Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 34, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 November 1901 — Over to Aunt Thankful'S [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Over to Aunt Thankful'S

THE best thing about Thanksgiving dinner over to Aunt Thankful Blessing's was the stories which vast with every dish. The turkey always **■« to the table on a huge pewter plattab, which was one of the many portions tb* Mayflower’s cargo owned by Aunt naskful. Near the edge of the pewter flatter was a little round hole, through which the gravy sometimes dripped on to ta* white cloth. Every year there were Mm* of the "connections” at the table

who had never noticed that hole before. At any rate, it was understood by all the family that at the proper point some one was to ask about it. "W hy, Aunt Thankful, how ’ d that hole come in your pewter platter?” Then the old lady would beam with satisfaction.

“Keep right along, Gershom,” she’d say ker husband, “carve the turkey and the sweet potatoes while I tell these •Mldren how that hole came in the pewtar platter. “Now that platter, you see, children, yn brought over from England by your froat, great, great grandfather, who was «aM of the passengers on the Mayflower. Ba nettled down there at Massachusetts Bay and became one of the elders of the church. The Indians were thick all about the settlement and the men carried their guns with them even to church. One Thanksgiving day while the family were at church the Indians broke into your great, great, great grandfather’s log cabin and carried off everything they could lay their hands on. Among the things taay stble was this pewter platter. The «M dhief, Sonnawish, had the platter and ho made up his mind that it was intended fa be used as a shield. So when he saw tae people coming through the woods from the Thanksgiving service he held the platter up in front of him and ran eat into the open, yelling and making tasulting gestures at your great, great, great grandfather. And your great, great, great grandfather drew bead on the InMan chief and killed him with a single ■hot. That is the hole through which the bullet passed.” When the conversation turned to the weather it was Uncle Gershom’s recog-

sized prerogative to take the center of the stage or table. “R e g u 1 ar, oldfashioned Thanksglving weather, thia, Uncle Gershoxn,” one of the third generation would say. “Why, there was frost on ■ay window panes this morning when 1 got up.” That was the old man's cue.

“You boys don’t know anything about weather. Children’r so mighty delicate and tender nowadays they can't stand anything. Frost on yere window pane, bah? What would ye think if ye should wake up some morning and find six inches ar a foot of snow on top of yere bed spreads? S'prize ye some, wouldn’t it? When I was a boy me an’ my brother Kbenezer used to sleep together up in the loft of the log cabin. Father an’ mother an' the girls slep’ down below, long about 9 o’clock father’d bank the Ara in the big fireplace an’ say, ‘Well, hoys, ’bout time fer youngsters to be turnfts* in.’ We’d climb up the ladder to the Soft, undress and crawl under the blanket. Lookin’ up, we could see the stars if they was out between the chinks in the ■oof. In 'bout one minute we'd be asleep. Mehbe It 'ud blow up a snow durin’ the sight and the snow’d come siftin’ down through the chinks and cover the bed thick over. Glad enough uv it we was, ten, fer there isn’t any down bed comfbrt half as warm as one made out of six laches of thick snow. Frost on yere winpane, heh? Hew, but that’s teritfbls!” Along about “second helpin’ ” time

Uncle Ebenezer usually got into action. He needed neither cue nor opening. When the spirit moved him he spoke. "In the fall of ’42,” he began, "father sent me in to Chicago with an ox team

and a big load of corn. It was a forty mile drive each way. It was the first time I had ever been trusted with such an important job, and it was also the first time I had ever been to a big city, for Chicago even then was a big city to us. If you've ever driven oxen you know they

don’t travel fast. Besides that the load was heavy and some of the roads was hub deep in mud. I had to ask my way from every man I met and I stopped at almost every log cabin for the same purpose. But neither the men nor the cabins were numerous enough to delay me much. Before I started father gave me a silver half dollar. It was the first money of my own I’d ever had. I tied it up in the corner of a red bandanna and made great plans about what I’d buy with it. “Of course, I walked all the way In from the clearing to Chicago, goading the oxen and making the best time I could. I went to the tavern and ate breakfast, all the lunch I took with me being gone, and then went out and sold my corn. With that money I bought supplies according to a written list father had given me. Then I spent a few hours looking at the sights of a great city, and turned in for the night at the tavern at 8 o’clock. Next morning at 4 o'clock I was up and started back for home. “Fifteen miles out from Chicago I suddenly thought of my silver half dollar. What had become of it? Finally I remembered that when I went to bed at the tavern the night before I had put the handkerchief, in which it was tied up, under my pillow. I had gone off in the morning and forgotten it. There happened to be a log cabin near where I was on the road when I made this alarm-

ing discovery. I turned in there and got permission to leave my oxen and wagon for a few hours. Then I turned around and ran back to Chicago affor my money. What is more, I found it, too. The woman who made up the bed in the room I occupied had found it and

given It to the proprietor. He laughed when I asked him for it and asked how far I had come back for it. I told him about fifteen miles. “ ‘Well,’ he said, as he handed me a silver dollar, ‘if a half-dollar looks that big to you you’d better try to tote this silver cart wheel home. An’ if you’re going out the Rockford and Galena road there's a wagon of mine starting that'll give you a lift to where you left your oxen.’ “So I got back from my first trip to Chicago with twice as much money as I started with.” Uncle Hezekiah was always short and to the point. On the regular Thanksgiving program he immediately followed Uncle Ebenezer. “Look at them children laugh,” he would begin as his brother finished the story of the 50-cent piece. “They haven’t got an idea of the value of money. It positively don’t mean anything to them. How do you think I earned my first money? By grubbing forty acres of forest land. How much do you think I got paid for it? Fifteen dollars. I don’t suppose there’s one of the young ones around this table that even knows what grubbing means, let alone doing it. And they don’t know whether sls is low or high pay for clearing all the roots and stumps out of forty acres, either. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll pay any three of you boys sls apiece if you’ll grub half an acre for me and I’ll furnish the land, too.”—Chicago Tribune.