The times. (Owosso, Mich.) 1882-1897, 1893-11-24

O strange man here with news about our
| Tom?" Gideon had worked on the Ash
; ford farm since he was boy and felt him
self member of the family.
| The scene that met them in the parlor
was indeed surprise. Old Mrs. Ashford
whom they had left tucked up in an easy
chair (she had insisted that they should all
go to church, and that Jane Maxey, their
neighbo who was helping in the kitchen,
would look out for herr, was standing on
her feet trembling with eagerness. Her
eyes, that could scarcely see, were bent on
the stranger with wide open. ptiful intent
ness.
ooh, father, father! Tom is alive and
may come home at any time. This is a
gentleman from the west and a friend of
his, Mr.-Mr- | didn't quite catch the
name"
John Bowker, ma'am, is my name, at
your service" said the newcomer in a
hoarse voice; perhaps it was huslliness.
And then all piled him eagerly with ques-
tions. While the strangers answers were
apparently frank, WILL shrewd man of the
world that he was, fancied note of confu-
sion in the words.
Could it lic Tom himself Incorporating?
But, no. This was Il stalwart giant, bigger
than Toms young promise. The shock of
black locks lay low on the brow, and the
bushy beard grew to the very eyes. And
there was no cadence of the past lurking in
the tones, so often the surest of detectives.
Mr. John Bowker said he had known Tom
we'll in the mining regions; had seen him
indeed only two months ago in Arizona.
Tom was heartily homesick and had set
his will on eating his next Thanksgiving
Al M nc ofo
addressing himself to the old lady, who de-
voured every word, "he knew | was lone
ly body, and that was going back to Gods
country about the same time, he says to
me, says Tom: John Bowker, you must
eat your Thanksgiving turkey with me and
my folks. And if l amt there they'll well
come you for my sake"
IAN 10 times welcome you are for Toms
sake, though he hain't here yet, for you
bring blessed news" said the farmer, shall-
ing the others hand over and over.
Kate, burning with curiosity, fitted in
and out of the room, for the culinary mys
teries of n rural Thanksgiving are too So
cred to be tempered with. Almost to the
last moment the New England housewife
ministers in person at the affairs where
steam the f0nes of savory victims Poor
Kate had been sadly divided between the
voice of the stranger and the claims of the
huge turkey sputtering on the spit before
the fire. At last everything was ready, and
she darted 20 her room to change her gown.
Who does not recall the homely glories
of a country Thanksgiving feast-the gold
en- brown turkey proudly lying in state and
reeking with the most delicious odors; the
roast ducks bursting with their own fat
ness, as If eager to be eaten the chicken
pasty, within whose ample bowels the
most delicious tidbits culver in their own
jelly; the luscious home cured ham, check
cred with islands of pepper and spice; the
splendors of pumpkin pie, yellow as gold
and piquant with flavor which Apicius
would have loved, and the mine of minced
dainties hidden beneath faky crust
These have been embalmed in song and
story, entombed ia countless memories and
countless stomachs. Bottles of cider
hanked the profusion Of good things on
Farmer Ashford's table. Will had brought
down case Of champagne, but his father
shook his head and said, II tell ye, son,
these Frenchifed things amt half as good
rs ny old Newtown pippin cider"
As sley stood around the smoking feast