The

The Welcome back, everyone to one thousand one classic short stories and tales. This is your host, John Haggardorn. Today, a special Thanksgiving story for you from Louisa May Alcott, called 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, corn,

and pasture land fed, warmed, and clothed at 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 jelly place just now, for in the great fireplace were at a cheerful fire on the walls hung garlands of dried apples onions and corn

up aloft from the beams shone crooked-necked squashes juicy hams and dried venison for in those days deer still haunted the deep forest, and hunters flourished.

Savory smells were in the air. On the crane hung steaming kettles, and down among the red embers,

copper sauce pans 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 saddle, shelling corn for popping, and picking out the biggest nuts from

the goodly store 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,

proo, Roxy, and Roady 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 on her day. To and pro, from table to heart, bustled buxom Mrs. Bassett, flushed and flowery, but busy and blithe

as the queen be of this busy little hive should be.

I do like to begin seasonable and have things to my mind.

Thanksgiving dinners can't be drove, and it does take a sight of victuals to fill all these

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