University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER EIGHTH.
THE DINNER.

As the Peabodys approached the homestead, the
smoke of the kitchen chimney was visible, circling
upward and winding about in the sunshine as though
it had been a delicate corkscrew uncorking a great
bottle or square old flask of a delicious vintage. The
Captain averred a quarter of a mile away, the moment
they had come upon the brow of the hill, that
he had a distinct savor of the fragrance of the turkey,
and that it was quite as refreshing as the first odor
of the land breeze coming in from sea, and he snuffed
it up with a zeal and relish which gave the gig an
eager appetite for dinner. The Captain's conjecture
was strongly confirmed in the appearance of Mopsey,
darting, with a dark face of dewy radiance at the
wood-pile and shuffling back with bustling speed to
the kitchen with a handful of delicate splinters.
“She's giving him the last turn,” said the Captain.

The shadow of the little meeting-house was still
over the Captain, even so far away, for he conducted
the procession homeward at a pace much less furious
than that with which he had advanced in the morning;
and Mrs. Carrack too, observed now, with a
strange pleasure, what she had given no heed to before
when the fine coach was rolling in triumph along
the road,—birds twittering in the sunny air by the
wayside, and cattle roving like figures in a beautiful
picture, upon the slopes of the distant hills. Oliver,
the politician, more than once had out the great cotton
pocket-handkerchief, and holding it spread before
him contemplating the fatherly signers, was evidently
acquiring some new lights on the subject of independence.

A change, in fine, of some sort or other, had passed
over every member of the Peabody family save
old Sylvester, returning as going, calm, plain-spoken,
straightforward and patriarchal. When they reached
the gate of the homestead, William Peabody gave
his hand to his wife and helped her, with some show
of attention, to alight; and then there could be no
doubt that it was in very truth Thanksgiving day, for
the glory of the door-yard itself had paled and disappeared

in the gorgeous festal light. There was no
majestic gobbler in the door-yard now, with his great
outspread tail, which in the proud moments of his
life he would have expanded as if to shut the very
light of the sun from all meaner creatures of the
mansion.

Within doors there was that bustling preparation,
with brief lulls of ominous silence which precede and
usher a great event. The widow Margaret, with
noiseless step, glided to and fro, Miriam daintily hovering
in the suburbs of the sitting-room, which is evidently
the grand centre of interest, and Mopsey toils
like a swart goblin in her laboratory of the kitchen in
a high glow, scowling fearfully if addressed with a
word which calls her attention for a moment away
from her critical labors.

As the family entered the homestead on their return,
the combined forces were just at the point of
pitching their tent on the ground of the forthcoming
engagement, in the shape of the ancient four-legged
and wide-leaved table, with a cover of snowy whiteness,
ornamented as with shields and weapons of
quaint device, in the old plates of pewter and the
horn-handled knives and forks burnished to such a

polish as to make the little room fairly glitter.
Dishes streamed in one after the other in a long and
rapid procession, piles of home-made bread, basins of
apple-sauce, pickles, potatoes of vast proportion and
mealy beauty. When the ancient and lordly pitcher
of blue and white (whether freighted with new cider
or old cold water need not be told) crowned the
board, the first stage of preparation was complete,
and another portentous pause ensued. The whole
Peabody connection arranged in stately silence in the
front parlor, looked on through the open door in wonder
and expectation of what was to follow. The
children loitered about the door-ways with watering
eyes and open mouths, like so many innocent little
dragons lying in wait to rush in at an opportune moment
and bear off their prey.

And now, all at once there comes a deeper hush—
a still more portentous pause—all eyes are in the
direction of the kitchen; the children are hanging
forward with their bodies and outstretched necks half
way in at the door; Miriam and the widow stand
breathless and statue-like at either side of the room;
when, as if rising out of some mysterious cave in the
very ground, a dark figure is discerned in the distance,

about the centre of the kitchen, (into which
Mopsey has made, to secure an impressive effect, a
grand circuit,) head erect, and bearing before it a
huge platter; all their eyes tell them, every sense
vividly reports what it is the platter supports; she
advances with slow and solemn step; she has crossed
the sill; she has entered the sitting-room; and, with
a full sense of her awful responsibility, Mopsey delivers
on the table, in a cleared place left for its careful
deposit, the Thanksgiving turkey.

There is no need now to sound a gong, or to ring
an alarm-bell to make known to that household that
dinner is ready; the brown turkey speaks a summons
as with the voice of a thousand living gobblers,
and Sylvester rising, the whole Peabody family flock
in. To every one his place is considerately assigned,
the Captain in the centre directly opposite the turkey,
Mrs. Carrack on the other side, the widow at one end,
old Sylvester at the head. The children too, a special
exception being made in their favor to-day, are allowed
seats with the grown folks, little Sam disposing
himself in great comfort in his old grandsire's arms.

Another hush—for everything to-day moves on
through these constantly shut and opened gates

of silence, in which they all sit tranquil and speechless,
when the old patriarch lifts up his aged hands
over the board and repeats his customary grace:

“May we all be Christian people the day we die
—God bless us.”

The Captain, the great knife and fork in hand, was
ready to advance.

“Stop a moment, Charley,” old Sylvester spoke
up, “give us a moment to contemplate the turkey.”

“I would there were just such a dish, grandfather,”
the Captain rejoined, “on every table in the land this
day, and if I had my way there would be.”

“No, no, Charley,” the grandfather answered, “if
there should be, there would be. There is One who
is wiser than you or I.”

“It would make the man who would do it,” Oliver
suggested, “immensely popular: he might get to be
elected President of the United States.”

“It would cost a large sum,” remarked William
Peabody, the merchant.

“Let us leave off considering imaginary turkeys,
and discuss the one before us,” said old Sylvester,
“but I must first put a question, and if it's answered
with satisfaction, we'll proceed. Now tell me,” he

said, addressing himself to Mr. Carrack, who sat in a
sort of dream, as if he had lost his identity, as he
had ever since the night-adventure in the fez-cap and
red silk cloak: “Now tell me, Tiffany, although you
have doubtless seen a great many grand things, such
as the Alps, and St. Peter's church at Rome, has
your eye fallen in with anything wherever you travelled
over the world, grander than that Thanksgiving
turkey?”

Mr. Carrack, either from excessive modesty or total
abstraction, hesitated, looked about him hastily,
and not till the Captain called across the table,
“Why don't you speak, my boy?” and then, as if
suddenly coming to, and realizing where he was,
answered at last, with great deliberation, “It is a
fine bird.”

“Enough said,” spoke up old Sylvester cheerfully;
“you were the last Peabody I expected to acknowledge
the merits of the turkey;” and, looking towards
the Captain with encouragement, added, “now,
knife and fork, do your duty.”

It was short work the jovial Captain made with
the prize turkey; in rapid succession plates were forwarded,
heaped, sent around; and with a keen relish

of the Thanksgiving dinner, every head was busy.
Straight on, as people who have an allotted task before
them, the Peabodys moved through the dinner,
—a powerful, steady-going caravan of cheerful travellers,
over hill, over dale, up the valleys, along the
stream-side, cropping their way like a nimble-toothed
flock of grazing sheep, keenly enjoying herbage and
beverage by the way.

What though, while they were at the height of its
enjoyment a sudden storm, at that changeful season,
arose without, and dashed its heavy drops against the
doors and window-panes; that only, by the contrast
of security and fire-side comfort, heightened the zest
within, while they were engaged with the many good
dishes at least, but when another pause came, did not
the pelting shower and the chiding wind talk with
them, each one in turn, of the absent, and oh! some
there will not believe it—the lost? It was no doubt
some thought of this kind that prompted old Sylvester
to speak:

“My children,” said the patriarch, glancing with a
calm eye around the circle of glowing faces at the table
“you are bound together with good cheer and in
comfortable circumstances; and even as you, who are

here from east and west, from the north and the
south, by each one yielding a little of his individual
whim or inclination, can thus sit together prosperously
and in peace at one board, so can our glorious
family of friendly States, on this and every other day,
join hands, and like happy children in the fields, lead
a far-lengthening dance of festive peace among the
mountains and among the vales, from the soft-glimmering
east far on to the bright and ruddy west.
If others still seek to join in—”

“Ay, father,” said Oliver, “there is a great danger.”

“Even as by making a little way,” answered the
patriarch, “we could find room at this table for one
or two or three more, so may another State and still
another join us, if it will, and even as our natural
progeny increaseth to the third, fourth, tenth generation,
let us trust for centuries to come this happy
Union still shall live to lead her sons to peace, prosperity,
and rightful glory.”

“But,” interposed Oliver, the politician, again,
with a double reference in his thoughts, it would almost
seem, to an erring State or an absent child, “one
may break away in wilfulness or crime—what then?”

“Let us lure it back,” was old Sylvester's reply,
“with gentle appeals. Remember we are all brethren,
and that our alliance is one not merely of worldly
interest, but also of family affection. Let us, on
this hallowed day,” he added, “cherish none but
kindly thoughts toward all our kindred, and if him
we have least esteemed offer the hand, let us take it
in brotherly regard.”

There was a pause of silence once again, which was
broken by a knock at the door. Old Sylvester, having
spoken his mind, had fallen into a reverie, and
the Peabodys glancing one to the other, the question
arose, shall the strangers (Mopsey reported them to
be two) whoever they may be, be admitted?

“This is strictly a family festival,” it was suggested,
“where no strangers can be rightly allowed.”

“May be thieves!” the merchant added.

“Vagabonds, perhaps!” Mrs. Carrack suggested.

“Strangers, anyhow!” said Mrs. Jane Peabody.

The widow Margaret and Miriam were silent and
gave utterance to no opinion.

In the midst of the discussion old Sylvester suddenly
awakening, and rearing his white locks aloft, in

the voice of a trumpet of silver sound, cried out:—
“If they be human, let 'em in!”

As he delivered this emphatic order there was a
deep moan at the door, as of one in great pain, or
suffering keenly from anguish of spirit, and when it
was opened to admit the new-comers, the voice of
Chanticleer, raised for the second time, broke in,
clear and shrilly, from the outer darkness.