The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1889-11-20

Every night when got out at Manhattan
avenue my three little girls were standing
at the foot of the stairway waiting for
me. I could see them from the top of
the stairs, all in row, their little cloaks
Tapping in the chill November wind,
their lips blue and teeth rattling like
castanets.
Wait minute. 1t makes me feel faint
to think of it, even after the lapse of
three years. Well, it's all over now,
don't know why it affects me so strongly.
There was something humorous, too, In
the way the little tots Jumped around to
keep warm. As soon as they saw the
train swing around the turn they ranged
themselves in row and looked upward
so wistfully, oh, so wistfully, to see their
papa. For you must know that although
not one word of our desperate situation
had been breathed in their hearing, yet
their keen intuitions had told them some
thing was wrong, and they knew as we'll
as their mother that I was looking for
work. How eagerly they looked in my
face each evening, so that if there was
ray of hope in it the eldest could start on
run to tell her mother the good news!
Of course I cheered them with fairy
tales of what a wonderful big turkey we
would have on Thanksgiving. A COB
bier of tremendous size, who had strutted
when alive like prince in the story
books. Then followed description of
the cranberry sauce and the huge wedges
of mince pie. All this took place while
I was carrying two of the children in my
arms and the other was hanging on to my
coat at my side. 1 hope shall be for
given for those lies. For they were lies
of the blackest sort. I knew there
wasn't one chance in thousand that we
would have a turkey on Thanksgiving
Day. But I think under the circum-
stances that an angel of light would have
departed from the truth to see those lit
tie faces light up with anticipation, to
see the checks flush and the white teeth
bare themselves as though cutting the
tender meat from turkey leg.
But the hardest sight for me to bear
was the look Nellie gave me. Just one
quick glance into my face and she knew
all the sorrowful tale. 1t was not nee
essary to tell her how had tramped the
streets of the big city all day, how faint
I had become from hunger; how 1 was
raging at heart like Gagged lion; how in
my awful rage I cursed the rich and
hated humanity. Not for myself, but
for the hungry babies and their mother.
Never word of complaint from Nellie.
Only encouragement and hope.
Then came the oatmeal alone. For
the molasscs was all gone. 1 don't eat
oatmeal now. The taste of it is insuffer-
able to me. MY palate rises in rebellion
against it. have heard of the man who
ate thirty quail in thirty days. I wonder
whether he ever tried oatmeal for thirty
days.
On the morning before Thanksgiving
I was fairly crazy with grief and anticipa-
ton. Nellie and 1 had consultation
the night before, and she suggested that
I should write piece of poetry about
the Thanksgiving turkey.
The idea pleased me. 1t was relief
certainly from the brooding over the
morrow. got book of poems from
my little store, which had so far escaped
the pawn-shop and hunted up metre
after which 1 copied, for of course I knew
nothing about metre OF poetical feet.