Thanksgiving proclamation had
been read, and it was past the middle of November, yet marigolds and
four-o'clocks were all ablaze in the gardens, and the golden rod and
purple aster were blooming over the fields as if they were expecting to
keep it up all winter.

It really is affecting, the jolly good heart with which these bright
children of the rainbow flaunt and wave and dance and go on budding and
blossoming in the very teeth and snarl of oncoming winter. An autumn
golden rod or aster ought to be the symbol for pluck and courage, and
might serve a New England crest as the broom flower did the old
Plantagenets.

The trees round Mapleton were looking like gigantic tulip beds, and
breaking every hour into new phantasmagoria of color; and the great elm
that overshadowed the red Pitkin farm-house seemed like a dome of gold,
and sent a yellow radiance through all the doors and windows as the
dreamy autumn sunshine streamed through it.

The Pitkin elm was noted among the great trees of New England. Now and
then Nature asserts herself and does something so astonishing and
overpowering as actually to strike through the crust of human stupidity,
and convince mankind that a tree is something greater than they are. As a
general thing the human race has a stupid hatred of trees. They embrace
every chance to cut them down. They have no idea of their fitness for
anything but firewood or fruit bearing. But a great cathedral elm, with
shadowy aisles of boughs, its choir of whispering winds and chanting
birds, its hush and solemnity and majestic grandeur, actually conquers
the dull human race and asserts its leave to be in a manner to which all
hearts respond; and so the great elms of New England have got to be
regarded with a sort of pride as among her very few crown jewels, and the
Pitkin elm was one of these.

But wasn't it a busy time in Mapleton! Busy is no word for it. Oh, the
choppings, the poundings, the stoning of raisins, the projections of pies
and puddings, the killing of turkeys--who can utter it? The very chip
squirrels in the stone-walls, who have a family custom of making a
market-basket of their mouths, were rushing about with chops incredibly
distended, and their tails had an extra whisk of thanksgiving alertness.
A squirrel's Thanksgiving dinner is an affair of moment, mind you.

In the great roomy, clean kitchen of the deacon's house might be seen the
lithe, comely form of Diana Pitkin presiding over the roar