The Night Before Thanksgiving Page #2

"The Night Before Thanksgiving" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a charming short story that captures the warmth and anticipation of the Thanksgiving holiday. Set in a small New England town, the narrative follows the preparation and excitement leading up to the festive day. Through vivid descriptions and relatable characters, Jewett explores themes of family, tradition, and gratitude, highlighting the simple joys of community and the meaningful connections that define the holiday season. The story evokes a sense of nostalgia and celebration, making it a delightful read for anyone eager to embrace the spirit of Thanksgiving.

• Short story

								


"Dear me, what is it?" she faltered, stepping back as he came in, and
dropping her crutch.  "Be I dreamin'?  I was a-dreamin' about--  Oh,
there!  What was I a-sayin'?  'T ain't true!  No!  I've made some kind
of a mistake."

Yes, and this was the man who kept the poorhouse, and she would go
without complaint; they might have given her notice, but she must not
fret.

"Sit down, sir," she said, turning toward him with touching patience.
"You 'll have to give me a little time.  If I 'd been notified I would
n't have kept you waiting a minute this stormy night."

It was not the keeper of the poorhouse.  The man by the door took one
step forward and put his arm round her and kissed her.

"What are you talking about?" said John Harris.  "You ain't goin' to
make me feel like a stranger?  I 've come all the way from Dakota to
spend Thanksgivin'.  There's all sorts o' things out here in the wagon,
an' a man to help get 'em in.  Why, don't cry so, Mother Robb.  I
thought you 'd have a great laugh, if I come and surprised you.  Don't
you remember I always said I should come?"

It was John Harris, indeed.  The poor soul could say nothing.  She felt
now as if her heart was going to break with joy.  He left her in the
rocking-chair and came and went in his old boyish way, bringing in the
store of gifts and provisions.  It was better than any dream.  He
laughed and talked, and went out to send away the man to bring a
wagonful of wood from John Mander's, and came in himself laden with
pieces of the nearest fence to keep the fire going in the mean time.
They must cook the beef-steak for supper right away; they must find the
pound of tea among all the other bundles; they must get good fires
started in both the cold bedrooms.  Why, Mother Robb did n't seem to be
ready for company from out West!  The great, cheerful fellow hurried
about the tiny house, and the little old woman limped after him,
forgetting everything but hospitality.  Had not she a house for John to
come to?  Were not her old chairs and tables in their places still?
And he remembered everything, and kissed her as they stood before the
fire, as if she were a girl.

He had found plenty of hard times, but luck had come at last.  He had
struck luck, and this was the end of a great year.

"No, I could n't seem to write letters; no use to complain o' the
worst, an' I wanted to tell you the best when I came;" and he told it
while she cooked the supper.  "No, I wa'n't goin' to write no foolish
letters," John repeated.  He was afraid he should cry himself when he
found out how bad things had been; and they sat down to supper
together, just as they used to do when he was a homeless orphan boy,
whom nobody else wanted in winter weather while he was crippled and
could not work.  She could not be kinder now than she was then, but she
looked so poor and old!  He saw her taste her cup of tea and set it
down again with a trembling hand and a look at him.  "No, I wanted to
come myself," he blustered, wiping his eyes and trying to laugh.  "And
you 're going to have everything you need to make you comfortable
long's you live, Mother Robb!"

She looked at him again and nodded, but she did not even try to speak.
There was a good hot supper ready, and a happy guest had come; it was
the night before Thanksgiving.
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