d ourselves. So the hours go,
an' it is sun-up at last, an' Sister Helen says we must be gettin'
home. When we take our skates off, our feet feel as if they were wood.
Laura has lost her tippet; I lend her mine, and she kind o' blushes.
The old pond seems glad to have us go, and the fire-hangbird's nest
in the willer tree waves us good-bye. Laura promises to come over to
our house in the evenin', and so we break up.

"Seems now," continued Ezra musingly, "seems now as if I could see us
all at breakfast. The race on the pond has made us hungry, and Mother
says she never knew anybody else's boys that had such capac'ties as
hers. It is the Yankee Thanksgivin' breakfast--sausages an' fried
potatoes, an' buckwheat cakes, an' syrup--maple syrup, mind ye, for
Father has his own sugar bush, and there was a big run o' sap last
season. Mother says, 'Ezry an' Amos, won't you never get through
eatin'? We want to clear off the table, fer there's pies to make, and
nuts to crack, and laws sakes alive! The turkey's got to be stuffed
yet!' Then how we all fly around! Mother sends Helen up into the attic
to get a squash while Mary's makin' the pie crust. Amos an' I crack
the walnuts--they call 'em hickory nuts out in this pesky country of
sagebrush and pasture land. The walnuts are hard, and it's all we can
do to crack 'em. Ev'ry once'n a while one on 'em slips outer our
fingers and goes dancin' over the floor or flies into the pan Helen is
squeezin' pumpkin into through the col'nder. Helen says we're
shif'less an' good for nothin' but frivolin'; but Mother tells us how
to crack the walnuts so's not to let 'em fly all over the room, an'
so's not to be all jammed to pieces like the walnuts was down at the
party at the Peasleys' last winter. An' now here comes Tryphena
Foster, with her gingham gown an' muslin apron on; her folks have gone
up to Amherst for Thanksgivin', an' Tryphena has come over to help our
folks get dinner. She thinks a great deal o' Mother, 'cause Mother
teaches her Sunday-school class an' says Tryphena oughter marry a
missionary. There is bustle everywhere, the rattle uv pans an' the
clatter of dishes; an' the new kitchen stove begins to warm up an' git
red, till Helen loses her wits and is flustered, an' sez she never
could git the hang o' that stove's dampers.

"An' now," murmured Ezra gently, as a tone of deeper reverence crept
into his voice, "I can see Father sittin' all by himself in the
parlour. Father's hair