Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know | Page 9

was forgotten. To-day, in that marvellous
country, there cannot be found a paper of sugarplums or a basket of
cakes. It is charming to see the red lips and the beautiful teeth of the
people. If they have still a king, he may well be proud to be their ruler.
Does this story teach that tarts and pies should never be eaten? No; but
there is reason in all things.
The doctors alone did not profit by this great revolution. They could
not afford to drink wine any longer in a land where indigestion had
become unknown. The apothecaries were no less unhappy, spiders spun
webs over their windows, and their horrible remedies were no longer of
use.

Ask no more about Mother Mitchel. She was ridiculed without measure
by those who had adored her. To complete her misfortune, she lost her
cat. Alas for Mother Mitchel!
The King received the reward of his wisdom. His grateful people called
him neither Charles the Bold, nor Peter the Terrible, nor Louis the
Great, but always by the noble name of Prosper I, the Reasonable.

THANKFUL[1]
BY MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN.
This tale is evidence that Mrs. Freeman understands the children of
New England as well as she knows their parents. There is a doll in the
story, but boys will not mind this as there are also two turkey-gobblers
and a pewter dish full of Revolutionary bullets.
Submit Thompson sat on the stone wall; Sarah Adams, an erect, prim
little figure, ankle-deep in dry grass, stood beside it, holding Thankful.
Thankful was about ten inches long, made of the finest linen, with little
rosy cheeks, and a fine little wig of flax. She wore a blue wool frock
and a red cloak. Sarah held her close. She even drew a fold of her own
blue homespun blanket around her to shield her from the November
wind. The sky was low and gray; the wind blew from the northeast, and
had the breath of snow in it. Submit on the wall drew her quilted
petticoats close down over her feet, and huddled herself into a small
space, but her face gleamed keen and resolute out of the depths of a
great red hood that belonged to her mother. Her eyes were fixed upon a
turkey-gobbler ruffling and bobbing around the back door of the
Adams house. The two gambrel-roofed Thompson and Adams houses
were built as close together as if the little village of Bridgewater were a
city. Acres of land stretched behind them and at the other sides, but
they stood close to the road, and close to each other. The narrow space
between them was divided by a stone wall which was Submit's and
Sarah's trysting-place. They met there every day and exchanged
confidences. They loved each other like sisters--neither of them had an

own sister--but to-day a spirit of rivalry had arisen.
[Footnote 1: From Harper's Young People, November 25, 1890.]
The tough dry blackberry vines on the wall twisted around Submit; she
looked, with her circle of red petticoat, like some strange late flower
blooming out on the wall. "I know he don't, Sarah Adams," said she.
"Father said he'd weigh twenty pounds," returned Sarah, in a small,
weak voice, which still had persistency in it.
"I don't believe he will. Our Thanksgiving turkey is twice as big. You
know he is, Sarah Adams."
"No, I don't, Submit Thompson."
"Yes, you do."
Sarah lowered her chin, and shook her head with a decision that was
beyond words. She was a thin, delicate-looking little girl, her small
blue-clad figure bent before the wind, but there was resolution in her
high forehead and her sharp chin.
Submit nodded violently.
Sarah shook her head again. She hugged Thankful, and shook her head,
with her eyes still staring defiantly into Submit's hood.
Submit's black eyes in the depths of it were like two sparks. She
nodded vehemently; the gesture was not enough for her; she nodded
and spoke together. "Sarah Adams," said she, "what will you give me if
our turkey is bigger than your turkey?"
"It ain't."
"What will you give me if it is?"
Sarah stared at Submit. "I don't know what you mean, Submit
Thompson," said she, with a stately and puzzled air.

"Well, I'll tell you. If your turkey weighs more than ours I'll give
you--I'll give you my little work-box with the picture on the top, and if
our turkey weighs more than yours you give me--What will you give
me, Sarah Adams?"
Sarah hung her flaxen head with a troubled air. "I don't know," said she.
"I don't believe I've got anything mother would be willing to have me
give away."
"There's Thankful. Your mother wouldn't care if you gave her away."
Sarah started, and hugged Thankful closer.