THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
1403 
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Their Last Thanksgiving 
By the Brown Owl 
Silas Hutchins stole quietly from the 
bedroom where his wife still slept, and 
in spite of his 86 years, moved briskly, 
yet quietly, about looking after the fires. 
There was a fine bed of coals in the box 
stove in the sitting-room, so carefully 
opening the door, he laid two dry birch 
chunks on the coals. Then he closed the 
door, carefully opened the round front 
damper and “let her flicker.” 
After watching the fire a few minutes, 
he slipped quietly into the kitchen and 
very carefully lifted a griddle. No soon¬ 
er had he set it on the stove than he 
heard a call from the bedroom. 
“Silas, why in the world didn’t you 
call me?” 
Silas left the kitchen hurriedly and 
went to the bedroom door. 
“There, you caught me again, Martha. 
I just knew you’d call before I got the 
kitchen fire made. I’ll bet I could count 
the number of times on one hand I’ve 
managed it.” 
Martha Hutchins laughed and an¬ 
swered : 
“You and that stove lid make a first 
rate alarm clock, Silas.” 
It was scarcely daylight as yet, but 
the two old people moved about briskly, 
making preparations for breakfast and 
keeping up a steady stream of conver¬ 
sation meanwhile. 
It was Thanksgiving Day, and there 
were many things to talk about. Of 
course everything had been planned days 
before, hut somehow this happy, cheery 
old couple always found a great deal to 
say to each other. Mrs. Hutchins was 
83, and she moved about in the same 
brisk way that her husband did. When 
friends spoke about it she always had 
the same answer. “Seems as though I 
can’t slow down a mite.” 
Breakfast was ready just as the sun 
peeped over distant snow-capped Owl’s 
Head. The golden sunlight flooded the 
warm cozy kitchen and lighted up the 
snow white heads of the two old people 
who sat at the little table and told each 
other for the third time that morning 
just why they ought to be especially 
thankful. 
Just 54 years ago they had been mar¬ 
ried, and had built the little house where 
they still lived. The land was new, and 
the young farmer faced many problems 
that do not confront the farmer of today. 
The farm was pretty well cleared, and 
over half of it under cultivation when the 
war broke out. Silas Hutchins an¬ 
swered the call of his country, and his 
wife, with her three little children, let 
him go, like many more of the women 
at that time, with never a word of pro¬ 
test. “We’ll manage somehow ’till you 
get back,” she had said, and manage she 
did. The work was hard, but she was 
young and strong, and the thought of her 
three little dependent children not only 
urged her on, but also lightened her work, 
for surely that was the labor of love and 
was its own reward. 
When Silas came home at the end of 
the war, the work began in earnest, and 
as the beautiful North Country came into 
its own the lives of Silas Hutchins and 
his wife were woven into its development 
indelibly, as are the lives of a great 
many more of those earnest, whole-souled 
wartime farmers who are now slipping 
away very fast to the other side. 
The three children were sent to school, 
the girl to the Potsdam Normal and the 
two boys through high school. Frank, the 
eldest son, took the home farm and built 
a cozy home not far down the road from 
his father’s. William, the other son, 
bought a farm only three miles away, 
and Elizabeth, their daughter, was mar¬ 
ried and lived in a home of her own in a 
near-by town. They were wise children, 
and did not try to urge their parents to 
give up the little old home and go to 
live with their children, but added what 
comforts they could to the little house. 
After old age had made his father’s 
feet a bit uncertain Frank had induced 
him to send the co'w and horse over to 
his barn, so that there would be no 
chores to trouble with in bad weather. 
The old folks managed a little garden to¬ 
gether, and Martha had her flowers of 
course. She never could live without 
them. Her house seemed to be the cen¬ 
ter of the flower industry for miles 
around. She always had seeds, bulbs 
and roots of various sorts to give away, 
and her flower garden always yielded a 
generous bouquet for every departing 
caller. “The more you pick the more 
you’ll have,” she always said laughingly 
when some one urged her not to pick 
some choice blossoms. Then she would 
sometimes add more seriously, “and do 
you know the more you give of every¬ 
thing the more you will have? It’s queer 
how some folks don’t believe in casting 
their bread on the waters, but I tell you 
a pretty small crust can bring back a 
whole loaf sometimes.” 
After a few years the little old home 
came to be a regular meeting place for 
the grandchildren, and then the two old 
people seemed to live over again the hap¬ 
py days when their own children were 
small. 
As Martha Hutchins cleared away the 
dishes on this Thanksgiving Day, Silas 
took care of the ashes and looked after 
the woodbox. 
“It's a regular glare of ice outside, 
Martha,” said Silas. “Pretty sudden 
change from yesterday’s rain.” 
“Yes, it is,” answered Martha, “and 
Silas, you see to it that you don’t set 
foot on the ground when it’s so icy. We 
don’t want to lay ourselves up.” 
“We have our health now,” answered 
Silas, “but don’t you wish we might both 
slip away before next Thanksgiving 
comes?” 
“Indeed I do, Silas. I hope the Lord 
will see fit to take us before we get help¬ 
less.” 
“I do too, Martha,” answered Silas. 
They had talked it all over many times. 
Heaven was very near them in their 
thoughts, and their talk nearly always 
ended by Silas saying, “and I hope we 
can go together Martha,” and his wife 
would always answer, “Why of course 
we will go together, Silas.” 
“Here comes little Joe Barney after 
his pumpkin pie,” announced Silas a 
little later. “He will have to carry it 
careful over this ice, I’m thinking.” He 
opened the door for Joe as Martha ap¬ 
peared in the pantry door carrying the 
pie. 
“Come, warm up, Joe, before you start 
back,” she said. She slipped the pie tin 
into a wide paper bag and ran a moth¬ 
erly hand down over Joe’s shoulders to 
his little cold grimy hands. Then going 
to her work basket she fished out a pair 
of newly-knit mittens and gave them to 
him. “I made those,” she said, “for the 
first cold fingers that would come into 
my kitchen.” It wasn’t the first time 
that Joe Barney had found new mittens 
in that same basket. 
“Now here,” Mrs. Hutchins said, when 
Joe was warm, “I’ve slipped the pie into 
this paper bag and you carry it so. Go 
carefully, now, or you will fall, it's so 
icy.” 
Ever since Joe could remember there 
had been something good coming from 
the Hutchins home, not only on Thanks¬ 
giving Day, but many times during the 
year. In the little Barney home, where 
there were eight mouths to feed and only 
the wages of the father, who worked on 
the Hunter farm, to clothe as well as 
feed them all, the good things from the 
Hutchins home were very welcome. 
Silas watched the little boy shuffle out 
of the yard and then—“There, lie’s 
down !” he cried. The pie was a wreck, 
and while Silas went to the door to call 
the boy back, Martha wrapped up her 
remaining pie. “I’m awfully sorry, 
Silas, to have you go without your 
pumpkin pie and Thanksgiving Day too, 
but I just can’t send that child home 
without one.” 
“Never mind, Martha, we can be 
thankful we’ve got another for him, and 
we’ll have some baked Talman Sweets 
for today. You know they’re always 
good.” 
“Are you hurt, Joe?” anxiously asked 
Mrs. Hutchins as the boy came whimp¬ 
ering into the kitchen with the empty 
pie tin. 
“Naw, but the pie’s squashed,” he cried, 
“Never mind, here is another, and you 
pick your way this time, won’t you?” 
Grasping his new pie Joe crept care¬ 
fully down the road, avoiding the ice, 
and Mrs. Hutchins turned again to her 
work. 
“Now, Silas you get the Talman 
Sweets and I will put them in to bake. 
Then I think I will put the stuffing into 
that chicken, and that will be ready for 
the oven.” 
Before the chicken was in the oven, 
however, Jim Dowling drove into the 
yard, and when Silas and Martha went 
to the door he swung around in his buggy 
and asked. 
“Heard about our accident yesterday 
morning?” 
“Why, Jim, what?” anxiously asked 
Martha. 
“Well, Hattie took a tumble somehow, 
out in the woodshed, and broke her leg. 
We’re in just a fine pickle. Lizzie is 
trying to take care of her mother and 
run things, but she’s only nine, and it’s 
pretty hard. I’ve just been up on the 
west road to see if I could get the Per¬ 
kins girl, but she won't come before day 
after tomorrow—dance over to Brushton 
and she can’t miss it for love ner 
money.” 
When Jim Dowling drove out of the 
Hutchins yard he carried the stuffed 
chicken, with many instructions to little 
Lizzie about its baking. 
“We don’t need it a bit,” said Mrs. 
Hutchins. “I’m only thankful it hap¬ 
pened to be all ready, and you tell Hat¬ 
tie I’ll be over to see her in a day or 
two.” 
When Silas and Martha faced each 
other a few minutes later they burst out 
laughing, and it was with difficulty that 
Silas found voice enough to say: 
“Let us be thankful, Martha, that 
we’ve got the baked apples, but if some 
one happens along after them there will 
be more in the cellar handy.” 
“Now, Silas, we couldn’t do a bit dif¬ 
ferent, could we?” said his wife. 
“No, we couldn’t, Martha, but we 
mustn’t let on to Frank’s folks after we 
had such hard work to beg off and not go 
over there to dinner.” 
“No,” quickly answered Martha, “don’t 
you breathe a word, and I’ll tell yon, 
Silas, there’s a package of codfish in the 
cellarway and we will have some picked 
fish with our baked potatoes. It will be 
easy to get and you like it too.” 
“Just the very thing, Martha. I’ll put 
another stick into the stove if you don’t 
think it will hurry the apples too much.” 
Mrs. Hutchins was thickening the cod¬ 
fish gravy when their son Frank sud¬ 
denly appeared around the corner of the 
house. 
“Goodness! Silas, here’s Frank,” said 
Martha, as she quickly slipped a cover 
over the codfish and drew it to the back 
of the stove. Frank came in smiling, 
“Hello, mother, almost ready for dinner, 
I see,” and then he began sniffing toward 
the stove. “Chicken smells fine, mother, 
most done, is it?” His mother suddenly 
disappeared into the pantry and when she 
came out she said : 
“I don’t suppose there’s any use ask¬ 
ing you to stop here for dinner, is there, 
Frank?” 
“O, I don’t know, mother, what are 
you going to have anyway?” 
“We’re going to have a first class din¬ 
ner. boy,” said his father quickly, “and 
you’re welcome to set over. We’re pretty 
near ready.” Then Frank threw back 
his head and laughed and laughed. Fin¬ 
ally he said : , 
“O, mother, you can't fool me. When 
we saw Jim Dowling turn out of here 
this morning. Mayme said. ‘What do you 
bet. mother hasn’t given him her dinner?’ 
Then when we saw the basket we just 
knew it.” With that Frank, still laugh- 
(Continued on page 1407.) 
