THANKSGIVING AT GRANDFATHER'S 51 



small boys who live very much as I did when I was 

 a boy. No, they are not farmer's boys ; for I am not 

 a farmer, but only a " commuter " — if you know 

 what that is. I go into a great city for my work ; 

 and when the day's work is done, I turn homeward 

 here to Mullein Hill — far out in the country. And 

 when the dark November nights come, I hang the 

 lantern high in the stable, as my father used to do, 

 while four shining faces gather round, as four small 

 boys seat themselves on upturned buckets behind the 

 cow. The lantern flickers, the milk foams, the stories 

 flow — " Bucksy " stories of the noble red-man ; and 

 stories of the heroes of old ; and marvelous stories 

 of that greatest hero of all — their father, far away 

 yonder when he was a boy, when there were so many 

 interesting things to do on Grandfather's farm just 

 before Thanksgiving Day. 



