The sparrows twittered in the treetops as if the
branches were green with leaves.
To Cyrus, however, it was a world of gloom. Upstairs Huldah was singing--
singing!--and it was Thanksgiving. He could hear her feet patter,
patter on the floor above, and the sound had a cheery self-reliance that
was maddening. Huldah was happy, evidently--and it was Thanksgiving!
Twice he had walked resolutely to the back stairs with a brown-paper
parcel in his arms; and twice a quavering song of triumph from the room
above had sent him back in defeat. As if she could care for a present of
his!
Suddenly, now, Cyrus sprang forward in his chair, sniffing the air
hungrily. Turkey! Huldah was roasting turkey, while he--
The old man dropped back in his seat and turned his eyes disconsolately
on the ill-kept stove--fried eggs and boiled potatoes are not the most
toothsome prospect for a Thanksgiving dinner, particularly when one has
the smell of a New England housewife's turkey in one's nostrils.
For a time Cyrus sat motionless; then he rose to his feet, shuffled out
of the house, and across the road to the barn.
In the room above the kitchen, at that moment, something happened.
Perhaps the old hands slipped in their eagerness, or perhaps the old
eyes judged a distance wrongly.
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