’ for
like himself. v Rats {
Hugh's wife and John’s were talking
over family matters in the kitchen and the
children were having a noisily’ good time
upstairs. :
“I wonder if we’ll have supper,” said
Jolm Henry, by and by. ‘‘Just as sure as
you're alive I'm gettin’ hungry ‘again. I
say, ain’t Thanksgivin’s and Chiis’masses
jolly enough.”
‘They don’t begin with weddings,’ said
Cousin: Jessie. Did you ever go to one,
John Henry.”
No I never did,’’ answered her. cousin.
‘‘But, I'd like to. if they have good things
‘to eat. Do they 2’ N :
“Do they?” Well, Ish’d say they did,
replied Jessie, very emphatically. *‘Oh,
cakes, an’ cakes an’ cakes!—bride cake, an
froit cake, an’ cocoanut-cake an’ chocolate
cake an’ little cakes with frosting all over’
‘em, an’ lemonade an’ ice cream. Why,
I'd rather go to one wedding than a dozen
Thauksgiving’s.”
“I wish I could go to oune,’’ ‘said John
Henry. ‘I wonder if I'll ever have a
chance to. Is’pose 1’ll get married some
time. but it seems like an awful long
time to wait till then.’
Blair would get married,” said Jessie “I
to propose for him. Wouldu’t it he nice
if they did get married I wouldn’t won-
der the least bit in the world if they’d have
John Henry sat in thoughtful silence
for some time,
Then— :
‘Why couldn’t we do the askin,’ if that
is what he’s waiting for? I’d do it in a
minnit, if I thought there’d be a wed-
ding.”
“Oh, do,’’ cried Jessie, all enthusiasm.
*‘T will’ declared John Henry. ‘‘I’ll do
it now. There'll never be a better chance.’’
Accordingly John Henry descended to the
sitting room, and marched resolutely up to
the table where his Aunt Margaret and Mr.
Blair were sitting.
‘I say, Mr. Blair, why don’t you and
Aunt Margaret get married? My ma
says—
Poor Jolin Henry. His mother came in-
to the room just in time to hear every
word he said.
“John Henry Hunter, you come into the
woodshed with me and you'll soon find
out what ma says,’’ she said in a tone that
had awful meaning in it.
There was vo alternative. The prospect
before him was quite unlike the rosy one
peculiar’’: people |
“I should think Aunt Margaret and Mr,
guess he wants to marry her, ‘hut dassent
say 80. Ma says he’s waiting for somebody
a nicer wedding than the one I' went to.’
that had filled his mind when he came
downstairs, but he knew from past expe-
rience, that it must be faced aud he saffer-
ed himsell to be led out of the room in si-
lent anguish, with dire feelings of what
was in store for him in the woodshed.
Poor Mr. Blair! John Henry’s question
carried with it as much consternation as
would have accompanied the explosion of
a bomb. At first the poor man’s face was
ted as fire. Then he grew pale, and he
opened his mouth once or twice, as if to
say something, but no words came. But
as the door closed upon John Henry he
made what was apparently a last desper-
ate effort, and what do you think he
said ?
**What—what—what’s the
don’t get married 2’
At first Margaret was indignant. Then
one look into poor Mr. Blair's woe-begone
face changed her wrath to pity.
“I suppose it’s hecause youn’ve never
said anything about having such intentions
It isn’t customary for women to. talk
about such things with a man until he, he
—dear me! Tdon’t just know ‘what I
meant to say. Anyway, it’s his business
to tell the v-oman, what he means, and
give her a chance to say what she thinks
about it.”’
“I know it,”’ eried poor Mr. Blair ‘‘But
when I’ve tried, and tried hard! to says
something, I couldn’t say a thing. I don’t
helieve I'd ever dared to say as much as
this, if that boy hadn’t seen fit to help me
out. He~—be kind of broke the ice, an’—
an’—now you know what I'd like to do,
an’—I hope you haven’t any objections.
Have—have you !”’
Such a proposal ! Margaret laughed
till she cried. This actually seemed to en-
courage Mr. Blair, and make him bolder,
for as soon as her face sobered down a’ lit-
tle, hesaid to her, in very much the way
an ordinary man might have said the same
thing, ‘I wish you’d marry me. Will
you ?”” But the saying of it apparently
cost a mighty effort. He felt it was now
or never, very likely.
‘‘If you want me to,’’ she answered.
‘“Then let’s get married right off—now’’
said Mr. Blair.. ‘Get your honnet. and
we’ll go right over to the parson’s’’ cried
this ‘‘peculiar’’ man.
‘‘But—it’s so sudden,”
Margaret.
‘*Sudden!’”’ I should say so!’ and Mr.
Blair vealizing the absurdity of his court-
ship as he bad never been able to do before:
actually laughed. f
reason we
expostulated
“Shall I. Margaret turned to her hroth--
ers, who had suspended their talk about
crops to listen to this most original love-
making.
‘“‘Idon’t see any reason why vou need
wait any longer,’’ said Hugh, with a broad
grin. ‘‘Strike, while the iron’s hot.”
“Never put off till tomorrow what can
be done to-day,’ advised John.
By this time the women had become
aware, in some way, of the condition of
affairs, and they both urged Margaret to
let Mr. Blair have his way.
‘‘There’s plenty enough left from Thank-
giving dinner to make a wedding supper
out of,” declared John’s wife.
So it came about that a visit was paid to
the parson’s that afternoon, and ‘“‘these
twain were made one flesh,” :
The remembrance of the particulars of
the interview with his mother in the wood-
shed, came back to John Henry vividly,
avd stung him with a hitter sense of the
injustice of things, when he hecame aware
of what had resulted from his agency in
the matter. ' :
‘‘They’re all tickled ’most to death over
what’s happened,’’ he declared to Jessie.
‘‘An’ they all know he’d pever have got
down to bis’ness if it'badn’t been’ for me.
But of course I had to: get licked for it!
But I ain’t sorry I said it. Aunt Marg’-
ret she kissed me an, said boys hadn’t
ought to be whipped Thanksgivin’ day,
’specially when they ‘didn’6’' mean’ nothin’
an’ Mr. Blair—he give me this jack knife
—big blade an’ two little ones, an’ reg’lar
bone handle—wouldn’t swap with pa for
his’n for less’n a dollar te hoot—, an’ I'm
‘satisfied with the way it came oat’ even if
I did get a lickin’—only,’'—and here John
- Henry looked sober and heaved a regretful
sigh,—'‘I’d liked it better if they’d had a
reg’lar weddin’, ’ith cake, 'n lemonade. ’'n
‘ice cream ’n things.”’.—Eben E Rexford in
Conkey's Home Journal.
Cat: Cuts Off Niagara’s, Power.
All the Electric’ Railways and Lighting Plants
in Western New | York Affected. .
A cat was the cause of a great deal of
trouble to the International Traction Com-
pany and the Niagara Falls Power Com-
pany Thursday Puss climbed a trolley
pole on the Buffalo and - Lockport ‘electric
railway at Hoffman a small hamlet west of
Lockport and tried to walk on a feed wire.
fer tail touched the parallel wire that
carried the current back to Niagara Falls.
There was a flash that could be seen for
miles as the 24,000 volts of electricity pass-
ed through her body. Puss was burned to a
crisp Her charred body fell across both
wires and didn’t fall to the ground. This
short circuited the current and caused a
fuse at the Niagara Falls power house to
be burned out. The power was immediate-
ly cut off from all the lines running ont of
the power house. It was two hours before
the cause of the trouble was located and
the charred remains of the cat removed’
from the wire. 'In the meantime almost
all the electric railways and’ street light-
ing plants in western New York were with-
out power. § :
Who Lost the Nickel.
‘The Philadelphia Record tells of a little
Sunday School boy who always receives a
nickel from his father to place in the col-
lection’ plate. © Last Sunday his father gave
him. two nickels saying: One is for the
Lord and the other, is for yourself”? As
it was too early. to start for Sunday School,
the little boy sat on the porch steps in the
warm sunshine, playing with the two nick
els. After a while he dropped one and it
disappeared down a crack. Without a mo-
ment’s hesitation, and stilt- clutching the
remaining coin’ in his clenched fist, he look
ed up at his father,exclaiming, ‘Oh, pop!
there goes the Lord’s nickel.”
Millionaire Lumber
Himself.
Dealer Kills
John W. Robinson, Miilionaire lumber
dealer, banker and cattle man of Waco and
Marlin, Tex., committed sucide at the lat-
ler place on Wednesday by severing the
arteries of his arms and cutting his throat.
He overtaxed his mind by continuous
application to his large business interests.
EE ———————— y
The Turkey.
For weeks and weeks the ripened corn
He’s gobbled by the peck ; :
Now on seme sad November morn
He gets it in the neck.
~ Ex.
——Subseribe for the WATCHMAN.
«