hildren, however darker humors might work and sadden among the
grown people, (for whatever hue rose-favored writers may choose to throw
over scenes and times of festivity, the passions of character are always
busy, in holiday and hall, as well as in the strifes of the world,) to
the Peabody children this was thanksgiving time indeed--it was
thanksgiving in the house, it was thanksgiving in the orchard, climbing
trees; it was thanksgiving in the barn, tumbling in the hay, in the
lane. It was thanksgiving, too, with the jovial Captain, a grown-up boy,
heading their sports and allowing the country as he did, little rest or
peace of mind wherever he lead the revel; it was not four-and-twenty
hours that he had been at the quiet homestead before the mill was set
a-running, the chestnut-trees shaken, the pigeons fired into, a new bell
of greater compass put upon the brindle cow, the blacksmith's anvil at
the corner of the road set a-dinging, fresh weather-cocks clapped upon
the barn, corn-crib, stable, and out-house, the sheep let out of the
little barn, all the boats of the neighborhood launched upon the pond.
With night, darkness closed upon wild frolic; bed-time came, and
thanksgiving had a pause; a pause only, for Mopsey's dark head, with its
broad-bordered white cap, was no sooner withdrawn and the door firmly
shut, than thanksgiving began afresh, as though there had been no such
thing all day long, and they were now just setting out. For half a
minute after Mopsey's disappearance they were all nicely tucked in as
she had left them--straight out--with their heads each square on its
pillow; then, as if by a silent understanding, all heads popped up like
so many frisking fish. They darted from bed and commenced in the middle
of the chamber, a great pillow-fight amicable and hurtless, but
furiously waged, till the approach of a broad footstep sent them
scampering back to their couches, mum as mice. Mopsey, well aware of
these frisks, tarried till they were blown over, in her own chamber hard
by, a dark room, mysterious to the fancy of the children, with spinning
wheels, dried gourd-shells hung against the wall, a lady's
riding-saddle, now out of use this many a day, and all the odds and ends
of an ancient farm-house stored in heaps and strings about.

It was only at last by going aloft and moving a trap in the ceiling,
which was connected in tradition with the appearance of a ghost, that
they were at length fairly sobered dow