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, for there's pies to make, an' nuts to crack, and laws sakes alive!
the turkey's got to be stuffed yit!' Then how we all fly round! 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 sage-brush 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 an' 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 frivollin'; 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 of pans an' the clatter of dishes; an' the new
kitch'n stove begins to warm up an' git red, till Helen loses her wits an'
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 parlor.
Father's hair is very gray, and there are wrinkles on his honest old face.
He is lookin' through the winder at the Holyoke hills over yonder, and I
can guess he's thinkin' of the time when he wuz a boy like me an' Amos,
an' useter climb over them hills an' kill rattlesnakes an' hunt