Democratic Sentinel, Volume 13, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 November 1889 — LIKED TO MAKE A SHOW. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LIKED TO MAKE A SHOW.

BY DRIFT.

. HE Beggerley’s combing here to spend Thanksgiving?” said Mrs. Nettleby. “Not if I know it.” Mrs. Nettleby was a close-fisted and calculating woman, who lived in a handsome house in a stylish

neighborhood in N , and was one of those who, as her maid-of-all-work expressed it, “would skin a flea to save the hide and tallow.” Mrs. Nettleby liked to make a show, but she had a deeprooted aversion to spending. And entertaining company on Thanksgiving Day was one of the things that could not be accomplished without the latter concomitant. Mr. Nettleby, a little, weak-minded man, who viewed his big wife with respectful admiration, looked dubiously at her. “But, my dear,” said he, “how are you going to help it? They’ve sent word they are coming.” “I’ll go to your sister Belinda’s, up in Sugartuck County.” Mr. Nettleby felt of his chin. “Thev haven’t invited us,” said he; “that is,not •specially.” “0. fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Nettleby. “Belinda’s always glad to see me and the children. And as for staying at home to gorge Mrs. Beggerlev and her six children, and Mr. Beggerley’s two sisters, I

Won’t do it. Why, such a turkey as they would expect would cost three dollars at the very least. Get me a time-table, Nettleby. Send word to Mrs. Beggerley that I’ve gone away to spend Thanksgiving.” Mr. Nettleby. who never dreamed of opposing his wife’s will in this or any other m itter. wrote the letter accordingly, and put it in his coat-tiil pocket, where it remained; for he forgot all about it. Mrs. Nettleby packed np her own things and the things of the four little Nettlebys, and took the afternoon

train for Scrag Hollow, in Sugartuck County. “Mamma,” said Theodora Nettleby—the juvenile "cions of the hou*e of Nettleby all had high-sounding appellations —“it looks all shut up and lonely. I don’t believe any one is at home.” “Pshaw!” said Mrs. Nettleby. “People in the country always live in the back par, of the house.” And carrying a heavy carpet-bag in her hand she trudged around to the rear door, followed by Theodora, Lavinia, Evangeline and Gervuse, each lugging a smaller bag. Nobody responded to her repeated volley of knocks, but presently a little old woman, who had come from a neighboring cottage to the well for water, was made to understand what was wanted. “Mrs. Pecktield?” said the little old woman, in the high-pitched, shrill voice which so often accompanies deafness. “You’re her cousin from the city, come to spend Thanksgiving! Well; if that ain’t too bad! Mrs. Peckfield started this very afternoon for Ladd’s Depot; got some relations as lives there.” “That’s very strange,” said Mrs. Nettleby. “I telegraphed to her that I was coming. ” “Couldn’t a got the telegraph, I guess,” said the little woman. But Mrs. Nettleby knew better than that, for under the corner of the piazza there lay a torn envelope of the Western Union Telegraph. And she knew that Mrs. Peckfield had fled from her, just as she, Mrs. Nettleby, had fled before the Beggerley family. “But I’ll be even with her,” said Mrs. Nettleby, grinding her false teeth. “I’ll go to Ladd’s Depot. What are the names of her relations there?” The little old woman, after some meditation, sa d that it was Jones. At least she thought it was Jones. She wasn’t quite certain. It might be Smith, or it might be Brown. But she believed it was Jones. And she believed they lived on Thorn street. It was a long walk back to

the railroad depot, and the four little Nettlebys were tired and cross, but they foitnnately succeeded in reaching it before the last northward train started. But it was an express and didn’t stop at small places like Ladd’s Depot, as Mrs. Nettleby found to her cost when she paid five dollars for a hack to take her back to Ladd’s Depot. On inquiry it was found that there were about half a dozen families of the name of Jones at Ladd’s Depot. The first place to which they drove on Thorn street was a tenement house, where they all had the scarlet fever. “Oh, my!” said Mrs. Nettleby, “drive on, quick. This isn’t the place!” The next was a clergyman’s house, where a full-fledged prayer-meeting was going briskly on. “ This isn’t the place, either.” said poor Mrs. Nettleby, waxing, more and more in despair. And the third was a vinegar-faced old maid who lived with her married sister, and “never had heard the name of Peckfield in her life.” “What shall I do?” said Mrs. Nettleby. “Better go to a hotel, ma’am,” said the hackman, who himself was beginning to get out of patience. ’ “But it costs so much,” said Mrs. Nettleby. “And to-morrow is Thanksgiving Day. Is there a train goes back tonight?” "To-night?” said the hackman. “Why, it’s past eleven a’ready! Ahd my horses has got the epizootic, and I couldn’t keep ’em out no longer, not for noi ody! But I s'pose I could take you to the twelvethirty night express for a little extra!" And this moderate specimen of the tribe of hackmen consented to be satisfied with eight dollars. “Ma?” whispered Gervase, “where are we going?” “Home,” said Mrs. Nettleby, pronouncing the word as if it were a peanut shell she was cracking. There was one comfort, though—the Beggerley family would have been repulsed by that time; and, after all, cold beef was a cheaper wav of supplying the table than turkey at thirty cents a pound. It was 2 o’clock the next day when she reached her own door, having paid in hack and car fare enough to buy half a dozen ten-pound turkeys, and with jaded

and fretful children, a violent headache on her own score, and one of the travel-ing-bags lost' “I’ll stay at home after this,” said Mrs. Nettleby to herself. “Eh! Parlor window-blinds open! People talking! I do believe Nettleby’s got company to Thankigiving, after all!” And her heart sank down into the soles of her boots. It was quite true. The servant-maid, with* a red and flurried face, opened the door. “Mary!” said Mrs. Nettleby, “who’s here?” “Lots of people, ma’am,” said Mary, looking guiltily over her shoulder.

“Where are they?" demanded her mistress. “In the dining-room, ma’am." And Mary threw open the door, thereby disclosing a long table with three huge turkeys, well browned, and a savory chickenpie that was a mountain iu itself, and a glass reservoir of cranberry sauce that set Mrs. Nettleby calculating at once as to the probable amount of dollars sunk in its crimson billows; while, seated in hospitable array around the board, were Mr. and Mrs. Beggerley. the two sisters, and the six little Beggei leys. Mr. and Mrs. Smithers, seven little Smitherses, and the six Leonards of Maine, second cousins of Mr. Nettleb-—twenty-six in all—including her husband. Mrs. Nettleby and her children sat down and ate their Thanksgiving dinner with what appetite they might. But Nettleby had rather a hard time of it that night. “My dear,’' said that sacrificial lamb, “what was Ito do? They didn’t get the letter. They said they had come to spend Thanksgiving, and of course I had to order dinner. What else could I do?” “Do?” repeated Mrs. Nettleby, in accents of the bitterest scorn, “couldn’t you close all the blinds, and lock the front door, and go down cellar and pretend not to be at home? I’ve no patience with you!” Three days afterward the three youngest Nettlebys broke out with scarlet fever. The seven little Smitherses took it of them, the maid took it of the Smitherses, and Mrs. Nettleby had her winter’s work before her. “I wish to goodness I had stayed at home,” thought Mrs. Nettleby. And the amount of thankfulness she felt that year was not, oppressive, in spite of the Governor’s Thanksgiving proclamation.

"THAT'S VERY STRANGE; I TELEGRAPHED HER I WAS COMING."

"I DON'T BELIEVE ANYONE IS AT HOME."