Ann Mary her two Thanksgivings
by Mary E. Wilkins
"What is it, child?"
"You goin' to put that cup-cake into the pan
to bake it now, grandma?"
"Yes; I guess so. It's beat 'bout enough."
"You ain't put in a mite of nutmeg, grandma."
The grandmother turned around to Ann Mary.
"Don't you be quite so anxious," said she, with
sarcastic emphasis. "I allers put the nutmeg in
cup-cake the very last thing. I ruther guess I
shouldn't have put this cake into the oven without
The old woman beat fiercely on the cake. She
used her hand instead of a spoon, and she held
the yellow mixing-bowl poised on her hip under
her arm. She was stout and rosy-faced. She
had crinkly white hair, and she always wore a
string of gold beads around her creasy neck. She
never took off the gold beads except to put them
under her pillow at night, she was so afraid of
their being stolen. Old Mrs. Little had always
been nervous about thieves, although none had
ever troubled her.
"You may go into the pantry, an' bring out
the nutmeg now, Ann Mary," said she presently,
Ann Mary soberly slipped down from her chair
and went. She realized that she had made a
mistake. It was quite an understood thing for
Ann Mary to have an eye upon her grandmother
while she was cooking, to be sure that she put in
everything that she should, and nothing that she
should not, for the old woman was absent-minded.
But it had to be managed with great delicacy,
and the corrections had to be quite irrefutable,
or Ann Mary was reprimanded for her pains.
When Ann Mary had deposited the nutmeg-box
and the grater at her grandmother's elbow,
she took up her station again. She sat at a corner
of the table in one of the high kitchen-chairs.
Her feet could not touch the floor, and they
dangled uneasily in their stout leather shoes, but
she never rested them on the chair round, nor
even swung them by way of solace. Ann Mary's
grandmother did not like to have her chair rounds
all marked up by shoes, and swinging feet disturbed
her while she was cooking. Ann Mary
sat up, grave and straight. She was a delicate,
slender little girl, but she never stooped. She
had an odd resemblance to her grandmother; a
resemblance more of manner than of feature.
She held back her narrow shoulders in the same
determined way in which the old woman held
her broad ones; she walked as she did, and spoke
as she did.
Mrs. Little was very proud of Ann Mary Evans;
Ann Mary was her only daughter's child, and
had lived with her grandmother ever since she
was a baby. The child could not remember
either her father or mother, she was so little
when they died.
Ann Mary was delicate, so she did not go to
the village to the public school. Miss Loretta
Adams, a young lady who lived in the neighborhood,
gave her lessons. Loretta had graduated
in a beautiful white muslin dress at the high-school
over in the village, and Ann Mary had a
great respect and admiration for her. Loretta
had a parlor-organ, and could play on it, and
she was going to give Ann Mary lessons after
Thanksgiving. Just now there was a vacation.
Loretta had gone to Boston to spend two weeks
with her cousin.
Ann Mary was all in brown, a brown calico
dress and a brown calico, long-sleeved apron;
and her brown hair was braided in two tight
little tails that were tied with some old brown
bonnet-strings of Mrs. Little's, and flared out
stiffly behind the ears. Once, when Ann Mary
was at her house, Loretta Adams had taken it
upon herself to comb out the tight braids and set
the hair flowing in a fluffy mass over the shoulders;
but when Ann Mary came home her grandmother
was properly indignant. She seized her
and re-braided the tails with stout and painful
jerks. "I ain't goin' to have Loretty Adams
meddlin' with your hair," said she, "an' she can
jest understand it. If she wants to have her own
hair all in a frowzle, an' look like a wild Injun,
she can; you sha'n't!"
And Ann Mary, standing before her grandmother
with head meekly bent and watery eyes,
decided that she would have to tell Loretta that
she mustn't touch the braids, if she proposed it
That morning, while Mrs. Little was making
the pies, and the cake, and the pudding, Ann
Mary was sitting idle, for her part of the Thanksgiving
cooking was done. She had worked so
fast the day before and early that morning that
she had the raisins all picked over and seeded,
and the apples pared and sliced; and that was
about all that her grandmother thought she could
do. Ann Mary herself was of a different opinion;
she was twelve years old, if she was small for
her age, and she considered herself quite capable
of making pies and cup-cake.
However, it was something to sit there at the
table and have that covert sense of superintending
her grandmother, and to be reasonably sure
that some of the food would have a strange flavor
were it not for her vigilance.
Mrs. Little's mince-pies had all been baked the
day before; to-day, as she said, she was "making
apple and squash." While the apple-pies were in
progress, Ann Mary watched her narrowly. Her
small folded hands twitched and her little neck
seemed to elongate above her apron; but she
waited until her grandmother took up an upper
crust, and was just about to lay it over a pie.
Then she spoke up suddenly. Her voice had a
timid yet assertive chirp like a bird's.
"Well, what is it, child?"
"You goin' to put that crust on that pie now,
Mrs. Little stood uneasily reflective. She eyed
the pie sharply. "Yes, I be. Why?" she returned,
in a doubtful yet defiant manner.
"You haven't put one bit of sugar in."
"For the land sakes!" Mrs. Little did not
take correction of this kind happily, but when
she was made to fairly acknowledge the need of
it, she showed no resentment. She laid the upper
crust back on the board and sweetened the pie.
Ann Mary watched her gravely, but she was inwardly
complacent. After she had rescued the
pudding from being baked without the plums,
and it was nearly dinner-time, her grandfather
came home. He had been over to the village to
buy the Thanksgiving turkey. Ann Mary looked
out with delight when he drove past the windows
on his way to the barn.
"Grandpa's got home," said she.
It was snowing quite hard, and she saw the old
man and the steadily tramping white horse and
the tilting wagon through a thick mist of falling
Before Mr. Little came into the kitchen, his
wife warned him to be sure to wipe all the snow
from his feet, and not to track in any, so he
stamped vigorously out in the shed. Then he
entered with an air of pride. "There!" said he,
"what do ye think of that for a turkey?" Mr.
Little was generally slow and gentle in his ways,
but to-day he was quite excited over the turkey.
He held it up with considerable difficulty. He
was a small old man, and the cords on his lean
hands knotted. "It weighs a good fifteen pound',"
said he, "an' there wasn't a better one in the
store. Adkins didn't have a very big lot on
MR. LITTLE SELECTS THE THANKSGIVING TURKEY
"I should think that was queer, the day before
Thanksgivin'," said Mrs. Little. She was examining
the turkey critically. "I guess it'll do," she
declared finally. That was her highest expression
of approbation. "Well, I rayther thought
you'd think so," rejoined the old man, beaming.
"I guess it's about as good a one as can be got—they
said 'twas, down there. Sam White he was
in there, and he said 'twas; he said I was goin'
to get it in pretty good season for Thanksgivin',
"I don't think it's such very extra season, the
day before Thanksgivin'," said Mrs. Little.
"Well, I don't think 'twas, nuther. I didn't
see jest what Sam meant by it."
Ann Mary was dumb with admiration. When
the turkey was laid on the broad shelf in the
pantry, she went and gazed upon it. In the
afternoon there was great enjoyment seeing it
stuffed and made ready for the oven. Indeed,
this day was throughout one of great enjoyment,
being full of the very aroma of festivity and good
cheer and gala times, and even sweeter than the
occasion which it preceded. Ann Mary had only
one damper all day, and that was the non-arrival
of a letter. Mrs. Little had invited her son and
his family to spend Thanksgiving, but now they
probably were not coming, since not a word in
reply had been received. When Mr. Little said
there was no letter in the post-office, Ann Mary's
face fell. "Oh, dear," said she, "don't you suppose
Lucy will come, grandma?"
"No," replied her grandmother, "I don't. Edward
never did such a thing as not to send me
word when he was comin', in his life, nor Maria
neither. I ain't no idee they'll come."
"Oh, dear!" said Ann Mary again.
"Well, you'll have to make up your mind to
it," returned her grandmother. She was sore
over her own disappointment, and so was irascible
towards Ann Mary's. "It's no worse for
you than for the rest of us. I guess you can
keep one Thanksgivin' without Lucy."
For a while it almost seemed to Ann Mary
that she could not. Lucy was her only cousin.
She loved Lucy dearly, and she was lonesome for
another little girl; nobody knew how she had
counted upon seeing her cousin. Ann Mary herself
had a forlorn hope that Lucy still might
come, even if Uncle Edward was always so particular
about sending word, and no word had
been received. On Thanksgiving morning she
kept running to the window and looking down
the road. But when the stage from the village
came, it passed right by the house without slackening
Then there was no hope left at all.
"You might jest as well be easy," said her
grandmother. "I guess you can have a good
Thanksgivin' if Lucy ain't here. This evenin'
you can ask Loretty to come over a little while,
if you want to, an' you can make some nut-candy."
"Loretta ain't at home."
"She'll come home for Thanksgivin', I guess.
It ain't very likely she's stayed away over that.
When I get the dinner ready to take up, you can
carry a plateful down to Sarah Bean's, an'
that'll be somethin' for you to do, too. I guess
you can manage."
Thanksgiving Day was a very pleasant day,
although there was considerable snow on the
ground, for it had snowed all the day before.
Mr. Little and Ann Mary did not go to church
as usual, on that account.
The old man did not like to drive to the village
before the roads were beaten out. Mrs.
Little lamented not a little over it. It was the
custom for her husband and granddaughter to
attend church Thanksgiving morning, while she
stayed at home and cooked the dinner. "It does
seem dreadful heathenish for nobody to go to
meetin' Thanksgivin' Day," said she; "an' we
ain't even heard the proclamation read, neither.
It rained so hard last Sabbath that we couldn't
The season was unusually wintry and severe,
and lately the family had been prevented from
church-going. It was two Sundays since any of
the family had gone. The village was three miles
away, and the road was rough. Mr. Little was
too old to drive over it in very bad weather.
When Ann Mary went to carry the plate of
Thanksgiving dinner to Sarah Bean, she wore a
pair of her grandfather's blue woollen socks
drawn over her shoes to keep out the snow. The
snow was rather deep for easy walking, but she
did not mind that. She carried the dinner with
great care; there was a large plate well filled,
and a tin dish was turned over it to keep it
warm. Sarah Bean was an old woman who lived
alone. Her house was about a quarter of a mile
from the Littles'.
When Ann Mary reached the house, she found
the old woman making a cup of tea. There did
not seem to be much of anything but tea and
bread-and-butter for her dinner. She was very
deaf and infirm, all her joints shook when she
tried to use them, and her voice quavered when
she talked. She took the plate, and her hands
trembled so that the tin dish played on the plate
like a clapper. "Why," said she, overjoyed,
"this looks just like Thanksgiving Day, tell your
"Why, it is Thanksgiving Day," declared Ann
Mary, with some wonder.
"What?" asked Sarah Bean.
"It is Thanksgiving Day, you know." But it
was of no use, the old woman could not hear a
word. Ann Mary's voice was too low.
Ann Mary could not walk very fast on account
of the snow. She was absent some three-quarters
of an hour; her grandmother had told
her that dinner would be all on the table when
she returned. She was enjoying the nice things
in anticipation all the way; when she came near
the house, she could smell roasted turkey, and
there was also a sweet spicy odor in the air.
She noticed with surprise that a sleigh had
been in the yard. "I wonder who's come," she
said to herself. She thought of Lucy, and
whether they could have driven over from the
village. She ran in. "Why, who's come?" she
Her voice sounded like a shout in her own
ears; it seemed to awaken echoes. She fairly
startled herself, for there was no one in the
room. There was absolute quiet through all the
house. There was even no sizzling from the kettles
on the stove, for everything had been dished
up. The vegetables, all salted and peppered and
buttered, were on the table—but the turkey was
not there. In the great vacant place where the
turkey should have been was a piece of white
paper. Ann Mary spied it in a moment. She
caught it up and looked at it. It was a note
from her grandmother:
We have had word that Aunt Betsey has had a bad turn.
Lizz wants us to come. The dinner is all ready for you.
If we ain't home to-night, you can get Loretty to stay with
you. Be a good girl. Grandma.
Ann Mary read the note and stood reflecting,
her mouth drooping at the corners. Aunt Betsey
was Mrs. Little's sister; Lizz was her daughter
who lived with her and took care of her. They
lived in Derby, and Derby was fourteen miles
away. It seemed a long distance to Ann Mary,
and she felt sure that her grandparents could not
come home that night. She looked around the
empty room and sighed. After a while she sat
down and pulled off the snowy socks; she
thought she might as well eat her dinner, although
she did not feel so hungry as she had expected.
Everything was on the table but the
turkey and plum-pudding. Ann Mary supposed
these were in the oven keeping warm; the door
was ajar. But, when she looked, they were not
there. She went into the pantry; they were not
there either. It was very strange; there was the
dripping-pan in which the turkey had been
baked, on the back of the stove, with some gravy
in it; and there was the empty pudding-dish
on the hearth.
"What has grandma done with the turkey
and the plum-pudding?" said Ann Mary, aloud.
She looked again in the pantry; then she went
down to the cellar—there seemed to be so few places in
the house in which it was reasonable to search
for a turkey and a plum-pudding!
Finally she gave it up, and sat down to dinner.
There was plenty of squash and potatoes and
turnips and onions and beets and cranberry-sauce
and pies; but it was no Thanksgiving dinner
without turkey and plum-pudding. It was
like a great flourish of accompaniment without
Ann Mary did as well as she could; she put
some turkey-gravy on her potato and filled up
her plate with vegetables; but she did not enjoy
the dinner. She felt more and more lonely, too.
She resolved that after she had washed up the
dinner dishes and changed her dress, she would
go over to Loretta Adams's. It was quite a
piece of work, washing the dinner dishes, there
were so many pans and kettles; it was the middle
of the afternoon when she finished. Then
Ann Mary put on her best plaid dress, and
tied her best red ribbons on her braids, and
it was four o'clock before she started for Loretta's.
Loretta lived in a white cottage about half a
mile away towards the village. The front yard
had many bushes in it, and the front path was
bordered with box; the bushes were now mounds
of snow, and the box was indicated by two
The house had a shut-up look; the sitting-room
curtains were down. Ann Mary went
around to the side door; but it was locked.
Then she went up the front walk between the
snowy ridges of box, and tried the front door;
that also was locked. The Adamses had gone
away. Ann Mary did not know what to do.
The tears stood in her eyes, and she choked a
little. She went back and forth between the
two doors, and shook and pounded; she peeked
around the corner of the curtain into the sitting-room.
She could see Loretta's organ, with the
music-book, and all the familiar furniture, but
the room wore an utterly deserted air.
Finally, Ann Mary sat down on the front door-step,
after she had brushed off the snow a little.
She had made up her mind to wait a little while,
and see if the folks would not come home. She
had on her red hood, and her grandmother's old
plaid shawl. She pulled the shawl tightly around
her, and muffled her face in it; it was extremely
cold weather for sitting on a door-step. Just
across the road was a low clump of birches;
through and above the birches the sky showed
red and clear where the sun was setting. Everything
looked cold and bare and desolate to the
little girl who was trying to keep Thanksgiving.
Suddenly she heard a little cry, and Loretta's
white cat came around the corner of the house.
"Kitty, kitty, kitty," called Ann Mary. She
was very fond of Loretta's cat; she had none of
The cat came close and brushed around Ann
Mary so she took it up in her lap; and wrapped
the shawl around it, and felt a little comforted.
She sat there on the door-step and held the cat
until it was quite dusky, and she was very stiff
with the cold. Then she put down the cat and
prepared to go home. But she had not gone far
along the road when she found out that the cat
was following her. The little white creature
floundered through the snow at her heels, and
mewed constantly. Sometimes it darted ahead
and waited until she came up, but it did not
seem willing to be carried in her arms.
When Ann Mary reached her own house the
lonesome look of it sent a chill all over her; she
was afraid to go in. She made up her mind to
go down to Sarah Bean's and ask whether she
could not stay all night there.
So she kept on, and Loretta's white cat still
followed her. There was no light in Sarah
Bean's house. Ann Mary knocked and pounded,
but it was of no use; the old woman had gone
to bed, and she could not make her hear.
Ann Mary turned about and went home; the
tears were running down her cold red cheeks.
The cat mewed louder than ever. When she
got home she took the cat up and carried it into
the house. She determined to keep it for company,
anyway. She was sure, now, that she
would have to stay alone all night; the Adamses
and Sarah Bean were the only neighbors, and it
was so late now that she had no hope of her
grandparents' return. Ann Mary was timid and
nervous, but she had a vein of philosophy, and
she generally grasped the situation with all the
strength she had, when she became convinced
that she must. She had laid her plans while
walking home through the keen winter air, even
as the tears were streaming over her cheeks, and
she proceeded to carry them into execution. She
gave Loretta's cat its supper, and she ate a piece
of mince-pie herself; then she fixed the kitchen
and the sitting-room fires, and locked up the
house very thoroughly. Next, she took the cat
and the lamp and went into the dark bedroom
and locked the door; then she and the cat were
as safe as she knew how to make them. The
dark bedroom was in the very middle of the
house, the centre of a nest of rooms. It was
small and square, had no windows, and only one
door. It was a sort of fastness. Ann Mary made
up her mind that she would not undress herself,
and that she would keep the lamp burning all
night. She climbed into the big yellow-posted
bedstead, and the cat cuddled up to her and
Ann Mary lay in bed and stared at the white
satin scrolls on the wall-paper, and listened for
noises. She heard a great many, but they were
all mysterious and indefinable, till about ten
o'clock. Then she sat straight up in bed and her
heart beat fast. She certainly heard sleigh-bells;
the sound penetrated even to the dark bedroom.
Then came a jarring pounding on the side door.
Ann Mary got up, unfastened the bedroom door,
took the lamp, and stepped out into the sitting-room.
The pounding came again. "Ann Mary,
Ann Mary!" cried a voice. It was her grandmother's.
"I'm comin', I'm comin', grandma!" shouted
Ann Mary. She had never felt so happy in her
life. She pushed back the bolt of the side
door with trembling haste. There stood her
grandmother all muffled up, with a shawl over
her head; and out in the yard were her
grandfather and another man, with a horse
and sleigh. The men were turning the sleigh
"Put the lamp in the window, Ann Mary,"
called Mr. Little, and Ann Mary obeyed. Her
grandmother sank into a chair. "I'm jest about
tuckered out," she groaned. "If I don't ketch
my death with this day's work, I'm lucky. There
ain't any more feelin' in my feet than as if they
was lumps of stone."
Ann Mary stood at her grandmother's elbow,
and her face was all beaming. "I thought you
weren't coming," said she.
"Well, I shouldn't have come a step to-night,
if it hadn't been for you—and the cow," said her
grandmother, in an indignant voice. "I was
kind of uneasy about you, an' we knew the cow
wouldn't be milked unless you got Mr. Adams to
"Was Aunt Betsey very sick?" inquired Ann
Her grandmother gave her head a toss. "Sick!
No, there wa'n't a thing the matter with her, except
she ate some sassage-meat, an' had a little
faint turn. Lizz was scart to death, the way she
always is. She didn't act as if she knew whether
her head was on, all the time we were there.
She didn't act as if she knew 'twas Thanksgivin'
Day; an' she didn't have no turkey that I could
see. Aunt Betsey bein' took sick seemed to put
everythin' out of her head. I never saw such a
nervous thing as she is. I was all out of patience
when I got there. Betsey didn't seem to be
very bad off, an' there we'd hurried enough to
break our necks. We didn't dare to drive around
to Sarah Bean's to let you know about it, for we
was afraid we'd miss the train. We jest got in
with the man that brought the word, an' he
driv as fast as he could over to the village, an'
then we lost the train, an' had to sit there in the
depot two mortal hours. An' now we've come
fourteen mile' in an open sleigh. The man that
lives next door to Betsey said he'd bring us
home, an' I thought we'd better come. He's
goin' over to the village to-night; he's got folks
there. I told him he'd a good deal better stay
here, but he won't. He's as deaf as an adder,
an' you can't make him hear anythin', anyway.
We ain't spoke a word all the way home.
Where's Loretty? She came over to stay with
you, didn't she?"
Ann Mary explained that Loretta was not at
"That's queer, seems to me, Thanksgivin'
Day," said her grandmother. "Massy sakes,
what cat's that? She came out of the settin'-room!"
Ann Mary explained about Loretta's cat. Then
she burst forth with the question that had been
uppermost in her mind ever since her grandmother
came in. "Grandma," said she, "what
did you do with the turkey and the plum-pudding?"
"What did you do with the turkey and the
"The turkey an' the plum-puddin'?"
"Yes; I couldn't find 'em anywhere."
Mrs. Little, who had removed her wraps, and
was crouching over the kitchen stove with her
feet in the oven, looked at Ann Mary with a
"I dunno what you mean, child," said she.
Mr. Little had helped the man with the sleigh
to start, and had now come in. He was pulling
off his boots.
"Don't you remember, mother," said he,
"how you run back in the house, an' said you
was goin' to set that turkey an' plum-pudding
away, for you was afraid to leave 'em settin'
right out in plain sight on the table, for fear that
somebody might come in?"
"Yes; I do remember," said Mrs. Little. "I
thought they looked 'most too temptin'. I set
'em in the pantry. I thought Ann Mary could
get 'em when she came in."
"They ain't in the pantry," said Ann Mary.
Her grandmother arose and went into the
pantry with a masterful air. "Ain't in the pantry?"
she repeated. "I don't s'pose you more'n
gave one look."
Ann Mary followed her grandmother. She
fairly expected to see the turkey and pudding
before her eyes on the shelf and to admit that
she had been mistaken. Mr. Little also followed,
and they all stood in the pantry and looked about.
"I guess they ain't here, mother," said Mr.
Little. "Can't you think where you set 'em?"
The old woman took up the lamp and stepped
out of the pantry with dignity. "I've set 'em
somewhere," said she, in a curt voice, "an' I'll
find 'em in the mornin'. You don't want any
turkey or plum-puddin' to-night, neither of you!"
But Mrs. Little did not find the turkey and the
plum-pudding in the morning. Some days went
by, and their whereabouts was as much a mystery
as ever. Mrs. Little could not remember
where she had put them; but it had been in some
secure hiding-place, since her own wit which had
placed them there could not find it out. She was
so mortified and worried over it that she was
nearly ill. She tried to propound the theory,
and believe in it herself, that she had really set
the turkey and the pudding in the pantry, and
that they had been stolen; but she was too honest.
"I've heerd of folks puttin' things in such
safe places that they couldn't find 'em, before
now," said she; "but I never heerd of losin' a
turkey an' a plum-puddin' that way. I dunno
but I'm losin' what little wits I ever did have."
She went about with a humble and resentful air.
She promised Ann Mary that she would cook another
turkey and pudding the first of the week, if
the missing ones were not found.
Sunday came and they were not discovered.
It was a pleasant day, and the Littles went to
the village church. Ann Mary looked over
across the church after they were seated and saw
Loretta, with the pretty brown frizzes over her
forehead, sitting between her father and mother,
and she wondered when Loretta had come home.
The choir sang and the minister prayed. Suddenly
Ann Mary saw him, standing there in the
pulpit, unfold a paper. Then the minister began
to read the Thanksgiving Proclamation. Ann
Mary cast one queer glance at her grandmother,
who returned it with one of inexpressible dignity
As soon as meeting was done, her grandmother
clutched her by the arm. "Don't you say a
word about it to anybody," she whispered. "You
When they were in the sleigh going home she
charged her husband. "You mind, you keep still,
father," said she. "It'll be town-talk if you
The old man chuckled. "Don't you know, I
said once that I had kind of an idee that Thanksgivin'
weren't quite so early, and you shut me
up, mother," he remarked. He looked good-naturedly
"Well, I dunno as it's anything so very queer,"
said Mrs. Little. "It comes a whole week later
than it did last year, and I s'posed we'd missed
hearin' the proclamation."
The next day a letter arrived saying that Lucy
and her father and mother were coming to spend
Thanksgiving. "I feel jest about beat," Mrs.
Little said, when she read the letter.
Really, she did feel about at her wit's end. The
turkey and pudding were not yet found, and she
had made up her mind that she would not dare
wait much longer without providing more. She
knew that another turkey must be procured, at
all events. However, she waited until the last
minute Wednesday afternoon, then she went to
work mixing a pudding. Mr. Little had gone to
the store for the turkey. "Sam White was over
there, an' he said he thought we was goin' right
into turkeys this year," he reported when he got
That night the guests arrived. Thanksgiving
morning Lucy and Ann Mary and their grandfather
and Lucy's father and mother were all
going to meeting. Mrs. Little was to stay at
home and cook the dinner.
Thanksgiving morning Mr. Little made a fire
in the best parlor air-tight stove, and just before
they started for meeting Lucy and Ann Mary
were in the room. Lucy, in the big rocking-chair
that was opposite the sofa, was rocking to and
fro and talking. Ann Mary sat near the window.
Each of the little girls had on her coat and hat.
Suddenly Lucy stopped rocking and looked intently
over towards the sofa.
"What you lookin' at, Lucy?" asked Ann
Lucy still looked. "Why—I was wondering
what was under that sofa," said she, slowly. Then
she turned to Ann Mary, and her face was quite
pale and startled—she had heard the turkey and
pudding story. "Oh, Ann Mary, it does look—like—oh—"
Both little girls rushed to the sofa, and threw
themselves on the floor. "Oh, oh, oh!" they
shrieked. "Grandma—mother! Come quick,
When the others came in, there sat Ann Mary
and Lucy on the floor, and between them were
the turkey and the plum-pudding, each carefully
covered with a snow-white napkin.
Mrs. Little was quite pale and trembling. "I
remember now," said she, faintly, "I run in here
She was so overcome that the others tried to
take it quietly and not to laugh much. But every
little while, after Lucy and Ann Mary were
seated in church, they would look at each other
and have to put their handkerchiefs to their
faces. However, Ann Mary tried hard to listen
to the sermon, and to behave well. In the
depths of her childish heart she felt grateful and
happy. There, by her side, sat her dear Lucy,
whose sweet little face peeped out from a furry
winter hat. Just across the aisle was Loretta,
who was coming in the evening, and then they
would pop corn and make nut-candy. At home
there was the beautiful new turkey and unlimited
pudding and good cheer, and all disappointment
and mystery were done away with.
Ann Mary felt as if all her troubles would be
followed by thanksgivings.