book. I get thirsty, too, and I
fidget about till Father looks at me, and Mother nudges Helen, and
Helen passes it along to me with interest.

"An' then," continues Ezra in his revery, "when the last hymn is given
out an' we stan' up agin an' join the choir, I am glad to see that
Laura is singin' outer the book with Miss Hubbard, the alto. An' goin'
out o' meetin' I kind of edge up to Laura and ask her if I kin have
the pleasure of seein' her home.

"An' now we boys all go out on the Common to play ball. The Enfield
boys have come over, and, as all the Hampshire county folks know, they
are tough fellers to beat. Gorham Polly keeps tally, because he has
got the newest jackknife--oh, how slick it whittles the old broom
handle Gorham picked up in Packard's store an' brought along jest to
keep tally on! It is a great game of ball; the bats are broad and
light, and the ball is small and soft. But the Enfield boys beat us at
last; leastwise they make 70 tallies to our 58, when Heman Fitts
knocks the ball over into Aunt Dorcas Eastman's yard, and Aunt Dorcas
comes out an' picks up the ball an' takes it into the house, an' we
have to stop playin'. Then Phineas Owen allows he can flop any boy in
Belchertown, an' Moses Baker takes him up, an' they wrassle like two
tartars, till at last Moses tuckers Phineas out an' downs him as slick
as a whistle.

"Then we all go home, for Thanksgivin' dinner is ready. Two long
tables have been made into one, and one of the big tablecloths Gran'ma
had when she set up housekeepin' is spread over 'em both. We all set
round--Father, Mother, Aunt Lydia Holbrook, Uncle Jason, Mary, Helen,
Tryphena Foster, Amos, and me. How big an' brown the turkey is, and
how good it smells! There are bounteous dishes of mashed potato,
turnip, an' squash, and the celery is very white and cold, the
biscuits are light and hot, and the stewed cranberries are red as
Laura's cheeks. Amos and I get the drumsticks; Mary wants the wishbone
to put over the door for Hiram, but Helen gets it. Poor Mary, she
always _did_ have to give up to 'rushin' Helen,' as we call her. The
pies--oh, what pies Mother makes; no dyspepsia in 'em, but good nature
an' good health an' hospitality! Pumpkin pies, mince, an' apple, too,
and then a big dish of pippins an' russets an' bellflowers, an', last
of all, walnuts with cider from the Zebrina Dickerson farm! I tell ye,
there's a Thanksgivin' dinner for ye! that's what we get in old
Belcherto