Democratic Sentinel, Volume 1, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 November 1877 — MISS WING’S THANKSGIVING. [ARTICLE]

MISS WING’S THANKSGIVING.

Miss Wing’s kitchen wns prim and clean as broom, soap and soft water could make it; and Miss Wing sat in it, rigid and warlike, before the blackest of stoves, her feet planted firmly on a square of rag carpet. There was never an atom of dust, or even a skimmer or tin spoon out of place in that kitchen; for, in all the wide world, there was no one or thing that dared to enter without special permission, excepting a few stray sunbeams, and even they crept in and shimmered on the geraniums in the window as if they hardly dared. It was Thanksgiving eve, and the faint odor of cranberry tarts and pumpkin pies crept out from the pantry, and gave a sort of festal fragrance to the room, which might have led a stranger to believe that Miss vVing meant to celebrate, and had Ljpen preparing for guests. It would have been difficult for her to tell you for whom, however, as all her nearest relations lay up on the hillside, and, driven by her own stern will, “lovers and friends had departed far from her.” The only person living who was at all connected with h< r was a poor, country minister, with a John Rogers sort of a family, whose life was a constant struggle -to cover the body and satisfy the hunger of the ten healthy, growing children. We cannot wonder that ho sometimes t lought of Cousin Selina's age and nice little fortune, that “would go to some one.” Neither can we wonder that, in a fit »f desperation, he wrote and naked her to take his oldest daughter for the winter.

“ Let the girl come,” said Miss Wing. “I’ll make her useful.” So useful, indeed, that Milly Thorne never went to bed at night without seeing ropes of dried apples that she had strung, and acres of tallow candles she had dipped, swimming before her tired eyes. But nil tilings have an end, and patient little Miliy Thorne, worn out with hard work, and despairing of ever finding in Miss Wing that proverbial soft spot which is in every one’s heart, packed her little sachel and went back over the hills to the crowded house, the tired mother and the many children, where there was dearth of everything but love. So Miss Wing threw away a golden opportunity of crowning her old age with love and happiness. I think it must have been from force of habit that she had cooked her most golden pumpkin and stuffed her fattest pullet for a solitary Thanksgiving feast. For it was very certain she would bid no one to share it with her, and still more certain that no .one would come unbidden. For she set her face like a flint against visits from grown-up people, and with every child in the village she was at open war. The meeker ones among them would run if they saw her coming, and not even the bravest dare ask her for a flower, while the lawdess and ungoverned ones invented ways to torment her.

Uue little colored boy, especially, whom the children called Caterpillar’ was the plague of her existence. His chief amusement was to perch himself upon her white gate post, his rags fluttering in the wind, the battered crown of an old straw hat clinging to his woolly head, and, playing an imaginary banjo, sing to an admiring dusky audience collected on the sidewalk :

“Ten little darkies stannin’ in a line ” At first Miss Wing affected a calm indifference which she was far from feeling. But when it grew to be a regular entertainment it was more than she coula endure. So one day, when Caterpillar had just commenced his second stanza—- “ Nine little, darkies sitting on a gate One ob ’em tumbled off an’ dar was only eight ” she mode an unexpected assault upon him with a broomstick, tumbled him over on the sidewalk and summarily dispersed his audience. Nothing daunted however, Caterpillar picked himself up’ shook the hostile dust from his garments’ and, retreating to a distance, sang ; Ole Mam Wing, Ugly ole ting; Crack you ober de skull boys, Just coz you wanter sing. This pct of Miss Wing’s was taken as an open- declaration of war, and peace and quietness were over for her. The most mysterious things happened to her garden. Tomatoes, that hung ripe and red upon their stems at night, vanished before morning. The onionbed looked as if an army had marched through it. Melons and green corn walked away together, and the grapevines hung their heads as if mourning th" Er asures of which they were despoiled.

But those were not the greatest annoyances. Every night her door-bell moved by some mysterious power. It was of no use to wait in the hall, open the door suddenly and dive out. There was never anything to be captured but a dirty piece of cord. One never-to-be-forgotten morning Miss Wing rose from her couch, prepared her solitary breakfast, and called the cat to get hers. For the first time in eight years Tabby failed to answer. She opened the wood-house door in fear and trembling. There, suspended from a beam by one of Miss Wing’s own apron-strings, was poor Tabby, stone dead.

Pinned in the string was a dirty scrap of paper, on which was written : “ Caterpilers compelmunts. ” For the first time in many years Miss Wing sat down iu a low chair, threw her apron over her head, and wept. Willingly now would she have held out the white flag if it would only bring back poor puss. Strange to say, from that very day there wps a cessation of hostilities. Whether it was becauee they Were

hansted and needed rest to think of tomething new, or whether there was really nothing left for them to do. Miss Wing could not telL As days passed on and no fresh mischief was done, she gradually gave up looking for it, and oossessed her soul in quietness. And now as she sat grim and solitary by her kitchen fire, except for a vague feeling of bitterness as she looked at Tabby’s empty corner, she had almost forgotten Caterpillar. It was quite a shock to her nerves, therefore, when her door-bell was rung with a violent jerk. “ That imp is at his mischief again,” she exclaimed. The ring was repeated, but she paid no attention to it, and finally a shuffling, irresolute step was heard on the side stoop, followed by a knock on the kitchen door.

“ Come in,” said Miss Wing, in a most uninviting manner. The door was opened slowly, and a colored man appeared. “ Is you Miss Wing?” he asked. “I be.” “ There’s a poor little nig up in the settlement, say he want to see you. Folks call him Caterpillar. Don’ know he name ?” “ What does the little scamp want of me?” “He mos’ gone, miss. He done got gallopin’ consumption.” “ Pity he hadn’t galloped off somewhere before he killed my cat. I’d like to trounce him,” said she. The man looked at her a moment, and then said solemnly: “ Missy, dat chile done got somefin on he mind. He axes fur you de whole bressed time; and, if you’s a Christian woman, you’ll go dar. Good night, Missy.” Miss Wing shut the door, and sat down again with her knitting. But somehow the room was not as pleasant as before. The fire didn’t burn as clearly, and her chair seemed very uncomfortable. She couldn’t compose her mind. Several very uncomfortable verses of scripture would force themselves upon her. In the little church over the way she could hear them practicing their anthems for the morrow. Clearly and distinctly out on the frosty air their voices rang. Over and over she heard them sing:

Peace on earth, good-will to men. She knew very well that she felt neither peace nor good-will. “I wish they’d stop their.noise, ” she said, as she fidgeted from her chair to the window and back again to the stove. Still they sang on, louder and clearer, stirring Miss Wing up in an unaccountable manner. Her better nature was having a terrible struggle with the other, and, being much smaller, was in great danger of defeat. At last she started from her chair, snatched her hood and blanket shawl, and started towards the door. Little better nature had conquered. Miss Wing hardly knew herself as she stepped out into the frosty night. It was many years since she had visited the sick or gone out upon an errand of mercy. Such charity as she had given had been like throwing a bone to a dog. When she reached the tumble-down house where Caterpillar’s mother lived and knocked at the door, she heard a shrill voice pipe up.

“Dar she am, mamma ; mos’ know dat’s her.” There was a hurrying over the floor, and a noise as if stray articles were being hastily shuffled into their places. Then the door opened and Miss Wing walked in. “ Bless us and save us !” said she. Bolstered up on a narrow cot was a pitiful little heap of skin and bones, all that was left of the mischievous Caterpillar. He smiled feebly when he saw Miss Wing, and held out a skinny little hand. “Mos’ awful sorry done kill your cat. ’Pears like I couldn’t die ’out I tole you.” “Never mind the cat. I s’pose her time had come. What ails you, anyhow ? Be you hungry ? ”

He shook his head. “ Nebber any more,” he said ; “ got past dat.” There was a tugging at Miss Selina’s rusty old heart-strings, and a suspicious moisture about her spectacles; so, to hide these unaccustomed emotions, she turned fiercely to the mother and demanded : “ Hain’t you got no better bed nor pillow for that sick child ?” The woman began a long story which Miss Wing cut short by marching out of the door. “There, she’s mad !” exclaimed she. “ Nebber mind, mammy,” sighed Caterpillar, turning wearily on his pillow, “I feels better.”

But Miss Wing was far from being angry as she hurried down the street, and so Caterpillar’s mother soon discovered, as the door opened again, and a man carrying a soft, single bed entered, closely followed by Miss Wing, herself heavily laden. “ Sit down and take that child in your lap,” said she, in a peremptory manner, The woman meekly obeyed, and seated herself, with the wondering boy in her arms. I don’t think Milly Thorne would have believed her eyes if she could have seen her cousin Selina then. She flew around the room with marvelous celerity, beating up the bed, spreading over lavender-scented sheets and soft blankets, and finishing off with a plump pillow, and a white spread quilted by her own hands. Caterpillar’s delight was unbounded when, after being clad in a flannel night-gown, he was placed in the soft, fragrant bed. “Like oranges, bub?” asked Miss Wing, as she plunged her hand into her pocket. Now Caterpillar and oranges had long been strangers, so his eyes glistened with pleasure when a huge yellow one dropped on his bed. “May as well have this, too; ’tain’t no use to me,” said she, tossing a tinted picture card on the bed. Then, turning to the mother, he said: “ Them sheets and things is to make the child comfortable as long as she lives; you’ll find good vittles in that basket.” And out she bounced, leaving Caterpillar and his mother in a confused state of gratitude and bewilderment.

The angel of mercy had touched Miss Wing’s stony heart, and taught her the infinite pleasure of giving. And as some streams, when released from the icy fetters that have bound them, rush on with terrific force, overwhelming and submerging, so Miss Wing, suddenly set free from life-long bondage, yearned to do more for some one else. So she sent a telegram early next morning, which dropped like a bomb-shell into the little parsonage at Hopewell: “Bring all the children to dinner; I’ll pay the expenses. ” . There had been a great deal of commotion in that little house before, but never anything equal to that which followed the receipt of this telegram. Milly’s heart misgave her as she washed faces and tied on hoods and tippets, for she felt that nothing less than a miracle could change cousin Selina. But after a grand sleigh-ride they found her ready to receive them, dressed in her best black silk and snowy apron—the grim look in her face very much softened. The little Thornes had never in their fives eaten such a dinner as she had ready for them. They did everything they pleased, even to eating apples in the parlor and cracking nuts on that shining kitchen floor. But, best of all, when they were going home she tucked a SSO bill in Mr. Thorne’s hand, and when he tried to thank her she said : “Go ’long, Bob Thorne; there’s plenty more where that came from. ” So “Bob” Thorne went along, rejoicing for the spirit which had moved Miss Thorne’s heart and given them all such a happy Thanksgiving. The war takes all the Russian rolling stpek, cannot move the