1374 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
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“According to Jimmy 
(Continued from page 1369) 
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“ ‘Amen !’ sez Maw. 
“Then Paw thought o’ sumpi’n else, 
an’ he sent me to get Edith's letter, he’d 
forgot to give her. Paw told her to read 
it. The first thing come out was a 
check for eighty dollars an’ then a letter 
’at said they’d heard she'd lost her posi¬ 
tion through no fault of her own. After 
’vestigatin’ they found she’d also been 
beat out of her pay. Said they couldn’t 
afford to let anything like that happen, 
so they’d made the firm settle. Said they 
was glad to do her the little service, as 
she was one of the brightest students 
they’d turned out, an’ wanted to know 
if they could get her another position. 
“Yessum, they all forgot about dinner 
but me. I begun to help myself, but 
Paw sez, ‘Just a minute, young man. 
Edith, you can make up your mind about 
that position later.’ 
“ ‘She’s made up her mind already.’ 
sez Sheldon. ‘I offered her a position 
as the better half of my family 15 min¬ 
utes ago an’ she accepted. The quicker 
she enters upon her duties the better I’ll 
like it.’ 
“ ‘Hooray!’ sez Paw. ‘Now w T e’ll offer 
Thanksgivin’ to Almighty God from full 
hearts. My hlessin’s are many more 
than I deserve, after the way I have 
acted this day.’ 
“Then he bowed his head an’ begun. 
Say, Mis’ Holcomb! I wish’t you could 
a heard him. I bet he beat the preacher 
a mile! 
‘‘Say! I forgot all about them traps.” 
“TWISTY-TOE.” 
A Thanksgiving Story of the North 
Country. 
By The Brown Owl. 
{ 4 /^OME boys, get up! This is the 
third time I’ve called you, and it’s 
going to he the last,” called Bess, from 
the foot of the stairs. “The pancakes 
are almost done and I just won’t save 
a single one for you if you’re late.” 
Dick stretched lazily in his warm 
blankets, as he opened one eye at a 
time. The window showed a patch of 
pale gray dawn that announced the ap¬ 
proach of a cold stormy November day 
iu the North Country. 
The boys’ room, over the kitchen, was 
warm and dimly lighted from the holes 
in the register around the stove pipe. It 
was a bit smoky also, but the fragrant 
odor of hot buckwheat cakes, steaming 
coffee, and potatoes being warmed up 
in ham fat, was far from being disagree¬ 
able to the always hungry boys. Dick 
put a foot against the back of his drowsy 
brother and sent him rolling to the floor, 
bedclothes and all. 
“Hurry up, Will,” he said, “let’s get 
down quick, breakfast’s ready and Burt 
’ll just sure fill up on tie cakes.” 
With much pushing and scuffling the 
boys finally got into their clothes and 
stumbling noisily downstairs they made a 
dash across the kitchen for the wash 
basin. 
“What are you boys trying to do, tear 
the house down?” called father from the 
dining room. 
“No sir, Dick is trying to get to the 
washdish first,” meekly answered Will. 
“Come, hurry boys,” mother gently 
urged, as she came out for the coffee pot. 
“We can’t wait for you.” 
Presently the two boys, their faces not 
any too dry, their hair combed carefully 
in front, slid, still giggling, into their 
places at the table. Burt, a ruddy-faced 
boy 14, was already at the pancakes, 
and Bess, a tall pretty girl of 16 was 
busily helping serve breakfast. Burt 
and Bess drove to town to high school, 
while the two boys of 10 and 12 were 
still going to the district school. Their 
home, not many miles from the Can¬ 
adian border, was a plain but comfort¬ 
able old farmhouse, like many of the 
neighboring places. It was surrounded 
by level, fertile meadow lands, rocky rail- 
fenced pastures, and patches of woodland. 
When the breakfast was nearly over 
Mother said: 
“I wish you would kill the chickens 
for me before you start chores, father. 
There was no time to dress them yes¬ 
terday, but if I can get at them, at once 
“Farm Stories” 
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there will be time for them to get cold be¬ 
fore they have to go into the oven.” 
“Thanksgiving!” The heart of Dick 
sank with a thump, lie hadn't thought 
of it since he got up, but it was heavy 
on his mind when he went to bed. Bess 
and mother were discussing the dinner, 
father and Burt were talking about fix¬ 
ing the box stall for the colt, so no one 
noticed that Dick’s pancakes were not 
receiving their usual attention. 
Thanksgiving, the day he had been 
dreading, had come. “Twisty-toe” would 
have to be killed. There are those who 
can understand the affection between a 
boy and a pet rooster. This Rhode Isl¬ 
and Red had been singled out by Dick 
when he found the downy little chick 
with one toe curled around over another, 
and from that day Twisty-toe was Dick’s 
chicken, to be fed, petted, and tended 
to until he became a regular nuisance. 
tion. A subdued sizzle from the oven 
told them that the chickens were baking, 
and the top of the stove seemed to be 
covered with kettles and saucepans, each 
sending forth clouds of steam. 
A shout from the window where Dick 
and Will were playing checkers and 
munching apples brought Burt to their 
side. 
“Oh just see the side hitch I’ve got 
on him now,” sang out Dick. “Either 
way he jumps I’ll take three to the king 
row.” Dick was noted for his “side 
hitches.” 
Mother and Bess stopped by the play¬ 
ers long enough to look and laugh. Burt 
reached for the remaining apple in the 
six-quart pan near by, whereupon a de¬ 
lighted shout went up from Will. “The 
one that takes the last apple has got to 
go down and fill up the pan.” That was 
one of their own rules, so Burt good- 
Twisty-toe was always hungry after the 
manner of his kind, and he had been 
petted so much by Dick, that if he could 
not find his friend in the back-yard he 
would go around and stand near the 
screen door on the porch and wait. 
Many a time during the past Summer, 
Boss, broom in hand, had furiously 
chased him around into the back-yard. 
It never did any good, he was soon 
back. 
During the Fall, when chickens were 
to be either sold or dressed for family 
use, Dick had managed to have Twisty- 
toe passed by, usually by saying that he 
would he a fine big chap for Thanks¬ 
giving. Now, he was quite sure noth¬ 
ing could save his pet. After breakfast, 
mother, going to the woodshed after the 
scalding pan, encountered Dick, as he 
rushed in from out of doors. 
“Why, Dick, what is it. child,” she 
said, as he saw the look of real terror 
on his face. 
“Oh, mother, please come quick and 
fix things, so they won’t take Twisty- 
toe !” he cried. “Please mother, I just 
can’t have him killed!” There were 
tears in his big brown eyes. 
Mother set down her pan and went 
out to where father and Burt were wait¬ 
ing, near the chicken yard, for Dick. 
Dick trotted comfortably on ahead of 
mother, with absolute confidence in her 
being able to fix things satisfactorily. 
“Here, Dick,” called father, “catch 
that big fellow there. He is nearly as 
large as a young turkey.” 
“Is there another one that same size?” 
asked mother. 
“He’s the biggest there is,” said Burt. 
“Well,” said mother, “one would 
hardly be enough for us today. What if 
you kill three of the others that are 
nearer of a size? They are all fat.” 
Dick shot mother a grateful grin as 
he flew furiously about after the others. 
As he passed Twisty-toe he gave the big 
red back a friendly slap that caused his 
pet to hop into a corner 
It was nearly noon when father and 
Burt came in from the barn. The day 
was cold and windy, and the steamy 
fragrance of the warm kitchen made 
both father and son sigh with satisfae- 
naturedly took up the pan and started 
down cellar. 
“What kind do you want, kids?” he 
called from the top of the stairs. “Lin¬ 
coln’s Likings for me,” called Will. 
“Flat Dutch for me,” said Dick, and he 
added, “Say, Burt, just look and see if 
you can’t find one from the yellow apple 
tree and a couple of water-cored Bell¬ 
flowers.” 
“Well now see here,” said Burt. 
“What if you come down and do your 
own hunting.” 
“Can’t do it,” answered Dick, “I’ve 
got Will headed straight for the double 
corners and I’ve got to beat him twice 
more before dinner.” 
One o’clock came and mother said: 
“Come now boys, come father, dinner 
is ready.” 
The boys lost no time getting to the 
table, and mother and Bess, their faces 
hot but smiling, started to serve up the 
feast. The chickens were beautifully 
brown and.Dick could see that there was 
going to be plenty of dressing. The 
baked potatoes burst at the first touch 
of the knife. The Hubbard squash made 
a great mound of yellow. The dish of 
boiled onions had a large piece of butter, 
slowly melting away on top. In fact the 
table seemed full of just the very things 
mother knew they liked best. 
Long before pudding time the boys be¬ 
gan to shift uneasi].v ' n their chairs and 
to wish that they had “saved a little 
more room.” But when at last, Bess, 
having cleared some of the things away, 
brought in the big pudding and set it in 
front of mother, Dick spoke the feeling 
of the family when he said: “Um—the 
very smell of that pudding, mother, 
makes me feel’s if I could eat it all my¬ 
self.” 
Dick scraped the last bit of pudding 
sauce from his dish, looked at it thought¬ 
fully a moment and then put it down. 
“I just can’t hold it,” he said. 
“Why don’t you go out and run 
around the house a few times?” said 
father laughing; “then perhaps you 
would have room for it.” 
“I think I will,” said Dick, and getting 
carefully to his feet he found his cap 
and went out into the yard. He wan- 
November 21, 
dered around to the front of the house, 
and seeing a boy coming up the road he 
stopped nearby until he should come 
along. It was Willie Longgo, with 
hands stuffed in his pockets, and trying 
to produce a whistle that would sound 
cheerful at least. 
“Where, you goin’?’’ said Dick. 
“Oh, up the road a little ways,” said 
Willie. “I thought maybe my uncle 
might come down today.” 
“Had yer dinner?” asked Dick. 
“Naw, not yet,” said the boy. “Pa 
is goin’ over to Jim Collins’ after a while 
an’ see if he kin git some pertaters. Pa’s 
goin’ to work fer Jim next week, I guess.” 
The wind was cold, and neither boy 
cared to stand longer, so Willie moved 
off up the road and Dick rushed into the 
house where the rest of the family were 
still sitting around the dining table. 
“Oh, mother,” he burst out, Willie 
Longgo just went by and he hasn’t had 
any dinner.” 
“I don’t doubt it one bit,” said mother. 
“Joe Longgo worked yesterday and 
the day before that, for Marlin,” said 
father; “but I saw him trying to get 
home from the village last night, and he 
didn’t look as though he cared whether 
there was a thing to eat or not for to¬ 
day’s dinner.” 
Exclamations of anger and disgust 
came from Burt and Bess, and mother 
sat sad and thoughtful, looking out of 
the window. 
“I don’t know wfliat we are going to 
do with those people,” she said finally. 
“There is plenty of work for both Joe and 
his wife if they would only do it. There 
is no need of their living so. The neigh¬ 
bors just clothe those children the year 
around, and I’ve said over and over that 
I would never send any more food over 
there but—those children.” 
The eyes of all were on mother’s face. 
Unconsciously she was their leader in 
everything. Father and children alike 
looked to her for guidance. She was a 
tall faded-looking woman, but her face 
was full of a quiet strength that made 
her a power for good not only in her 
own family circle, but in the whole neigh¬ 
borhood as well. 
“We’ll just have to send them some 
dinner,” she said at last, “and we’ll have 
to send enough so that those children 
will be sure to get some of it.” 
Everyone was at work at once help¬ 
ing to have things ready when Willie 
should come back. During the confusion 
Dick slipped quietly out of the house, 
and mother, going into the woodshed for 
a basket, found him thoughtfully kicking 
a stick of wood near the woodshed. He 
ran to climb up for the basket mother 
wanted, and as he handed it to her he 
said, almost in a whisper, because he did 
not dare trust his voice: 
“Say, mother, can I give ’em Twisty- 
toe?” 
His face was tear stained and grimy, 
but mother stooped and kissed it tender¬ 
ly. “Certainly Dick if you want to,” 
she said gently. 
The basket containing a whole roasted 
chicken, a loaf of bread, over half of the 
great pudding and a jar of cranberry 
sauce was waiting for Willie when he 
straggled aimlessly down the road a little 
later. Near the foot of the hill, and out 
of sight of the house, as Willie was tak¬ 
ing a delighted peep into the basket, he 
came upon Dick with a great Rhode Isl¬ 
and Red chicken under his arm. 
“Hey Willie,” he said sternly, “does 
your father know how to kill a chicken 
quick, so’s it won’t hurt?” 
“Um—you jest bet he does. He’s 
killed sights of ’em an’ knows jest how.” 
“Well if you’re sure, you can have this 
one. Here, I’ll put him under your arm. 
You needn’t pinch him so tight. He’s 
used to being carried, but he don’t like 
to be pinched. You remember what I 
said, now.” said Dick warningly. 
“You bet yer life,” said Willie as he 
staggered off with his load. 
When Dick returned to the dear fam¬ 
iliar kitchen his heart was full of a 
Thanksgiving that he did not more than 
half understand. Bess and mother were 
clearing up the dinner, Burt and father 
were reading and Will was waiting near 
the window with the checkerboard all 
set. 
“Come on Dick,” he said. “We’ll have 
time for four or five games before we 
have to cut our beets and turnips for 
chore time. 
