(474 
The  RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
December  1,  1923 
Hope  Farm  Notes 
Part  II 
There  was  no  light  at  the  front  of  the 
big  house,  but  I  knew  the  habits  of  the 
inmates,  so  I  walked  around  to  the  back 
kitchen.  As  I  stepped  on  the  porch  two 
great  dogs  sprang  to  their  feet  with  fierce 
growling,  but  they  knew  me,  and  at  a 
word  their  hair  smoothed  down  and  their 
tails  went  wagging.  There  was  a  kero¬ 
sene  lamp  on  the  table,  and  by  its  light 
Deacon  Porter  was  picking  a  chicken.  I 
remember  that  it  was  a  Light  Brahma, 
•from  the  fringe  of  black  feathers  hang¬ 
ing  like  lace  around  its  neck.  The  deacon 
explained  that  his  housekeeper  had  gone 
to  see  one  of  her  children,  and  left  him 
alone  for  the  holiday. 
“Got  to  celebrate  Thanksgiving.”  he 
said,  “and  can’t  do  it  without  poultry.” 
If  my  cynical  friend  could  have  seen 
and  heard  that  how  it  would  have 
strengthened  his  argument  that  these 
purebred  Yankees  are  bluffers  over 
Thanksgiving.  For  Deacon  Porter’s  pedi¬ 
gree  was  as  blue  as  the  famous  blue  laws. 
One  of  his  ancestors  fought  in  the  great 
swamp  fight  over  in  Rhode  Island  on 
that  terrible  December  day  when  those 
Yankees  broke  the  power  of  the  Narra- 
gansetts.  The  red  men  did  not  call  them 
bluffers,  at  least.  The  old  man  picked 
away  with  his  clumsy  fingers,  but  he 
could  not  see  all  the  pinfeathers,  even 
with  his  glasses. 
“Here,  boy,”  he  said,  “your  fingers  are 
limber — pick  this  chicken  and  I’ll  make 
you  a  present !” 
In  those  days,  when  the  boy  picked  a 
chicken  he  was  expected  to  use  a  bag  to 
keep  his  clothes  clean.  So  the  old  man 
brought  out  a  grain  bag  and  I  stepped 
into  it.  The  opening  was  brought  up  and 
pinned  over  my  shoulders,  with  my  hands 
free  to  pick.  An  old  sheet  was  put  on  the 
floor  to  catch  the  feathers,  and  I  soon  had 
that  bird  completely  undressed.  Then  the 
old  man  went  into  the  pantry  where  Mrs. 
Leonard  had  left  her  Thanksgiving  cheer 
and  brought  out  three  doughnuts  and  a 
piece  of  mince  pie.  This  was  my  present 
— a  most  acceptable  one  for  me.  I  stuffed 
the  doughnuts  into  my  pocket  and  had 
taken  one  big  bite  from  the  pie  when  the 
two  dogs  suddenly  sprang  to  their  feet, 
growling  like  furry  and  pawing  at  the 
door.  The  old  man  turned  down  his  lamp 
and  took  a  double-barreled  shotgun  from 
behind  the  stove.  As  he  opened  the  door 
the  older  dog  dashed  out  into  the  dark¬ 
ness.  At  the  old  man’s  command  I  held 
the  puppy  back.  The  old  man  stepped 
outside  and  raised  his  gun. 
“Get  out  or  I’ll  fire,”  he  said. 
Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  We 
heard  the  old  dog  growling  down  by  the 
road — then  suddenly  he  gave  a  yelp  or 
whine  and  came  running  back  to  the  dim 
light,  capering  and  wagging  his  tail.  We 
could  not  make  him  go  out  again.  He 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  tell  us  something. 
And  down  by  the  road  I  was  sure  that  I 
saw  two  shades  or  shadows  disappearing 
under  the  big  elm  by  the  gate.  That  was 
all ;  we  heard  nothing  more.  The  other 
night  our  supposed  robbers  came  with 
bright  lanterns,  but  these  silent  and  shad¬ 
owy  intruders  passed  out  of  sight. 
“Take  Dick,  to  see  you  home,”  said 
Deacon  Porter,  and  so  I  went  along  the 
dark  road  with  my  hand  on  the  collar  of 
old  Dick,  and  it  was  a  comfort  to  think 
as  I  chewed  my  doughnuts  of  those  great 
white  teeth  close  to  my  hand.  Nothing 
happened,  and  at  our  gate  the  old  dog 
turned  and  quietly  trotted  back  home,  to 
assume  new  responsibilities  as  village  po¬ 
liceman.  My  uncle  was  nodding  in  his 
chair  as  I  came  in,  but  at  my  story  he  lit 
his  lantern  and  we  went  through  the  barn 
to  see  that  all  was  right.  We  nailed  up 
a  couple  of  doors  where  there  were  no 
locks,  and  then  went  into  bed,  where  the 
fragrant  odor  of  cranberry  sauce  and 
mince  pie  wafted  us  away  to  the  spice 
islands  of  bliss. 
*  *  *  #  sj: 
Thanksgiving  Day  came  as  it  often 
does— gray  and  chilly  and  gloomy.  As 
I  filled  my  wood  box  I  saw  two  hungry 
crows  flying  slowly  up  from  the  swamp. 
I  do  not  know  of  anything  more  depress¬ 
ing  than  a  hungry  crow  on  Thanksgiving 
Day.  My  aunt  ran  out  of  brown  sugar, 
and  I  was  sent  over  to  see  if  Mrs.  Iloxie 
could  lend  us  a  little.  Out  in  front  of 
his  house  stood  Captain  Hoxie  talking 
with  a  woman  who  stood  on  the  road 
holding  a  little  boy  by  the  hand.  On 
board  his  fishing  smack,  sailing  out  of 
Gloucester,  Captain  Hoxie  was  a  full 
man.  but  on  land  his  wife  and  his  na¬ 
tural  dislike  of  farming  seemed  to  cut 
his  manhood  in  two.  Yet  somehow  I 
had  always  felt  that  if  you  gave  him  op¬ 
portunity  the  Captain  would  rise  up  to 
great  things,  and  sure  enough  this 
Thanksgiving  was  to  give  him  oppor¬ 
tunity.  The  woman  was  talking : 
“Oh,  Captain  Hoxie.  will  you  go  up 
to  father’s  with  me?  Will  died  a  month 
ago  and  here’s  little  Peter.  I’ve  come 
back  to  see  father.  I  went  up  last  night 
after  dark,  but  father  took  his  gun  and 
set  old  Dick  on  us,  but  Dick  knew  me. 
I  walked  to  the  center  and  slept  at  the 
tavern.  Now  it’s  Thanksgiving  and  I 
want  to  see  father.” 
The  Captain  smoked  his  pipe  for  a 
moment,  and  glanced  around  to  see  if  his 
wife  was  in  sight.  He  sent  a  puff  of 
smoke  from  one  side  of  his  mouth  and 
spoke  through  the  other. 
“Will  leave  any  means?” 
“Yes,  he  was  quite  well  off!” 
“You  got  it?  So’s  you  won’t  be  no  in¬ 
cumbrance?” 
“Yres,  we  have  enough  to  provide  for 
us  but  I  want  to  see  father!” 
“Well,  I'll  set  sail  and  convey  ye  up — 
let  the  boy  come  too — the  deacon  thinks 
he’s  smart !” 
So  we  marched  up  the  road,  the  Cap’n 
rolling  like  a  true  saijorman.  I  proud 
as  a  peacock  to  learn  that  the  deacon 
thought  I  was  “smart.”  Little  Peter 
took  hold  of  my  hand  and  trotted  along. 
We  walked  right  into  the  yard  and 
around  behind  the  house.  Deacon  Porter 
was  cleaning  up  his  kitchen — he  had  the 
housekeeper’s  apron  tied  around  his  neck, 
and  a  broom  in  his  hand — not  at  all  the 
picture  of  a  substantial  New  England 
farmer.  Old  Dick  jumped  up  from  the 
porch  and  ran  to  Mary,  while  the  young 
dog  came  and  stood  by  Peter.  There 
our  little  group  stood  in  the  cheerless 
yard,  the  dull,  gray  sky  over  us,  and  for 
sound  a  mournful  rustle  as  the  wind 
blew  through  the  leafless  branches  of 
the  big  elm.  Deacon  Porter  stood  on 
the  porch  and  looked  over  us — over  the 
meadow  past  the  piles  of  stones  to  the 
woods  beyond.  Then  he  spoke  slowly. 
“I  hain’t  got  my  glasses  on  and  don’t 
know  who  you’ve  got  there.  Anyway  I 
don’t  give  money  or  help  to  beggars !” 
Cap’n  Hoxie  took  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth,  tapped  it  on  his  boot  and  then 
waved  it  in  his  hand  as  he  spoke. 
“This  ain’t  no  beggar,  deacon.  It’s 
your  own  flesh  and  blood ;  your  own 
daughter  come  back  of  her  own  free  will 
and  accord  to  make  up  with  ye!” 
“But  I  have  no  daughter.  She  killed 
herself  in  my  eyes.  She  knows  better 
than  ever  to  darken  my  door  again.  She 
made  her  bed — now  let  her  lie  in  it.” 
“But  father,”  the  woman  started — but 
Cap'n  Hoxie  wTaved  her  to  silence.  And 
then  he  rose  to  great  heights  of  oratory. 
I  did  not  imagine  he  had  it  in  him.  It 
was  as  good  as  the  speech  Judge  Baxter 
made  to  the  jury  when  Daniel  Pratt  was 
up  for  stealing  a  horse. 
“And  it’s  a  bed  of  luxury,  deacon, 
which  she  has  left  to  come  and  make  it 
up  with  you.  Will  is  dead  and  has  left 
her  means.  She  ain’t  no  beggar,  but 
here  she  comes — a  woman  of  means,  back 
to  the  old  home.  She  and  tliis'little  boy  ; 
he’s  got  your  name  and  lie’s  the  living 
spit  of  you.  Back  they  come,  not  wffth 
no  empty  hands,  but  with  means.  Don’t 
reject  the  prodigal  daughter.  Don’t  you 
want  this  big  house  filled  with  children 
and  sunshine?  Take  her  back  and  hap¬ 
piness  will  flowr  in  on  you  like  it  done 
from  the  widder’s  cruse  of  oil.  Think 
on’t,  deacon,  think  on’t.  Me  and  you 
have  lost  the  greatest  thing  we  ever 
owned — that’s  youth.  Here  is  you  chance 
to  get  it  back  on  Thanksgiving  Day.  I 
wish  I  had  your  chance !” 
It  was  a  stirring  appeal,  but  Deacon 
Porter  was  hard,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  he 
would  have  given  in  but  for  little  Peter. 
Unknowrn  to  us,  while  Cap’n  Iloxie  wTas 
speaking,  the  little  fellow  climbed  on  the 
porch  and  stood  beside  his  grandfather. 
II  caught  the  old  man’s  apron  and  pulled 
it. 
“Say  granpa,  I’d  like  to  live  with  you. 
I’ll  bet  we  could  have  lots  of  fun.” 
The  old  deacon  looked  at  the  hoy  a 
moment,  and  in  spite  of  what  my  cynical 
friend  says,  something  within  him  gave 
way.  But  he  had  to  do  it  in  Yankee 
fashion.  He  turned  half  fiercely  to  his 
daughter : 
“Mary,  w’hat  you  standing  there  for? 
Take  off  them  gloves,  put  on  this  apron 
and  get  to  work  on  dinner.  I’ll  take  this 
boy  out  and  show  him  the  calf.” 
That  was  all  there  was  to  it.  I  have 
seen  plays  where  the  daughter  came  back 
in  this  way.  No  doubt  the  stage  manager 
thought  he  was  holding  up  the  mirror 
to  nature  -when  he  had  the  daughter  fall 
into  the  old  man’s  arms  while  he  held 
up  his  face  in  an  attitude  of  pi-iyer  and 
while  he  wiped  his  nose  with  his  free 
hand.  The  orchestra  usually  plays  soft 
music  while  the  boy  cries  into  his  mother’s 
dress  and  the  hired  man  dances  a  clog  for 
very  joy.  It  always  seems  to  me  that  he 
has  an  eye  on  the  daughter.  That  is  the 
stage  version,  but  it  wasn’t  that  way  in 
Yankee  land — not  when  I  was  a  boy. 
Mary  pulled  off  her  gloves  at  the  Dea¬ 
con’s  command,  walked  into  the  kitchen, 
took  off  her  hat  and  in  five  minutes  was 
preparing  that  Brahma  chicken  for  the 
oven  just  as  if  she  had  never  left  home.  As 
for  the  boy  there  was  no  crying  about 
him.  He  pulled  at  the  old  man’s  hand. 
“Come  on  granpa.  I  want  to  see  that 
calf,”  and  old  Deacon  Porter  shed  his 
apron  and  walked  away — a  willing  pris¬ 
oner.  As  for  soft  music — there  was  only 
the  wind  sighing  through  the  elm 
branches  and  the  muffled  blat  of  that 
hungry  calf  in  the  barn.  Perhaps  some 
instinct  warned  him  that  he  was  expected 
to  give  the  usual  performance  of  the 
fatted  calf — and  he  did  not  know  the  fate 
of  the  Brahma  chicken.  And  so  as  if  by  a 
turn  of  the  wrist  the  united  family  slipped 
back  into  its  old  groove.  Deep  down  in 
the  deacon  and  his  daughter  lay  the 
fundamental  emotions  which  in  people 
with  less  restraint  bubble  up  to  the  sur- 
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