partridges. Or doesn't his eyes quite reach the Holyoke hills? Do they
fall kind o' lovingly but sadly on the little buryin'-ground jest beyond
the village? Ah, Father knows that spot, an' he loves it, too, for there
are treasures there whose memory he wouldn't swap for all the world could
give. So, while there is a kind o' mist in Father's eyes, I can see he is
dreamin'-like of sweet an' tender things, and a-com-munin' with
memory,--hearin' voices I never heard an' feelin' the tech of hands I
never pressed; an' seein' Father's peaceful face I find it hard to think
of a Thanksgivin' sweeter than Father's is.

"The pictur' in the firelight changes now," said Ezra, "an' seems as if I
wuz in the old frame meetin'-house. The meetin'-house is on the hill, and
meetin' begins at half-pas' ten. Our pew is well up in front,--seems as if
I could see it now. It has a long red cushion on the seat, and in the
hymn-book rack there is a Bible an' a couple of Psalmodies. We walk up the
aisle slow, and Mother goes in first; then comes Mary, then me, then
Helen, then Amos, and then Father. Father thinks it is jest as well to
have one o' the girls set in between me an' Amos. The meetin'-house is
full, for everybody goes to meetin' Thanksgivin' day. The minister reads
the proclamation an' makes a prayer, an' then he gives out a psalm, an' we
all stan' up an' turn round an' join the choir. Sam Merritt has come up
from Palmer to spend Thanksgivin' with the ol' folks, an' he is singin'
tenor to-day in his ol' place in the choir. Some folks say he sings
wonderful well, but _I_ don't like Sam's voice. Laura sings soprano
in the choir, and Sam stands next to her an' holds the book.

"Seems as if I could hear the minister's voice, full of earnestness an'
melody, comin' from 'way up in his little round pulpit. He is tellin' us
why we should be thankful, an', as he quotes Scriptur' an' Dr. Watts, we
boys wonder how anybody can remember so much of the Bible. Then I get