WHEN the children stole back again into the hut after October had gone, Grandfather was still asleep. But before long he roused himself suddenly, rubbed his eyes, and stared at them in a strange, bewildered way.

“Where is Carl?” he said. “Has he hidden himself to plague me? I know he loves to tease, but this is too bad.”

“Grandfather,” said Thekla, gently, “you are not quite waked up yet. It was only a dream! There is nobody here but Max and me.”

The old man looked wildly at her for a moment. Then he came to himself, smiled, and stroked her hair. “So,” he said, “only Max and you, Liebchen! Well, it was a nice dream while it lasted; and now I will go to bed.”

So Grandfather went to bed. But neither the next day, nor the next, nor the next, did he rise; and soon it became an accepted fact that Grandfather did not care to get up any more. He had no pain, and smiled often; but he seldom spoke, and when he did it was of old times, which seemed to be fresher to his mind than the things which were about him. Thekla moved her wheel indoors, and sat where his eyes could rest upon her the moment he waked; while Max, laying aside all his boyish frisk and bounce, moved about the cottage with steps gentle as a girl’s. And so, quietly and rather sadly, the month wore away.

The last evening proved a fierce and gusty one. Amid the pauses of the wind a soft whirring sound as of wings beating outside could be heard. It came from great heaps of rustling leaves driven against the cottage walls by the blast. No other noise broke the stillness, except the crackling of a pine fagot upon the fire, which filled the room with light and fragrance. Thekla and Max sat silently beside the blaze;—the Grandfather slept. It was so long since either had spoken, that when at last a sharp knock fell upon the door both the children jumped from their seats.

Max hastened to open, and to make a polite bow to the new-comer, while Thekla brought a chair. November, a rough looking personage in a gray pea-jacket and flapped hat, took it without ceremony, only saying, “All right,” in a gruff voice. He seemed so big and strong that the boy and girl felt timid. They drew nearer each other, and were not sure exactly how to begin. But when November took off his hat, which he did pretty soon, the face he showed was a kind one, in spite of the rough beard and wild hair, which had evidently not been combed for years, if ever. It was a brown and weather-beaten face; but the eyes were full of that friendly light which children love, and the little ones no longer felt afraid. November looked at them for a moment from under his shaggy eyebrows, and then began fumbling with the knots of a red bandanna handkerchief in which something was tied up. “There!” he said, when at last he got it open, “there’s my present. It came from ever so far away, and a fine piece of work I had to keep it from being smashed on the road. It’s all safe however, I believe, except the edges, which are a little chipped. But that’s nothing. Get your knives and forks, young ones, and fall to.”

This present was a pie,—a fine yellow pie, mottled with brown spots and baked in a red earthenware dish. Max and Thekla had never seen any thing like it before. It felt still warm from the oven; and smelt so delicious and spicy, that it was impossible to keep from eating it at once, as November urged them to do. So Max ran for two horn spoons; and, after a piece was laid aside for Grandfather, he and Thekla began to devour the rest.

“Oh my!” said Max, as he took his first bite, “isn’t it good?”

“Won’t you have a bit, sir?” asked Thekla, who was a polite little creature.

“Bless you!—no,” replied November, who looked highly pleased at the success of his gift. “I never eat ’em till the proper time comes, and that isn’t for three weeks yet. But I know an old lady who persists in making them all the year round, in season and out; and as I thought a pie would be something new, and a good thing to bring, I dropped in on the way here and stole one from her buttery. They were just whipping the cat for the theft as I came away.”

“But wasn’t that wrong?” asked Max, with his mouth full of the pie.

“Um!” replied November, with a keen, funny look, “if I had squeezed it into a can now, and smashed it, perhaps it might have been called so!”

Max blushed, and hung down his head.

“Never mind,” went on November, more kindly. “We won’t discuss the point of our respective honesties, I think! But I must confess that we Months are not as conscientious as we should be. Every one of us steal something wherever we go; and the worst of it is, that we never bring what we steal back again. Heigho!” And he looked silently into the fire for some time.

By this the last mouthful of pie had disappeared; and Thekla had carried off the dish and the spoons, and put them out of sight.

“Was it good?” asked November, meeting her eye with a smile.

“Very, very good,” she answered. “I never tasted any pies like it. Do you know what it is made of, sir?”

“I believe,” said November, “the exact recipe runs thus: ‘As little pumpkin as possible, and as much of every thing else as possible.’ But it’s no use your trying to make one. They don’t succeed anywhere except in that country on the other side the ocean, where this came from. There they have a knack at ’em.”

“Oh, tell us about the other side the ocean!” cried the children.

“I’m going to,” replied November. “That’s where my story happened. “It was way out on the Western frontier—Do you know what a frontier is?” suddenly interrupting himself.

No, the children did not know what a frontier was.

“A frontier,” continued November, “is the edge of civilization; and rough and shaggy enough it is, as edges are apt to be. It is the battle-ground where men and Nature meet and fight it out. Ah! the men have hard times there, I can tell you. They have to turn to and use every bit of stuff that is in them, or they get the worst of the conflict. But Nature is a friendly foe. When she has proved them, she grows kind. The trees fall, the stumps come out of the ground. Every year the work done tells more and more; and the frontier is pushed farther and farther away. By and by there won’t be any frontier left, the whole land will be civilized; and people will have every thing they desire,—brick houses, churches, shops, ice-cream saloons, and copies of Tupper’s Proverbial Philosophy. “Well, I always visit this frontier as I go my yearly rounds; and it was there that I made acquaintance with Mrs. Fiske’s little children.

“Four boys and girls there were, the eldest seven, the youngest not quite three; and none of them had ever seen other children except themselves. Their Mother was a sad, hard-worked woman; their Father, a rough, kind-hearted fellow, too busy to notice the little ones much, except now and then on a Sunday evening. So the children were left entirely to each other for amusement; and they seemed to find plenty of it, for a more merry, contented group I never saw. The rude hut in which they lived was beautiful in their eyes; and the forest, with its birds, berries, squirrels, and flowers, like a delightful playfellow.

“The cabin was off the road for wagon trains: none ever came there. But now and then men on horseback, two or three together, would stop and ask for a meal or a night’s lodging. These were never refused in that hospitable wilderness. The children were glad when this happened; for the men talked about all sorts of interesting things, and brought newspapers, from which their Father read stories and anecdotes. But Polly, the eldest, a bright, observing girl, noticed that after these visits her Mother always looked sadder than before, and sometimes cried.

“Mrs. Fiske came from a State a long way off called Massachusetts. Some of her relations lived there still, and there was the old house where she had been born; but she seldom spoke of it or them. Perhaps she feared to make the children discontented with their lonely life by doing so; and it may be she was wise.

“But the little ones picked up ideas here and there, and made a sort of play of ‘Going to the East,’ where so many wonderful things were. They did not often tell their Mother of these plays: somehow they felt that it gave her pain; but when they were alone with their Father they would talk by the hour, asking questions, and chattering all together like a flock of small crows. “One night a traveller, who was stopping with them, used a new word.

“‘I don’t know if Thanksgiving gets so far out as this,’ he said.

“Mrs. Fiske only answered by a sigh; but her husband replied, ‘Well, no! We’ve had pretty hard times for a spell back; and we never see no newspapers so’s to know what day’s appointed, and so we’ve kind of let it slide. It’s a pity too, that’s a fact. Why, the kids here don’t even know what Thanksgiving means.’”

“Kids?” asked Max, wonderingly.

“He meant the children,” laughed November. “It’s rather a funny word, but some people use it; and as long as it tells what it means it’s a good word. The little Fiskes were used to it.

“‘Well,’ the traveller went on, ‘you shan’t miss the Day this year for want of a paper any how. There’s the “Democrat” of week before last, with the Governor’s Proclamation and all. It’s the 29th you see, four weeks from to-morrow.’ “‘What does Thanksgiving mean?’ asked little Nanny, who was perched on the stranger’s knee. ‘Tell us the ’tory about it.’

“So the traveller, who was a kind man, made quite a story to amuse the children. He told how, long ago, when the land was all wild woods in which only Indians lived, a shipload of English people came across the sea, in the freezing winter, to make a home for themselves in the wilderness. How they suffered hunger, cold, and all sorts of hardships: and at last, after many months, housed their first harvest from a few scanty fields; and, in gratitude for this food which saved them from starvation, set aside a day to be spent in giving God thanks for it. And how, ever since, among their descendants, this day of Thanksgiving had been kept up, and solemnly observed every autumn after the gathering in of the crops.

“Then he told them that in New England, on this day, all the sons and daughters come to the old homestead with their families; and how the long dinner-tables are set out with good things,—turkeys, pumpkin pies, cranberry sauce, and Indian pudding. And then, last of all, he drew from his pocket a paper, and read aloud the Governor’s Proclamation, calling on all citizens to observe the 29th of November as Thanksgiving Day.

“Before the stranger had finished the children were wild with excitement. But their Mother buried her face in her apron, and sobbed bitterly. That night, after the traveller had gone to bed, she talked more about her old home than ever she had done before, and told Polly a great many things of Massachusetts and its people.

“All the next day the children could think of nothing but the stranger’s wonderful story. Why couldn’t they have Thanksgiving too? they asked their Mother. The Governor said they might.

“‘But we haven’t any thing to keep it with,’ said Mrs. Fiske.

“Oh, yes! there was one big squash left. Wouldn’t Mother make some pies out of it for them?

“‘But there are no eggs, or ginger, or lemon-peel,’ answered the poor, discouraged Mother.

“However, the children begged so hard, that at last she said she would try to make some pies. But then Thanksgiving was nothing without a turkey.

“‘Oh, if we only had a turkey!’ cried the little ones.

“I happened to come by that day as they were talking; and it seemed to me rather a pity if, in a land full of turkeys, the Fiskes couldn’t have just one to make merry with. So I cast about in my mind for some way of securing a dinner for them. At last I found it. Forty miles off, through the woods, there lived a rich settler, who I knew kept turkeys. His wife had been lucky that year, and had raised a fine brood. There were at least twenty.

“Among these was one little gobbler, a real vagabond by nature, who was always running off into the forest. His drumsticks were rather toughish from being so much on his legs, but otherwise he was a good fat bird; and, as it was his evident fate to be lost some day, I thought my little friends might as well have the benefit of him as some wildcat or fox. So I watched my chance; and, catching him a long way from home, I headed him in the right direction, and began to drive him toward the Fiskes’ cottage.”

Here Thekla rose, and stole on tiptoe into Grandfather’s room; for she fancied that he called. But the old man slept peacefully, and she returned again quietly as she went. November had paused in his story till she should come back.

“Such a time as I had!” he resumed. “The turkey seemed to know my intention, and to be resolved to spite me. Twenty times, at least, he got away, and, gobbling with joy, began to run toward home. Twice I rescued him from a fox, once dragged him from the very jaws of an opossum. Nothing but my love for the children induced me to go through the task; and I was glad and thankful enough when at last the journey was over, and we arrived safely at the clearing.

“Little Zeke spied him first. ‘Oh, what a big birdie!’ he cried, and made a rush at him. The turkey was too tired to run far, so in a few moments Zeke had him tied by the leg to a tree.

“‘Mother! Polly! Nanny! Baby!’ he screamed. ‘Come and see what I’ve got!’

“All came flocking at the call. ‘Why, it’s a turkey!’ exclaimed Mrs. Fiske,—‘and a real tame turkey, not a wild one at all!’

“‘It’s come for Thanksgiving!’ shouted Polly. ‘Hurrah! hurrah! now we’ll have it for dinner.’

“‘Gobble, gobble, gobble,’ said the turkey.

“‘Why, so we will, old fellow!’ replied Zeke.

“By general consent the turkey was fastened in a corner of the kitchen, by a string round his leg. He thus became a part of the family. The children were very fond of him. They stuffed him all day long with bread-crumbs, doughnuts, bits of meat, and other dainties; so, though he missed his usual exercise, he was a happy and contented turkey, and soon grew so fat that Mrs. Fiske said he would make a splendid dinner.

“‘Massachusetts’ was the name chosen for him, but it was shortened to ‘Chusey’ because that was easier. Before long he had become wonderfully tame. He would run to the end of his string to greet the family, when they came down in the morning; he ate from the children’s hands, and let the baby stroke and ruffle his feathers with her soft fingers as much as she liked.

“Little did the poor fellow guess that the young friends whom he welcomed so gladly were already arranging among themselves how to divide the choice bits of his carcass. Zeke had spoken for one wish-bone, and Polly for the other; Nanny was resolute as to the possession of his tail; and Pop, the baby, was to have a drumstick to suck. All had requested large helps of the breast and plenty of gravy. But, as time went on, the Mother noticed that this savory future was less talked about, and that Nanny and Polly were often to be seen patting the turkey’s back, and calling him ‘Poor Chusey!’ in a pathetic manner.

“At last the great day drew near. The pies were made,—rather singular as to looks, I confess, and a good deal more like porridge than pie, but not at all bad notwithstanding. Mrs. Fiske had picked some wild cranberries, and stewed them with maple sugar. A fine pile of mealy potatoes was chosen and washed. Nothing remained but to kill Massachusetts, and prepare him for the spit.

“‘I’ll attend to it when I come home to-night,’ said Mr. Fiske.

“So, when his work was done, he sharpened a hatchet, and brought it with him ready for the bloody deed. But, lo! and behold, there on the floor were the four children, sitting round their beloved Chusey. They were all crying; and, at the sight of his Father, Pop gave a shriek.

“‘Naughty, naughty!’ he said, and pushed with his little hands. ‘Go ’way, Daddy,—go ’way!’

“‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mr. Fiske, very much astonished.

“‘We don’t want our Chusey killed—we don’t want him for dinner!’ sobbed the children. ‘We love him so much! We don’t like turkeys when they’re d-e-a-d!’ And again the baby broke in with, ‘Go ’way, naughty! go ’way.’”

“‘Well, if ever I see the beat of that!’ cried the Father. ‘It did seem as if that turkey was sent a-purpose, and here you are cutting up like this!’

“But the children would not listen to any objections. Chusey was their turkey, they said; they loved him, and he should not be eaten.

“‘He’s just as much right to Thanksgiving as we have,’ asserted Zeke. ‘He’s “a citizen,” and we mean to give him some of the pie.’ “So the programme was suddenly changed. Instead of making a figure on the table, Massachusetts came to the table, and was one of the company. Tied to Pop’s chair, he was regaled with all sorts of choice morsels. The family dined on salt pork and venison, with cranberry sauce and pumpkin porridge; but, though the fare was rather queer, few happier dinners were eaten that day anywhere. Even Mrs. Fiske came out of her clouds, and was jolly. As for ‘Chusey,’ he gobbled and clucked and chuckled, enjoyed the jokes as much as any one, and seemed to enter fully into the spirit of the occasion.”

“How nice that was!” said warm-hearted Thekla, as November ended. “I love the children for not eating Chusey.”

“So do I,” replied November, heartily; “and this year I mean they shall have something very nice. It’s getting to be a little less frontier-like out there, and I think I see my way.”

“Oh, tell us what!” cried Max. But November shook his head. “Never spoil your eggs by chipping the shells too soon,” said he. “I know how to keep a secret. And now let’s have that can of yours, and I’ll take my moments; for I’m late, and must be off.”

He tied the moments in the red bandanna handkerchief, shook hands in a friendly way, and without another word was gone.

“Oh, isn’t he nice!” said Thekla.