Rensselaer Union, Volume 11, Number 10, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 November 1878 — A TALE OF TWO THANKSGIVINGS. [ARTICLE]

A TALE OF TWO THANKSGIVINGS.

It was Thanksgiving-Eve. The dusk was falling fast, and something else beside the dusk, namely, a fine cold sleet, which coated the sidewalks, with a slippery crust, and smote the face of each wayfarer with little stinging slaps, as who should say, “ Take these, .with Winter’s compliments; he is just behind, and sends his card on thus by , me.” Thanksgiving-Eves not infrequently are of this uncomfortable pattern. It may be Nature’s happy device for enhancing, by contrast, the cheer and comfort of the season, making the fireside seem brighter, the dinner more tempting and savory. But how about those who have no firesides or dinners? Jenny Forde belongs only in part to this destitute class. She had a fireside, so far as a stove with an open grate about eight inches across deserves to rank under that cozy name. Jenny was proud of her stove. She was quite sure that no one not an expert would suspect its useful qualities, or detect the handy little oven hidden away behind, among the ornamental twirl and scrolls, or the place for potatoes and pudding-dishes beneath the iron cage on top. To-night she had popped on an extra lump of coal, in honor of the season, and the little room fairly glowed with warmth and that redolence of scorched blacking which is the property of little stoves all the world over. The shade pulled down over the window, the lamp set unlit upon the table, and Jenny, in her Connecticut rocking-chair, was seated for the unwonted luxury of an idle half-hour. Later she must sew. This lazy interval was her holiday treat, the only one within her means, poor girl. There was no one to tempt to the extravagance of a Thanksgiving feast or to share it, and to spend time and money in feasting herself alone was an idea which would never have entered into her frugal and modest mind. •

Yet it was not an unhappy face which the fire-glow caressed as the big rocker swung to and fro, each movement marked by a soft thud, thud, on the carpeted floor. Jenny’s characteristic was a round softness of form and feature, which would make her look girlish to the end of her life. Her shrewd blue eyes beamed with a kindly gleam; her mouth, though its corners showed careworn lines, trembled easily into a smile. There was a pleasant attraction in the plump'little figure, always so trimly clad and neat, in the childish fingers, with their deep needle-pricks. Everybody felt it, from babies who cried to come to her to the ladies who supplied her with sewing. Jenny was a favorite, and this evening —nay, this hour was to bring proof of the fact. For, as she sat, there came a knock at the door—a loud, important knock—aijd a tall form entered, impressive in capes and buttons, whom Jenny recognized as the resplendent coachman of Mrs. Meredith, a gentle little widow, and one of her best patrons. “Person here named Forde—Miss Forde?” inquired the dazzling vision. “ Yes; that is me,” said Jenny. “ Then here’s for you. Compliments of Mrs. Meredith, and she hopes * T ou”l have a pleasant Thanksgiving.” “Oh, (hank you, sir; and use thank Mrs. Meredith.” With a nod he of the capes and buttons departed, leaving Jenny face to face with a big basket which he had set upon her table. From under its cover an unmistakable drumstick protruded. “ I do wonder if it can be a turkey,” thought Jenny, as she lifted the cover. Sure enough,' it was a turkey, pillowed on celery stalks and sweet-pota-toes, and mounting guard, so to speak, over a mould of jellied cranberry. And what besides? A golden brown circlet,““with edge of flaky white. Who can mistake a punlpkin pie? Oh, kind Mrs. Meredith! The room seemed to have suddenly rown brighter and warmer, as Jenny, after putting away these treasures, returned. to her chair and the fire. How pleasant it is to be remembered! What a happy little woman—yes, for all that had come and gone—what a happy little woman she was! So deep were her pleasant thoughts that she scarcely heard the second knock which fell on the door—a low, timid one, as from the hand of a child. _ . . “Come in,” she said, dreamily. The door opened a little way, a cold wind swept in from the staircase, but no one entered. “Well, why don’t you come in?” she called out. No one answering, she jumped up and went to>tbe door. A little thinly-dressed girl stood in the hall. She was strangling a sob in her apron, and at the sight of Jenny seemed half inclined to run away. “Oh, please, Miss Forde,” she faltered, “would you lend mother a lump of coal? She’s got one of her baa headaches—and the fire’s went out and it’s so cold—and Alice and me don’t know what to do.” Another sob rounded the sentence like a period. Hard-hearted as it sounds, Jenny’s first impulse was to refuse. She did not know these neighbors of hers, and, “Once begin, you never know when it Will stop,’’ crossedher mind. Another look at the sweet wan face of the child changed her determination. “ Yes,” she said; “ come in, and I’ll lend you a bit. Have you brought carry it ift?” “ Oh, please, I’ll take it in my hand.” Such a mite of a hand! “ That won’t do at all,” cried Jenny. “My coal js all fine; the# are no large pieces. Here, Tit take my scuttle And throw some on your fire. You’re. Mrs'. Denis’girl, I think?” “Yes ’in.” So down stairs they went, and the little guide opened the door of a bare room, and revealed Mrs. Denis lying on

the bed under a huddled heap of clothes, and a still smaller child sitting, with tear-glazed cheeks, beside the idmost extinguished fire. The room felt alarmingly chill, and when Jenny spoke there was no reply, ana the figure an the bed looked so white and motionless that her heart gave a loud thump for fear. Hastily mending the fire, she ran up stairs, filled a saucepan with hot water from her own kettle, and hurrying back, began to bathe the head of the sick woman. To her great relief, Mrs. Denis presently opened her eyes, and feebly muttered, “Oh, that feels good.” “I’m glad it does. Here, I’ll dip the cloth in the hot water again for you.” ‘ ‘ “Is it you. Miss Forde? It’s mighty kind you are.” 4 “ Oh, it’s nothing,” in a business-like way. “Don’t talk. Keep quite still, and your head’ll be better soon.” “It begins to be better already’,’ whispered Mrs. Denis, after a few minutes’ stillness. “My headaches always go off quick at the end. But you are standing all this while. N anny, bring a chair, Nanny.” “It don’t hurt me a bit to stand,” declared Jenny; “I’m used to it Sometimes, when Fm cutting out work, 1 keep on my feet for half a day at a time, and never mind it.” “ Ah, it must be good to have plenty of work!” sighed Mrs. Denis. “I’ve seen the going, up stairs with their bunaids, and I’d nave envied you, perhaps, only it was something to be glad for that there was some one had all she could do, uven.it I hadn’t.” The patient sweetness of this speech touched Jenny. She could not speak quite steadily as she asked, “ Have you no work at all?” “Next to none. I did a petticoat for Mrs. Mallory —that’s in the basement, you know—and I tried some of those slop overalls from Riggs. But it’s a hard man he is, and only fourteen cents a (pair; and what’s that for a day’s work? I’d take anything, though, almost, that I could geC for I want it sore for the children’s sake.” “ Now you must not talk—you really mustn’t,” said Jenny, alarmed at the flush which had risen in the pale cheeks. “Do try and go to sleep. I’ll look to the children’s supper. Don’t worry yourself about anything, and tomorrow, when you’re better, we’ll talk about work, and see what can be done.” All her warm little heart was alive now. “ What a selfish thing I am!” she meditated, when, after making the children comfortable for the night, she went back to her own fire and work. “ I almost refused that poor baby the coal. Jenny Forde, I’m afraid you’re no better than a Pharisee. You’ve got into a habit of passing by on the other side—looking out for number one, and letting other people take care of themselves. You may call it minding your own business as loud as you like; I say you’re a pig.” And her philanthropy broadening under this self-rebuke, a bright thought just then came to her. “ Why not?” she said. “Mrs. Mer-

edith's turkey is big enough, I’m sure. It’s a burning shame that I should have so much, ana they nothing. I’ll ask ’em all up to dinner, and give them one nice Thanksgiving, as sure as my name is Jenny Forae.” It was like a fairy dream to the Denis children when next day Jenny came down stairs with her invitation. And what a dinner it turned out to be! What a traditionally delicious turkey! what lovely cranberry! what a pie! An! no one can thoroughly enjoy such a meal, save those to whom dinners do not come every day. It is impossible. During the long evening Jenny learned the history of her new friends. It was the common story of widowhood and poverty, with one brighter feature —a sailor brother, who had been “so kind.” “Poor Jim! if I only could know where he is to-day!” sighed Mrs. Denis. “It’s fifteen months since he sailed, and never a word all that time, Miss Forde. He left all his back wages for us—the blessed boy that he is. It’s his heart’s blood he’d give mo and the children if he could. And it’s well off we’d be at this moment if it wasn’t for that sorrow of a savings bank, which went and broke with all in it He doesn’t suspect the straits we’re in, and It’s I am glad, for he’d fret sorely, Jim would. His ship is a China trader, Miss Forde. Second Mate he sailed this time, and he's half promised the First Mate’s place if he goes again. His employers think the worldpf him. And why not? for there’s nd~ohe like Jim.” “ How good turkey is!” said Nanny, who was drying the time-honored wishbone before the fire. “It’s quite done, Miss Forde, I think. May I wish it now?” “Yes. Take hold of one end, and I’ll take the other. Now we must each wish. I wish your Uncle Jim would come home quick, and safe and sound.” "Why, that’ my wish, too!” screamed little Nanny, as the bone cracked and flew asunder. But neither wish was granted. Week followed week, month succeeded month, but no Uncle Jim appeared, neither was his ship heard from. And still the friendship begun that Thanksgiving between the “fourth floor front” and the “ third pair back” throve and flourished. It was not in Jenny’s nature to do anything by halves. By her aid Mrs. Denis procured work enough, to keep the wolf from the door, and innumerable were the kind offices which her helpfulness enabled her to do for the widow and her little ones. The children took her into their heart of hearts. “Aunt Jenny" was their name for her, and they loved her next to .their mother. Aha strange to*bay, with all this added woe and new interest, Jenny’s own life seemed brighter and easier than usual. “Everything turned out well" for her that year. Little bits of good fortune came her way, a.hew lightness of heart and satisfaction possessed her. “He that watereth shall be watered." Jenny did not" know it, but that immortal truth is as real now as when in days of old angels came down in visible shape and ministered to the necessities of men. — —■ So passed the winter, the spring; arid summer spread her mantle early Aver the land, and all went happily with the little hive of workers. But one afternoon in August, a sad thing happened. Jenny slipped on a bit of banana skip —one of the many bits which dot summer pavements—fell, wrenched and sprained her shoulder and broke her right arm. Luckily she was near home, and was carried there at once. The accident was disposed of in three lines in next day’s papfir.,J?M .npJ. ! ,.so ( easily by the party most concerned. A long illness was followed by a weary convalescence. Sewing was outof the | Jenny’s friendly patreps were-out of town; there was no onoto ofter help; and what with weakness and discouragement, rent falling be-

hind, and a doctor’s bill looming portentously ahead, our brave little woman felt her courage sink as never before in her life. ' J What could she have done -without the Denises now? This waa *a question she asked herself a dozen times a day. Morning after morning Mrs. Denis brought her bright kind lace to Jenny’s bedside, made her tea, brushed her hair, straightened the room, and cheered her with the hopeful words which mean so much to the desponding invalid. Hour after hour Nanny sat, Satient as an old woman, beside “Aunt enny," watching her eye, and ready to fly nt a moment for whatever was needed. Even little Alice would climb the stairs with a glass of “real cold" 'water, a flower, a kiss to make her well, or a new rhyme culled from her picture-book, which she was sure would amoose” the dear neighbor. These visits were the sole cheer of those dark days. The little seed sown in kindness had indeed brought forth fruit a hundredfold. “Sure and it’s? a pleasure you wouldn’t deny me,” Mrs. Denis would protest in answer to Jenny’s tearful thanks. “It’s always been you and you before, and I never thought I’d have the chance to so much as turn my hand over for you. It’s clear pleasure, The “clear pleasure” lasted into October; then matters began to mend. Jenny could help herself a little at last. Her employers came back, and various little kindnesses followed their return. But the once nimble fingers were stiff and weak, and Thanksgiving found her still unable to sew for more than a few minutes at a time. Mrs. Meredith was in Europe; no'one happened to think of the little seamstress, and altogether things were in sorry contrast to the bright holiday of last year. Again Jenny sat in her rockingchair on Thanksgiving-Eve, idle now from necessity, not of choice. She looked sad, but brightened when Mrs. Denis’ step soundea on the stair. It was a quick, glad step, and Mrs. Denis burst in with the joyful face of a bearer of good tidings. “On, Jenny!” she panted, “never was anything like it! It’s a turkey has come to me myself this time! Mrs. Read sent it, for the darling she is!— an elegant turkey, and an elegant heap of potatoes as well. We’ll nave our Thanksgiving after all; and if you’re agreed, we’ll eat it up, here, for my room’s but a cold one, and I daren’t risk you to come down.” “How nice! how pleasant! But how very kind of you!” said Jenny, half crying- “ Kind! Why, yourself did it, you know. It’s you last year, and me this, that’s all.” It was impossible to resist such openhearted gladness, and the feast proved even merrier than that memorable one of a year ago. Jenny contributed some red-cheeked apples to take the place of the missing pie; the room was warm and bright, the children alive with fun and frolic. Jenny, pale but cheerful, lay back in her chair, enjoying the jokes and contributing a soft treble to the laughter. Altogether it was a pleasant scene.

“Now the wiss-bone!” cried little Alioe. “ Nanny pulled it last time, it’s my turn now. Will you wiss with me, Aunt Jenny?” “Of course; and I shall wish just exactly what I did then,” declared Jenny, holding her end of the bone with the fingers of her left hand—“ Uncle Jim, and may he get back safe and sound!” “ Uncle Jim,” echoed Alice. A deep sigh followed. Jim’s ship was overdue, and Mrs. Denis had fears in her mind which she did not like to put into words. Crack! went the wish-bone, and, as though the sound were a signal, rap! rap! fell upon the door. “ Come in,” cried the whole party, startled, they hardly knew why. “Is there —. They told me below Mrs. Denis was here—” began the newcomer, but his voice was drowned in a joyful shriek. “Jim!” “Uncle Jim!” “Oh, Jim! here at last!” And Mrs. Denis and the children flung themselves upon the stranger. “Avast there! I can’tbieathe for you all,” cried he at last. “ Whatever wilL the lady think of such doings? I’d beg her pardon, only there’s no speaking, you throttle me so.” And shaking aside the children, Jim—a handsome, bronzed fellow, with merry blue eyes—made a polite bow to the rocking-chair and its occupant “Lady!—why, that’s Aunt Jenny,” explained little Alice. “It was she fetched you" back, Uncle Jim—she and me, with the wiss-bone, you know. She wissed, and I was just wissing myself, and just then you came." “Yes, Jeimj knows all about you, Jim,” said his sister. “ And I’m glad it is id her room you found us. She’s been the comfort of life to us all this year back, Jim. I was clean beat with discouragement and trouble, when she came ana heartened us, and found me work, and put the bread into our mouths qgain. I’d have died without Jenny, I think.” “ And what would I have done without you?" protested Jenny. “ They’ve all been caring for mo this three months back, ever since I broke my arm, Mr.— Jim; caring for me just as if I belonged to them. Oh, you don’t half knowhow good your sister is. How shall I ever get on without her when you take her .awnyP” \ • X * . “We won’t go away; we’ll never leave you, Aunt Jenny,” began Alice. Jim had seated himself, with a niece on each knee, and his eyes full on Jenny, Who was prettier ana younger-lookirig than ever since her Illness. Sailors are proverbially inflammable. He stated afterward that that first ten minutes did his business; but All he said was, in a deep chest tone, " I hope I’ll not do anything to displease you, miss.” Why make my tale longer? Happiness can be summed up in few words. Jim went to sea again after a while, but he staid long enough to win and wed his wife. Jenny and Mrs. Denis, sisters now in law as in affection, share a little home together, and are entirely happy, except for a tendency to wake up and listen anxiously on windy nights. Jim, First Mate now, on the high-road to be Captain, is due at home about this time, and, if notbefente, will certainly appear on Thanksgiving Day, because, as little Alice says, “ The wiss-bone will bring him. He camp the minute it broke, you know, Aunt Jenny—the very exact minute. We’ll pull hard this timp, and make it go crack! and then, just as it breaks in two, Uncle Jim will open the door-1 Ynqw he will.’’—/farper's Baxar. MonrEß*, do not let rour darling* suffer With the Cough, If you have a remedy so hear at hand. Use Dr. Bull’s Cough Byrup, and Che little sufferer* "ill won find reflet. Price, 25 cents.