"Mary!" said
the younger of two little girls, as they nestled under a coarse
coverlid, one cold night in December, "tell me about Thanksgiving-day
before papa went to heaven. I'm cold and hungry, and I can't go
to sleep;--I want something nice to think about."
"Hush!" said the elder
child, "don't let dear mamma hear you; come nearer to me;"--and
they laid their cheeks together.
"I fancy papa was rich. We
lived in a very nice house. I know there were pretty pictures
on the wall; and there were nice velvet chairs, and the carpet
was thick and soft, like the green moss-patches in the wood; --and
we had pretty gold-fish on the side table, and Tony, my black
nurse, used to feed them. And papa!--you can't remember papa,
Letty,--he was tall and grand, like a prince, and when he smiled
he made me think of angels. He brought me toys and sweetmeats,
and carried me out to the stable, and set me on Romeo's live back,
and laughed because I was afraid! And I used to watch to see him
come up the street, and then run to the door to jump in his arms;--he
was a dear, kind papa," said the child, in a faltering
voice.
"Don't cry," said
the little one; "please tell me some more."
"Well, Thanksgiving-day we
were so happy; we sat around such a large table,
with so many people,--aunts and uncles and cousins,--I can't think
why they never come to see us now, Letty,--and Betty
made such sweet pies, and we had a big--big turkey; and papa would
have me sit next to him, and gave me the wishbone, and all the
plums out of his pudding; and after dinner he would take me in
his lap, and tell me 'Red Riding Hood,' and call me 'pet,' and
'bird,' and 'fairy.' O, Letty, I can't tell any more; I believe
I'm going to cry."
"I'm very cold," said
Letty. "Does papa know, up in heaven, that we are poor and
hungry now?"
"Yes--no--I can't tell,"
answered Mary, wiping away her tears; unable to reconcile her
ideas of heaven with such a thought. "Hush!--mamma will hear!"
Mamma had "heard." The
coarse garment, upon which she had toiled since sunrise, dropped
from her hands, and tears were forcing themselves, thick and fast,
through her closed eyelids. The simple recital found but too sad
an echo in that widowed heart.
more articles by Fanny Fern