And sometimes he would write and ast how I was gittin’
      on,
And ef I had to pay out much fer he’p sence he was gone;
And how the hogs was doin’, and the balance of the stock,
And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk.

And he wrote, along ’fore harvest, that he guessed he
      would git home,
Fer business would, of course, be dull in town.—­But
      didn’t come:—­
We got a postal later, sayin’ when they had no trade
They filled the time “invoicin’ goods,” and that was why
      he stayed.

And then he quit a-writin’ altogether:  Not a word—­
Exceptin’ what the neighbers brung who’d been to town
      and heard
What store John was clerkin’ in, and went round to in-
      quire
If they could buy their goods there less and sell their
      produce higher.

And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away,
And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin’-
      Day! 
The night before that day of thanks I’ll never quite fergit,
The wind a-howlin’ round the house-it makes me creepy
      yit!

And there set me and Mother—­me a-twistin’ at the
      prongs
Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of
      tongs,
And Mother sayin’, “David!  David!” in a’ undertone,
As though she thought that I was thinkin’ bad-words
unbeknown.

“I’ve dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow,” Mother
      said,
A-tryin’ to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn
      head,—­
“And the mince-meat I’m a-mixin’ is perfection mighty
      nigh;
And the pound-cake is delicious-rich—­” “Who’ll eat
      ’em?” I—­says—­I.

“The cramberries is drippin’-sweet,” says Mother, runnin’
      on,
P’tendin’ not to hear me;—­“and somehow I thought of
      John
All the time they was a-jellin’—­fer you know they allus
      was
His favorITE—­he likes ’em so!” Says I “Well, s’pose
      he does?”

“Oh, nothin’ much!” says Mother, with a quiet sort o’
      smile—­
“This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after
      while!”
And as I turnt and looked around, some one riz up and
      leant
And putt his arms round Mother’s neck, and laughed in
      low content.

“It’s me,” he says—­“your fool-boy John, come back to
       shake your hand;
Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you un-
       derstand
How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that
       we
Will spend Thanksgivin’ in fer life—­jest Mother, you
      and me!”

Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
Except, of course, the extry he’p when harvest-time
      comes on;
And then, I want to say to you, we need sich he’p about,
As you’d admit, ef you could see the way the crops turn
      out!