Aunt Joe's Scrap Bag, an old-fashioned Thanksgiving by Louisa May Alcott, author of little women,

an old-fashioned girl, little men, hospital sketches 1882.

Aunt Joe's scrapbag, an old-fashioned Thanksgiving.

Sixty years ago, up among the New Hampshire hills, lived

Farmer Bassett, with a house full of sturdy sons and daughters growing up about him. They were poor

in money, but rich in land and love. For the wide acres of wood, corn, and pasture land, fed, warmed, and clothed the flock,

while mutual patience, affection, and courage made the old farmhouse a very happy home.

November had come. The crops were in, and barn, buttery, and bin were overflowing with the harvest that rewarded

the summer's hard work. The big kitchen was a jolly place just now, for in the great fireplace

roared a cheerful fire. On the walls hung garlands of dried apples, onions and corn, up aloft from

the beams shown crook-necked squashes, juicy hams, and dried venison.

For in those days, deer still haunted the deep forests, and hunters flourished.

Savory smells were in the air. On the crane hung steaming kettles, and down among the red embers, copper saucepans simmered, all suggestive of some

approaching feast. A white-headed baby lay in the old blue cradle that had rocked seven other babies,

now and then lifting his head to look out, like a round full moon, then subsided to kick and

crow contentedly, and suck the rosy apple he had no

teeth to bite. Two small boys sat on the wooden settle, shelling corn for popping, and picking out

the biggest nuts from the goodly store of their own hands had gathered in October.

Four young girls stood at the long dresser, busily chopping meat,

pounding spice and slicing apples, and the tongues of tilly, prue, roxy, and rowdy went as

fast as their hands. Farmer Bassett and F., the oldest boy, were chore and round outside,

for thanksgiving was at hand, and all must be in order for that time-honored day.

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