Good evening. Welcome to the Just Sleep podcast. I'm Tasha, your host.

Every week, I will read you an old story to help you relax, but the stressful day behind you and drift off to sleep.

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Tonight, I will be reading an old-fashioned Thanksgiving by

Louisa May Alcott. So lie down, close your eyes, and let me read you a story.

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, or 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 shone,

crook-necked squashes, juicy hams, and dried venison. For in those days, Dair 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 saucepan 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 Goodley store their 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, crew, Roxy, and Roady went as fast as their hands.

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