a
solitary candle?

How we found our way with the weight of that stupendous dinner by us to
the heights of Town-hill it is hard to tell. But we did, and when our
barrel pile was fairly ablaze, we danced like young satyrs round the
flame, shouting at our very loudest when the fire caught the tar barrel
at the top, and the yellow pile of blaze threw its lurid glare over hill
and houses and town.

Afterwards I have recollection of an hour or more in a snug square
parlor, which is given over to us youngsters and our games, dimly
lighted, as was most fitting; but a fire upon the hearth flung out a red
glory on the floor and on the walls.

Was it a high old time, or did we only pretend that it was?

Didn't I know little Floy in that pea-green silk, with my hands clasped
round her waist and my eyes blinded--ever so fast? Didn't I give Dick an
awful pinch in the leg, when I lay _perdu_ under the sofa in another one
of those tremendous games? Didn't the door that led into the hall show a
little open gap from time to time--old faces peering in, looking very
kindly in the red firelight flaring on them? And didn't those we loved
best look oftenest? Don't they always?

Well, well--we were fagged at last: little Floy in a snooze before we
knew it; Dick, pretending not to be sleepy, but gaping in a prodigious
way. But the romps and the fatigue made sleep very grateful when it came
at last: yet the sleep was very broken; the turkey and the nuts had
their rights, and bred stupendous Thanksgiving dreams. What gorgeous
dreams they were, to be sure!

I seem to dream them again to-day.

Once again I see the old, revered gray head bowing in utter
thankfulness, with the hands clasped.

Once again, over the awful tide of intervening years--so full, and yet
so short--I seem to see the shimmer of _her_ golden hair--an aureole of
light blazing on the borders of boyhood: "_For this, and all thy
bounties, our Father, we thank thee._"

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 20: From "Bound Together," by Donald G. Mitchell, published by
Charles Scribner's Sons.]

A THANKSGIVING[21]

Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell--
A little house, whose humble roof
Is weatherproof--
Under the spans of which I lie
Both soft and dry,
Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch as is my fate--
Bo