that was work. I meant what you were saying. It
sounds so funny! I never heard it before."

"Mamma made it up," explained Malcolm. "It's great fun. We always
play it at Thanksgiving time. You think of something that people don't
like, and the one who can think first tells what he is thankful for
about it. We call it 'Thanksgiving.'"

Guy stayed for an hour, and played both games. Then, quite to his
surprise, the twelve o'clock whistles blew, and he had to go home. But
he remembered his errands and did them, to the great pleasure of the
whole Burns family.

In the afternoon Guy spent some time writing a note to his mother. It
was badly written, but it made his mother happy. It read:

DEAR MOTHER:--I am Thankful the blot isent any bigger. I am
Thankful the hankershefs isent black on the borders. I would
like that one with the Blot on to put in my pocket when you
read this. But my old ones are nice. The Burnses dont have
things to be Thankful for but they are Thankful just the
same.

I am Thankful for the Goose we are going to have. The best
is I am Thankful I am not a Goose myself, for if I was I
wouldent know enough to be Thankful.

Respectfully yours,

GUY THEODORE WRIGHT.

AN ENGLISH DINNER OF THANKSGIVING[19]

BY GEORGE ELIOT.

Americans are not the only people who hold a feast each year
after the crops are gathered into barns.

The older boys and girls who wish to know more of the jolly
English farmer, Martin Poyser, and his household, will enjoy
reading about them in George Eliot's great novel, "Adam
Bede."

It was a goodly sight--that table, with Martin Poyser's round
good-humoured face and large person at the head of it, helping his
servants to the fragrant roast beef, and pleased when the empty plates
came again. Martin, though usually blest with a good appetite, really
forgot to finish his own beef to-night--it was so pleasant to him to
look on in the intervals of carving, and see how the others enjoyed
their supper; for were they not men who, on all the days of the year
except Christmas Day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner, in a
makeshift manner, under the hedgerows, and drank their beer out of
wooden bottles--with relish certainly, but with their mouths toward
the zenith, after a fashion more endurable to ducks than to human
bipeds. Martin Poyser had some faint conception of the flavour such
men must find in