HELEN'S THANKSGIVING.
"MAMMA, would you mind _very_ much if I should learn to make pies?"
This request sounds harmless, but Mrs. Sands quite started in her chairas she heard it. She and Helen were sitting on either side of awood-fire. The blinds had been pulled down to exclude the chill Novemberdarkness, and the room was lit only by the blazing logs, which sent outquick, bright flashes followed by sudden soft shadows, in thatunexpected way which is one of the charms of wood-fires. It was a prettyroom, in a pretty house, in one of the up-town streets of New York, andthe mother and daughter looked very comfortable as they sat theretogether.
"Pies, my dear? What _do_ you mean?"
"I'll tell you, mamma. You're going to Grandmamma Ellis forThanksgiving, this year, you know, and papa and I are going up toVermont, to Grandmother Sands?"
"Yes."
"Well, I don't remember grandmother much, because it is so long sinceshe was here, but the one thing I do recollect is how troubled she wasbecause I didn't know anything about housekeeping. One day you had aheadache, and wanted some tea; and you rang and rang, and Jane was everso long in fetching it, and at last grandma said, 'Why don't you rundown and see to it, Helen?' And when I told her that I wasn't allowed togo into the kitchen, and beside that I didn't know how to make tea, shelooked so distressed, and said, 'Dear me, dear me! Poor little ignorantgirl! What a sad bringing up for you in a country like ours!' I didn'tunderstand exactly what she meant, but I have never forgotten it, and doyou know, mamma, just that one speech of grandma's has made me want todo ever so many things. I never told you, but once I made my bed formore than a week,--till Bridget said I was 'worth my salt as achambermaid,' and I used to dust the nursery, and sweep. And the otherday it came into my head suddenly how pleased grandmother would be if Icarried her a pumpkin-pie that I had made myself; so I asked Morrison,and she said she'd teach me, and welcome, if you didn't mind. Do youmind, mamma?"
"You know, dear, I don't like to have you about with the servants, and Inever wanted you to become a drudge at home, as so many American girlsare. Then you have your lessons to attend to besides."
"Yes, mamma, I know, but it will only take one morning, and I'll notbegin till school closes, if you'd rather not. I really would like to somuch, mamsie?"
Helen's pet name for her mother was coaxingly spoken, and had itseffect. Mrs. Sands yielded.
"Very well, dear; you may, if you like, only I wish you could weargloves."
"O mamma! nobody makes pies in gloves. But I needn't put my hands in atall, except for rolling the paste, Morrison says so."
Mrs. Sands was not so silly a woman as she sounds. Born and bred in theWest Indies, the constant talk about servants and housekeeping, that mether ears when she came to New York, a young married woman, so puzzledand annoyed her that she somewhat rashly decided that her child shouldnever know anything about such matters. Morrison, the good old cook, hadlived with her since Helen was a baby, and all had gone so smoothly thatthere had never seemed occasion for interference from anybody. And Helenwould have grown up in utter ignorance of all practical matters, had nota chance remark of her thrifty New England grandmother piqued her intothe voluntary wish of learning.
It was with a good deal of excitement, and a little sense of victory aswell, that Helen went downstairs, a few days later, to take the promisedlesson. The kitchen looked very cheerful and neat, and Morrison was allready with her spice-box, eggs, pie-dishes, and great yellow bowl fullof strained pumpkin; likewise a big calico apron to tie over Helen'sdress. First they made the crust. It was such good fun pinching the softbits of lard into the nice, dry-feeling flour, that Helen wouldwillingly have prolonged the operation, but Morrison objected. Pastrydidn't like to be fingered, she said; and she made Helen wash her hands,and then mix in the ice-water with a thin-bladed knife, cutting andchopping till all was moistened into a rough sort of dough. Next, sheproduced the rolling-pin, and showed her how to beat the dough withdexterous strokes, up and down, and cross-ways, till it became a smoothpaste, which felt as soft as velvet, and then how to roll it into asmooth sheet, lay on the butter in thin flakes, fold and roll again.
"Now wrap this towel all round it, and I'll set it into the ice-chesttill we want it," she said. "It'll puff the minute it goes into theoven, never fear; I can always tell. You like it,--don't you,--MissHelen dear?"
"Yes, indeed, ever so much. I _hope_ the pies will be good; grandmammawill be so pleased."
"They'll be good," pronounced Morrison, confidently. "Now sift in plentyof sugar, miss."
So Helen put in "plenty" of sugar, and then, as directed, gratedlemon-peel, lemon-juice, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, melted butter, apinch of salt, beaten eggs, a dash of rose-water, and then a little moresugar, and "just the least taste of cinnamon," till Morrison pronouncedthe flavor exactly right, and Helen declared that for all she could see,pumpkin-pies were made of anything in the world except pumpkins. Last ofall went in a great pour of hot milk; then the pie-dishes were lined,filled, and set in the oven, after being ornamented with all manner ofzigzags and curly-queues of paste round their edges; and Helen rushedupstairs to tell her mother that pie-making was "just lovely," and shewould like to be a cook always, she thought. By Morrison's advice shewrote the whole process down in a book while it was fresh in her mind,and she was glad afterwards that she had done so, as you will see.
That same afternoon Mrs. Sands went on to Philadelphia, and next morningearly Helen and her father started for their journey to Vermont. It wasgray, blustering weather, but neither of them cared for that. Papa wasin high spirits, and full of fun as a school-boy. Their baggagecomprised, besides two valises, a big hamper full of all sorts of nicethings for grandmother, game and fruit and groceries, and Helen carrieda flat basket in her hand, in which, wrapped in a snowy napkin, reposedone of the precious pies.
"Bless me, how raw it is! It looks as though it were going to snow,"said Mr. Sands, as he came in from a walk up and down the platform ofone of the little stations at which the train stopped; and five minuteslater Helen, with a little scream of surprise, cried out, "Why, papa, it_is_ snowing!" Sure enough it was,--in fine snow-flakes, which beforelong thickened into a heavy fall.
"It will only be a squall," Mr. Sands said; but the conductor shook hishead, and remarked that up there so near the mountains there was nocalculating on weather. It might stop in half an hour, or it might go onall night: no one could pretend to say beforehand which it would do.
By the time they reached Asham, their stopping-place, the ground wassolid white. The wind, too, had risen, and was drifting the snow in alldirections. The tavern-keeper at Asham, to whom Mr. Sands went for "ateam," advised them to stay all night, but this both Helen and herfather agreed was not to be thought of. It was only fourteen miles.Grandmamma was expecting them, and must not be disappointed. So, wellwrapped in carriage blankets and buffalo robes, they set out in a lightcovered rockaway, with a stout horse, their baggage packed in behindthem.
Fourteen miles may seem a very short distance or a very long one,according to circumstances. Before they had gone half-way both of thembegan to think it an extremely long one. The road lay up hill for thegreater part of the way. Night was coming on fast, and every moment thedrift grew thicker and more confusing. Mr. Sands in his secret heartrepented that he had not taken the tavern-keeper's advice, and stayed atAsham. At last the horse, which had halted several times and been urgedon again, came to a dead stop. Mr. Sands touched him with the whip, buthe would not stir. He jumped up to see what was the matter, and foundthe poor animal up to his chest in snow. He had wandered from the road alittle and plunged into a drift. Mr. Sands tried to turn him toward theroad, when, lo, a loud and ominous crack was heard, and Helen gave ascream. One of the shafts had snapped in two.
Matters now looked serious. Mr. Sands undid the harness as fast aspossible, for he feared the horse might flounder to release himself, andupset the carriage. Then he climbed into the rockaway again, and stoodup to see if he could anyw
here see the light of a house. No; a twinklingbeam was visible farther up the hill, about a quarter of a mile away.
"Helen," he said, "I'll have to ask you to sit here quietly for tenminutes or so, while I ride on to a house which I see up there, and getsome one to help us. Will you be afraid to be left alone? It's only fora little while."
"N-o; but O papa! must you go? I'm so afraid the horse will kick, oryou'll tumble off."
"Never fear,"--trying to laugh,--"I really must go, dear; it's our onlychance of getting out of this scrape. Promise me to sit perfectlystill, and on no account to leave the carriage."
It seemed much longer than ten minutes before papa got back, but therehe was at last, with another man carrying a lantern, both of them whitewith snow up to their waists.
"All right, Helen," he cried cheerily. "Wrap all the blankets round yourshoulders; I'm going to set you on the horse, and Mr. Simmons andI--this is Mr. Simmons, my dear--will walk on either side and hold youon; we'll have you up the hill in a trice."
Helen did not like it at all. The horse felt dreadfully _alive_ underher, and jerked so, as he plunged up hill through the snow, that she wasconstantly afraid of tumbling off. It did not last long, however. Infive minutes her father had lifted and carried her in, and set her downin a kitchen, where a woman with a candle in her hand stood waiting forthem.
"This is Mrs. Simmons," he said. "She is so kind as to say that she willkeep us till to-morrow morning, when perhaps the snow will havestopped, and, at all events, we shall have daylight to find our waywith. Mr. Simmons and I are going back now to fetch up the luggage. Therockaway will have to take care of itself till to-morrow, I fancy."
Left alone, Helen looked curiously about her. The kitchen was abare-looking place to her eyes. There was a stove with a fire in it, arocking-chair covered with faded "patch," some wooden chairs, a table,and a sort of dresser with dishes. A large wheel for spinning wool stoodin one of the windows. Everything was clean, but there was an air ofpoverty, and to Helen it seemed a most dismal place. She could notimagine how people could live and be happy there.
Mrs. Simmons herself looked very ill and tired.
"I enjoy such poor health," she explained to Helen, as she took someplates and bowls down from the dresser. "I got the ague down to MillHollow, where we lived, and we moved up here, hoping to get rid of it.I am some better, but it took me powerful hard yesterday, and I supposeI'll have it bad again to-morrow. Mr. Simmons, he's got behindhandsomehow, and it's hard work trying to catch up in these times. What withone thing and another, both of us have felt clean discouraged this fall.Glory, fetch the milk."
"Yes, mother." And out of the buttery came a girl of about Helen's age,with a pan in her hands. She had apparently tumbled out of bed to helpin the entertainment of the strangers, for her hair was flying loose,and she looked only half dressed; but she had pretty brown eyes and abright smile.
"I feel real bad to think I'm out of tea," said Mrs. Simmons. "Father,he was calculating to get some later on, when he'd finished a job oflumber-hauling. And the hens have 'most stopped laying, too; I hain'tbut four eggs in the house."
"Oh, don't give us the eggs!" cried Helen; "you'll want them yourselffor Thanksgiving, I'm sure."
"Thanksgiving! Dear me, so it is!" said Mrs. Simmons. "I'd forgot allabout that. Not that it'd have made much difference, any way. You can'tmake something out of nothin', and that's about what we've come to."
"I've got a pie," cried Helen, with a sudden generous impulse, butfeeling a little pang meanwhile, as she recalled her vision of puttingthe pie into grandmamma's own hands. But where was the pie? Sherecollected now,--the basket was in her lap when papa lifted her out ofthe carriage. It must have fallen out, and probably was now buried deepin snow.
A great stamping of boots just then announced the entrance of the twomen with the valises and hamper. Mrs. Simmons renewed her apologiesabout the tea. Hot milk, a little fried pork, two of the eggs, and aloaf of saleratus bread were all she had to offer, but it was verywelcome to the hungry travellers. There was some choice tea ingrandmother's hamper, but Mr. Sands very rightly judged it better to saynothing about it just then, as it might have seemed that he and Helenwere not satisfied with their supper. They ate heartily, and soon afterwent to bed in two chilly little lofts upstairs, where all the buffalorobes and blankets from the carriage could not _quite_ keep them warm.
Helen lay awake a long time, thinking of her own disappointment andgrandmamma's, but more still about the Simmons family. How hard andmelancholy their life seemed, struggling with poverty and ague up hereamong the lonely hills, with no doctor near them, and no neighbors! Agreat sympathy and pity awoke in her heart. Her first impulse, when sheroused next morning, was to hurry to the window. It was still snowing,and the drifts seemed deeper than ever! "Oh, dear!" she thought, "weshall have to stay in this forlorn place another day, I am afraid." Amore generous thought followed: "If it seems so hard to me to have tospend one day here, what must it be to live here always?" And she madeup her mind that, if they were forced to stay, she would do all shecould to make Thanksgiving a little less forlorn than it seemed likelyto be to Mrs. Simmons and Glory.
It did look forlorn downstairs in the bare little kitchen. Mrs.Simmons's chill was coming on. She was up and dragging herself about,but she looked quite unfit to be out of bed. Two little children, a boyand a girl, whom Helen had not seen the night before, clung close to herdress, and followed wherever she moved, hiding their shy faces from thestrangers. They got over their shyness gradually as Helen laughed, andcoaxed them, and by the time breakfast was over had grown good friends.
"Now," said Helen, gayly, after a last glance at the window, whichshowed the snow-storm still raging, "I am going to propose a plan. Youshall go to bed, Mrs. Simmons,--I'm sure you ought to be there at thismoment,--and Glory and I will wash the dishes, and we will cook theThanksgiving dinner."
"Oh, dear! there ain't nothing worth cooking," sighed poor Mrs. Simmons,but she was too ill to make objections. So Glory, or Glorvina, put thekitchen to rights with Helen's help, and then the two girls sat down toconsult over dinner.
"Could you roast a turkey, do you think?" asked Helen.
"There ain't no turkey to be roasted," objected Glory.
"Yes, but could you if there were? Because I think there's one in thehamper, papa, and I know grandmamma would let us have it if she knew."
"Why, of course she would. Use everything in the hamper if you like;grandma would never think of objecting, and there's plenty more to behad where those came from," said her father.
So the hamper was unpacked, and the turkey extracted, and a package oftea and another of lump sugar, and a tumbler of currant jelly; and Helenfilled a big dish with oranges and white grapes, and the preparationswent merrily on. There proved to be half a squash in the cellar, andGlory, wading out in the snow, fetched in a couple more eggs from thebarn, so pies were possible. Helen produced her recipe-book.
"Now I'm going to show you just how to make pies," she said; "I onlylearned myself day before yesterday." And she thought, "How lucky it isthat I did learn, for now I can show Glory, and she'll always know. Butwouldn't Morrison open her eyes if she could see me?"
The spices and lemons came out of the hamper, of course, and the crusthad to be made of salt butter and no lard; but the pies turned out verygood, for all that, and no one was in the least disposed to find faultwith their flavor. Really, the little dinner was a great success.Glory's potatoes were a little underdone, but that was the only failure.The children ate as though they could never be satisfied. Mr. Simmonscheered up and cracked one or two feeble jokes; and even Mrs. Simmons,propped high in bed to survey the festive scene, called out that it"looked something like," and she didn't know when there had been so muchlaughing going on in their house before.
The clock struck three just as the last nicely washed plate was set awayon the dresser. Helen quite jumped at the sound. How short, after all,the day had seemed which promised to be so long and d
ismal! And justthen a bright yellow ray streamed through the window, and, looking out,she saw blue sky.
"Papa," she screamed, "it has cleared up! I do believe we shall get tograndmamma's to-night, after all!"
And so they did. Mr. Sands, with Mr. Simmons's assistance, fitted therockaway on to a pair of old sledge-runners, and, with many warmgood-byes from the whole family, they drove off. Just at sunset theyreached Morrow Hill, and grandma was so glad to see them, and they soglad to get there, that it was easy to forget all their disappointmentand delay. In fact, after a little while Helen convinced herself thatthe whole thing was rather a piece of good fortune than otherwise.
"For, don't you see, papa," she exclaimed, "we had all Thanksgivingevening with grandmother, you know, and she had it with us, so we onlylost part of our pleasant time? But if it hadn't been for the snow andthe breakdown, the poor Simmonses wouldn't have had any Thanksgiving atall--not a bit; so it really was a great deal better, don't you see thatit was, papa?"