WHITTIER.

=Thanksgiving Day=

Appointed by the President—­usually the last Thursday in November.

Now observed as a holiday in all the States, but not a legal holiday in all.  The President’s proclamation recommends that it be set apart as a day of prayer and rejoicing.  The day is of New England origin, the first one being set by Governor Bradford of the Massachusetts colony on December, 1621.  Washington issued a thanksgiving proclamation for Thursday, December 18, 1777, and again at Valley Forge for May 7, 1778.  The Thanksgiving of the present incorporates many of the genial features of Christmas.  The feast with the Thanksgiving turkey and pumpkin-pie crowns the day.  Even the poorhouse has its turkey.  The story of “An Old-Time Thanksgiving,” in “Indian Stories” of this series, well brings out the original spirit of the day.

=A THANKSGIVING DINNER THAT FLEW AWAY=

BY H. BUTTERWORTH

“Honk!”

I spun around like a top, looking nervously in every direction.  I was familiar with that sound; I had heard it before, during two summer vacations, at the old farm-house on the Cape.

It had been a terror to me.  I always put a door, a fence, or a stone wall between me and that sound as speedily as possible.

I had just come down from the city to the Cape for my third summer vacation.  I had left the cars with my arms full of bundles, and hurried toward Aunt Targood’s.

The cottage stood in from the road.  There was a long meadow in front of it.  In the meadow were two great oaks and some clusters of lilacs.  An old, mossy stone wall protected the grounds from the road, and a long walk ran from the old wooden gate to the door.

It was a sunny day, and my heart was light.  The orioles were flaming in the old orchards; the bobolinks were tossing themselves about in the long meadows of timothy, daisies, and patches of clover.  There was a scent of new-mown hay in the air.

In the distance lay the bay, calm and resplendent, with white sails and specks of boats.  Beyond it rose Martha’s Vineyard, green and cool and bowery, and at its wharf lay a steamer.

I was, as I said, light-hearted.  I was thinking of rides over the sandy roads at the close of the long, bright days; of excursions on the bay; of clam-bakes and picnics.

I was hungry; and before me rose visions of Aunt Targood’s fish dinners, roast chickens, berry pies.  I was thirsty; but ahead was the old well-sweep, and, behind the cool lattice of the dairy window, were pans of milk in abundance.

I tripped on toward the door with light feet, lugging my bundles and beaded with perspiration, but unmindful of all discomforts in the thought of the bright days and good things in store for me.

“Honk! honk!”

My heart gave a bound!

Where did that sound come from?

Out of a cool cluster of innocent-looking lilac bushes, I saw a dark object cautiously moving.  It seemed to have no head.  I knew, however, that it had a head.  I had seen it; it had seized me once on the previous summer, and I had been in terror of it during all the rest of the season.