"Of course, you don't know," she said, when Calliope had unfolded her
plans, "how useless it all seems to me. What's the use--I keep sayin' to
myself now'-days; what's the use? You put so much pains on somethin',
an' then it goes off an' leaves you. Mebbe it dies, an' everything's all
wasted. There ain't anything to tie to. It's like lookin' in a glass all
the while. It's seemin', it ain't bein'. We ain't certain o' nothin' but
our breath, an' when that goes, what hev you got? What's the use o'
plannin' Thanksgivin' for anybody?"

"Well, if you're hungry, it's kind o' nice to get fed up," said
Calliope, crisply. "Don't you know a soul that's hungry, Mame Bliss?"

She shook her head.

"No," she said, "I don't. Nor nobody sick in body."

"Nobody sick in body," Calliope repeated absently.

"Soul-sick an' soul-hungry you can't feed up," Mis' Holcomb added.

"I donno," said Calliope, thoughtfully, "I donno but you can."

"No," Mis' Holcomb went on; "your soul's like yourself in the glass:
they ain't anything there."

"I donno," Calliope said again; "some mornin's when I wake up with the
sun shinin' in, I can feel my soul in me just as plain as plain."

Mis' Holcomb sighed.

"Life looks dreadful footless to me," she said.

"Well," said Calliope, "sometimes life _is_ some like hearin'
firecrackers go off when you don't feel up to shootin' 'em yourself.
When I'm like that, I always think if I'd go out an' buy a bunch or two,
an' get somebody to give me a match, I could see more sense to things.
Look here, Mame Bliss; if I get hold o' any folks to give the dinner
for, will you help me some?"

"Yes," Mis' Holcomb assented half-heartedly, "I'll help you. I ain't
nobody much in family, now Abigail's done what she has. They's only
Eppleby, an' he won't be home Thanksg'vin this year. So I ain't nothin'
else to do."

"That's the _i_-dee," said Calliope, heartily; "if everything's foolish,
it's just as foolish doin' nothin' as doin' somethin'. Will you bring
over a kettleful o' boiled potatoes to my house Thanksgivin' noon? An'
mash 'em an' whip 'em in my kitchen? I'll hev the milk to put in.
You--you don't cook as much as some, do you, Mame?"

Did Calliope ask her that purposely? I am almost sure that she did. Mis'
Holcomb's neck stiffened a little.

"I guess I can cook a thing or two beside mash' potatoes," she said, and
thought for a minute. "How'd you like a pan o' 'scalloped oysters an'
some baked macaroni with p