nksgiving table; plenty of chickens and turkeys boiled and
roasted before her. What a time she had getting all the little
Scott-ites seated to her mind, and napkins tucked properly under each
chubby chin; how she _would_ carve the turkey herself, because, when
Grandpa got busy talking, he cut off the wings before he did the legs!

How she insisted upon "all just tasting some of that chicken-pie," when
it was quite impossible to stow away another mouthful, because "she had
no idea of making it for nothing."

How she would give the little wee baby a "wish-bone," though it could
not hold it one minute in its limpsy little fingers; and how she would
keep on passing round nuts, and oranges, and grapes, and apples, and
wonder what _had_ become of all their appetites.

And then how all the family would go back into the sitting-room after
dinner; and how Tom, the family "Mozart," would sing "Home, Sweet
Home;" and how Grandma Scott would rub her eyes with her handkerchief,
and declare that the room smoked! And how all the grown-up boys and
girls would begin to look hysterical; and how Maggie, who believed in
"a time to dance," would jump up and seize sober Uncle Walter by the
waist, and waltz round the room with him; and how Grandmamma would
smile and say, "Will anything _ever_ tame that girl?" Poor, merry
Maggie! she's "tame" enough now, though Grandmamma didn't live to see
the sorrow that it took to do it.

And bright-eyed Hal, and golden-haired Letty, and brave, handsome
Walter, and cherry-lipped Susy, and dimpled little Benny,--and
Grandmamma with her warm, big heart and cheerful smile; and Grandpapa
with his silvery locks, and beaming eye, and kindly hand of
welcome--oh, where are they all _now_?

Dear children,

"There is a reaper, his name is Death,
And with his sickle keen,
He cuts _the bearded grain at a breath_,
_And the flowers that grow between_."

Yes, other families have "Thanksgiving" now under the mossy eaves of
the old farm-house--other strange little voices lisp "Grandpapa,"
"Grandmamma;" and long graves and short graves are in the old
churchyard; and names look you in the face from marble tablets, that
were once at Scott Farm--_oh_, such _cherished_ "household words!"

A TRUE STORY.

People say that it is a sign of good luck to tumble up stairs. I am
glad of it; for, what with my long skirts, and what with the broken
stairway, and the pitch darkness, I did nothing _but_