Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 48, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 December 1895 — UNCLE RICHARD'S DINNER. [ARTICLE]

UNCLE RICHARD'S DINNER.

A THANKSGIVING STORY. When Aunt Louisa came into the room that morniug, 1 could plainly see that there was something on her mind; the family had very evidently commissioned her to have something out with me. I knew it by the unconscious air she tried to assume, aud at once began to review my conduct for the past week. For a wonder I could think of no recent act of mine likely to call down upon my head the family displeasure, and I accordingly awaited her opening with some interest. “Well, Dick,” she began—Aunt Louisa can’t help patronizing people, and I forgive her—“next Thursday is Thanksgiving Day.” I couldn’t see her drift, so I waited. “Your mother has a letter—that is Uncle Richard has invited us all out to his place for dinner.” I breathed more easily. “Oh, that’s it, is it. Now, Aunt Louisa, I really must ask you not to frighten me that way again. I thought from your manner at first that you had discovered something— not that that there is anything to discover, you know, but then—” Aunt Louisa arose from her chair and stood in front of me. She had evidently decided to take the bull by the horns. “Oh, come, Dick. Don’t let’s clmff. You know what I want. Will you go?” “I won’t.” “O-o-h, Dick!” This in a very disgusted voice indeed. “Now. Aunty, don’t be unreasonable. Why should I? Would you?" Of Course that was a very foolish question. I might have known that she would say yes, and she did. “I would do whatever my family decided was for the best, and—” “Very well. The portion of the family here assembled decides that 1 for one decline the kind invitation.” Aunt Louisa looked out of the window at the firs t snow of the season, but I don’t really think she saw it. 1 watched the little clock on the mantel piece and tried to calculate how many seconds it would be before she would again begin. “But, Dick, it’s the first time Uncle Richard has invited us to liis house for twenty years.” “I have had a message from him once a year—” “You deserve it, Dick. You know you did put cayenne pepper in his snuff box.”

“Twenty years ago. And he has -chosen to send a neat little package of cayenne pepper on every birthday since! I’m afraid he’d force it down my throat at dinner.” “But, Dick, he’ll never forgive (he family if you don’.t go.” “No,” I assented, “he won’t.” “But don’t you care? There won’t be many more Thanksgivings before h« dies and then—” Aunt Louisa didn't know what then. But I did. “And then his brother's wife’s sister’s children will get his money unless we patch this up. Why don’t vou sav it?” “Dick, you're perfectly shocking!” You know I have no such thought. None of us have. I'm sure we have all been very fond of Uncle Richard for all his ecentricities.” “Oh, he is eccentric, is he? I had imagined that he is a perfect model of what an affectionate uncle should be. He never forgets me, I am sure.” “Now, Dick, don’t be sarcastic. At such a time we should show—” “Do you mean,” I asked, “at Thanksgiving times in general or when one is expecting the death of his mother’s uncle?” “I mean when the season of Thanksgiving comes round.” Aunt Louisa looked me full in the eyes, and was really impresive in her manner. “I know, Richard,” she went on “none of us are perfect, but at this time I think we ought to try, at least, to be grateful and forgiving and all that. I really do.” “But, my dear Aunt Louisa, I've nothing to be thankful for. None of my neighbours have been killed—” “Richard, I do not care to hear such affected cynicism—such cheap twaddle!” and Aunt Louisa glared out of the window worse than ever. “You don’t undertsand. my dear aunt, and by not understanding, you betray, I will not say an ignorance, only an unfamiliarity with the Thanksgiving Day literature of all time. If you will refresh your memory, as I’m sure you ean, you will recall the scene of the hero in his sumptuously furnished apartments, declaring that he lias nothing to be thankful for. and just then there is a loud crash, and the little match girl who has come into the loom throws up the blinds and shows all Ills neighbours killed by a terrific explosion of gas in the next block. The hero then lias so much reason for gratitude that he starts dut to buy the match girl a new pair of shoes and brings the story to a close by marrying her and discovering that she is a

great heiress. I repeat, auntie, that nene of my neighbours have been killed.” Aunt Lonisa still looked out of the window and said nothing. I felt hurt. It seemed to me that I had made an especially bad point, and I did not like to have it received with such an utter lack of appreciation. I reached for my bat. “Dick,” cried my aunt, “you’re an inhuman wretch, and you want to ruin all our prospects.” It was evident that she was geting in a temper, and being conscientiously opposed to talking to an angry person, I determined to end the interview. "Really, aunty, you’l have to excuse me. I can never consent to toadying a rich uncle, even if I am his namesake, in order to get his money. I think it’s immoral. He can leave it-to his brother’s wife's sister's children, so far as I am concerned.” ”Yes. somebody he picked up in Chicago. Somebody we don’t know anything about. Why, I don’t even know her name, and goodness knows whether she has even that slight claim on him!” Aunt Louisa flounced out of the room in a way that I should call rude. There are some women that are said to be more beautiful when angry. Yon read about the flashing eye, the heightened color, and all that, you know, but iu Aunt Louisa's case the color all goes to the nose. And it isn't becoming. I’ve told her so. But she continues to lose her temper. I’m sure she wouldn’t if she only knew how she looks.

Jack Greenough said to me the other night at the club; “Dick, old man, what’re you up to next week? Come go shooting?” Now, you know I care just about as much for shooting as I do for marbles, but then Jack always has a jolly crowd with him,’ and there's enough fun on the side to pay for the hard work of lugging around a gun that you’re afraid is going off. So I told Jack I’d go. It would be a way out of. Uncle Richard’s dinner, anyway. “Then I’ll count on you,” said Jack, “aud, say, send down your traps—my man will get them—there’ll be a dinner or two and you’ll need them. Daisy Merrihew is in the neighborhood.” Miss Merrihew—Jack has no right to call her “Daisy”—he doesn’t know her nearly so well as I do, and I’ve only met her half a dozen times—lives some place up in the country, but when she comes to town she shines with a radiance that Idon't see how the fellows resist. I’m sure I can’t and I'd go—why, hang it! 1 thought I’d almost go to Uncle Richard’s to see her, So that's how I found myself on Thanksgiving Day, with Jack and half a dozen of the fellows at some out of the way place, tramping through the snow and bunging away at the bird* whenever we got close enough. Tney all thought my shooting very funny, until 1 shot Jack’s dog, but after that the sport lagged, aud we were glad to seek shelter iu a farmhouse Jack had hired for headquarters. We slipped into civilized clothes, and helped Jack mourn for his dog. Of course, I felt sorry, but then, you know, a dog's only a dog. after all, and Jack made more racket than 1 would over the death of the czar of all the Itussias. He’d sit and tell us what a good dog he was. and how much ho knew, aud gave us bis pedigree, and went on, until I began to debate whether it wouldn’t be the proper thing to put a band of crape around our hats.

.Tack didn’t say so, but I believe he more than half blamed me, because that spotted cur got in front of my gun when it went off. But Jack got over it, and then began to tear around like mad to get us ready for dinner. Miss Merrihew had beeli over the day before from her uncle’s who lived, it seemed, on the next farm, and had invited the whole crowd to eat dinner with them. Jack explained that her uncle seemed to be aqueer old duffer, but good as the piles of gold he had, and he could warant we'd have a frolic. It happened as we rode to the house that Miss Merihew’s horse—she had ridden over with some of her visitors to show us the way—was jogging along beside mine. Miss Merihew is always handsome, but I don't think she ever looked quite so handsome as she did on that horse. I blessed my stars that 1 hadn't been dragged off with Aunt Louisa to spend the day with some crabby old bachelor uncle—and yet, if 1 had the money he ought to leave me, I'd ask Miss Merrihew to—

“Don’t yon think,’"she was saying, that Thanksgiving Day is a great institution? It's so American, you know, and 1 love anything American, and—” “Miss Merrihew,” 1 interrupted, “1 am American, and if you think that you could—now could you?” “Oh, Mr Hartwell, I—really—” “But couldn't you, now. I have worshipped you always, it seems, and if you can't do any better than to love me for my Americanism I’ll go round wrapped in the star spangled banner. As for Thanksgiving Day we’ll observe it the year round—maybe without the turkey, but it will be Thanksgiving just the same!” Miss Merrihew's horse was very close to mine. Her hand went out and rested on the hand that held my rein. “Dick,” she said,' "this is serious business?” “To be sure,” I replied, “but then it’s no new thing to me.” “What do you mean?” she asked, in some haste.

“I mean loving you. Don't you remember when 1 first met you?” I hoped she did. Iwasn't sure whether it was at the Charity ball or not. but it was about that time. She didn’t however. “Well,” I went on, “you dropped a rose that night and I picked it up, and have carried it ever since in the inside pocket of my other coat.” “Oh, Dick, have you really? And do you love me so much?” “Oh, more than that,” and I am sure I do.” ” “Well, then, Dick, we will wait awhile, and if you are really sure then why we’ll think about it.” , Now, that isn’t altogether satisfactory, and yet it.s not so bad after all. The others had ridden ahead; we were in a little clump of trees, and leaning from my saddle we sealed the bargain.

When we rode into the yard the others were • dismounting. Ifelt conscious of Jack's inquisitive eyes, but beyond them, on the verandah, was another pair, sharper than Jack's Aunt Louisa’s, by all that was wonderful Gradually it began to dawn on me. “Daisy,” I whispered, “what’s your uncle’s name?” “Why, don’t 3’ou know? How queer. Mr. Richard Hiliard.” “My uncle Richard,” I cried, “and you are his brother’s wife’s sister’s daughter.” “Why, why, let me see. Yes, I guess that’s the exact relationship. And are you his nephew, Dick, that's to have all liis money?" “That’s not to have it. I’m afraid, for But Aunt Louisa, who had just arrived with the family', came forward, and there were introductions all round. In the midst of them Uncle Richard appeared, looking not a day older than when I doctored his snuff. “Don’t tell me I have to be introduced to my own nephew,” he cried, and started toward Jack, but aunt Louisa deftly pushed me forward, and Uncle Richard seized my hand. "Why, I'd a-known him anywhere. He’s a Hilliard all over. Have you brought any cayenne pepper?” and he laughed almost as loudly as he howled when he got that historical original dose. “Well, no uncle, not that kind, I haven’t,” I replied, “but if you'll give me a half minute's audience, 1 have something more startling than that.” sou have. Well, come here, you young rascal, and let's have it.” While the visitors, including Aunt Louisa, who reluctantly let me get out of her sight, went into the house I told Uncle Richard I loved the daughter of his brother's wife's sister, and that we wanted to get married. "Now, do you know,” said Uncle Richard, “that that’s what I brought you down here for? Marry her? Why to be sure.” So 1 was thankful, after all, and nobody had been killed, either. Unless yon count Jack’s dog.