Huldah shuddered at the changeless fried eggs and boiled potatoes; and
Cyrus ordered a heavy storm window for the room where Huldah slept
alone. Huldah slyly left a new apple pie almost under her husband's nose
one day, and Cyrus slipped a five-dollar bill beneath his wife's napkin
ring. When both pie and greenback remained untouched, Huldah cried, and
Cyrus said, "Gosh darn it!" three times in succession behind the woodshed
door.
A week before Thanksgiving a letter came from the married daughter, and
another from the married son. They were good letters, kind and loving;
and each closed with a suggestion that all go home at Thanksgiving for a
family reunion.
Huldah read the letters eagerly, but at their close she frowned and
looked anxious. In a moment she had passed them to Cyrus with a toss of
her head. Five minutes later Cyrus had flung them back with these words
trailing across one of the envelopes:
Write um. Tell um we are sick--dead--gone away--anything! Only
don't let um come. A if
we wanted to Thanksgive!
Huldah answered the letters that night. She, too, wrote kindly and
lovingly; but at the end she said that much as she and father would like
to see them, it did not seem wise to undertake to entertain such a
family gathering just now.
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