Washburn having been turned away by the woman he loved naturally sought comfort with the daughter who so nearly resembled her, and, being lonely, living by himself in his oaken domicile, smoking his pipe, solitary, before the logs burning in his great open fireplace, he mused thus:

"If I cannot have the mother to keep me company, why should I not have the daughter, providing that mother will give her to me? True, I wish the older woman, who is nearer my age and with whom I can consult as to my affairs, but Faithful is stronger and can better do that work about a house which is expected of a woman. Besides, the mother and I will be aged at the same time and like the blind leading the blind, whereas Faithful when I am an old man will be in her prime and the better able to take care of me yet she will be old enough to have lost a desire for admiration, and I shall not have to fear the gallantry of young men."

Thus did the lonely bachelor attempt to persuade himself that it would be better after all that he should marry the daughter instead of the mother. Nevertheless there were many reasons on the other side, and down in the bottom of his heart he wanted Mrs. Stanford herself.

However, having formed a resolution, the next day he went to the house where the two women lived and, calling for the mother, asked for the hand of her daughter. He was naturally shamefaced in making his request, since not long before he had assured the lady of whom he made it that his happiness depended solely on her. He expected to be taken to task for his change of heart, but the widow simply replied that her daughter had reason to be proud of having won the esteem of so prominent a defender of the colony and she, the mother, would be happy to bestow Faithful upon him if he could show that he had the property to be expected of the man she should marry. Since Mr. Washburn could show nothing more than he had shown on his previous application he arose with a deep sigh and left the house.

Walter Washburn, who was as simple minded as he was brave, poured his

trouble into the ears of Mrs. Hurlbut, a married woman, who had shown great friendship for him. Mrs. Stanford was acting selfishly in refusing her daughter to a good man whom she did not wish for herself.

"I would advise you, friend Walter," said his confidant, "to carry off the young woman you wish to wife."

"How could I do that?" asked Washburn.

"You are not fitted to form a plan in such a proceeding. You must have some friend to lay one for you and to assist you in carrying it out. Leave the matter to me. Come to see me again in a few days, and I may have something to say to you.'

The next day Mr. Washburn received the invitation to eat a Thanksgiving dinner with the widow and her daughter. The friendly act smote his conscience that he had even thought of robbing the widow of her daughter, and he went at once to Mrs. Hurlbut to say to her that she need form no such plan as she had proposed on his behalf, for he would have nothing to do with so nefarious a matter.

But Mrs. Hurlbut soothed him and reminded him that lovers had from time immemorial eloped and had always held the sympathy of mankind. Washburn said that his own case was different from those, for he was not a young lover and had never spoken a word of love to Faithful Stanford. He had followed the custom of the times by asking her hand from her parent. However, Mrs. Hurlbut, who was a persuasive talker, finally won him over, then said that she had formed a plan as follows:

On the evening before Thanksgiving Day would take place the usual Wednesday evening prayer meeting, at which all the colonists would be present, including the Stanfords, mother and daughter. Mrs. Hurlbut would go to the meeting and Walter Washburn would do the same. The road over which the Stanfords must go to their home was a lonely one. Mrs. Hurlbut and Walter would follow them, and when out of sight of hearing of others Mrs. Hurlbut would throw a bedquilt over the mother and a sheet over the daughter, using dif

ducted girl would not marry him even if it otherwise succeeded, and if she did that her mother would never forgive him. Moreover, there was a law in the colony that any man courting a young girl without her parents' consent could be sued before a magistrate for damages.

But when a persuasive woman is determined to have her way with a man, especially one so easily led as Walter Washburn, there is no standing against her. Mrs. Hurlbut carried her point and on the evening of the prayer meeting took her friend Walter to the meeting

resistance soon ceased. Walter as he strode along told her who he was, what was intended and asked her consent to a marriage forthwith. After a few minutes she spoke a faint "Yes," but before entering the minister's house said that she would rather not be known and preferred to keep on her covering.

But even this was unnecessary, for the minister, who had gone to bed, came down in the dark, and when he strove to strike a light the punk, which was damp, would not ignite, and Walter, who was fast losing his equanimity,

begged him to proceed with the ceremony in the dark. So he did, and the two were made man and wife.

After the ceremony Walter supposed that his wife would go to his home with him. But she declined, saying that at the Thanksgiving dinner the next day she would confess all to her mother, since that would be a time when she was most likely to be forgiven. Walter

could not but see the wisdom of such a course and parted not unwillingly with his newly made wife.

The next day all met at the service in the meeting house. Mrs. Stanford gave Walter a friendly greeting, and her daughter loooked upon him as unconcernedly as if she had not so recently become his bride. He walked home with them, and soon after their arrival the dinner table was loaded with a haunch of venison at one end, a wild turkey at the other, the interval being filled with other delectable viands. Walter was placed at the head, while Mrs. Stanford sat at the other end facing him. When the meats had been eaten she said to her vis-a-vis:

"Friend Washburn, when next you propose an abduction be more sure of the friend who leads you into it. Mrs. Hurlbut informed me of the plot to carry off my daughter, and, feeling that if she or I must be your wife, I, as first asked, should be the bride, I asked that I and not Faithful be covered by the sheet. It was I who went with you to the minister."

Then, raising a glass of wine that stood before her, she added:

"My husband, I greet you!"

Walter sat gazing at the speaker for some time, while the truth was slowly permeating his dull brain. Then, arising from his chair, he went to where she sat and, enfolding her in his arms, imprinted a kiss upon her lips. From his wife he passed to Faithful and, also giving her a kiss, said:

"My daughter, I forgive you."

Then returning to his seat he bowed his head and reverently gave thanks for the happy outcome of a plan that had never met with his approval, but which had turned out as he wished.

The Blessings of Uncle Silas.
Thanksgiving Day is here once more.
Let's see what I am thankful for:
To tell the truth, it's been a year
That ain't been over full o' cheer
For me and mine. Affairs ain't went
To any blusterin' extent

As I'd 'a' had 'em, but, 'y Guy.
The pantry's full o' punkin pie!

My candidate on 'lection day
Got folded up and put away
In camphor like a piece o' wool:
He ran some, but he couldn't pull.
They give his apple-cart a spill,
And hollered at him, "Good-by, Bill!"
I felt so bad it made me cry-
Till I filled up on punkin pie.

Last spring I thought I'd speckilate,
And bought some "Tomcat Syndicate,"
Best minin' stock you ever see-
Ten tons o' gold in every three
Of dirt they took out-so they said.

I put in almost all I hed.

And then-O well, it went sky-high,
And I come back to punkin pie.
My rheumatiz ain't done so well.
Been troublesome for quite a spell,
Along my back and shoulder-blades.
Been raisin' reg'lar merry hades,
As them there college fellers say
When speakin' in a reefined way;
But I ain't kickin' 'bout it. Why?
The pantry's full o' punkin pie.
The forest fires burnt up my trees,
Bill Tompkins' mule eat up my peas.
The old mare-had her thutty years-
Got scairt of them derned trolley keers,
And runned away, smashed Peavey's fence,
And cost me forty-seven cents-
But I'm a-heavin' nary a sigh-
I saved my throat for punkin pie!
O Punkin Pie! That's my idee
Of what true Heaven's goin' to be-
Three times a day, and may be four,
And in betweentimes several more.
I sometime think the blazin' sun
High up there in the sky is one-
So come what may, I'm thankful I
Have got my share of punkin pie!

J. K. B.-Harper's Weekly, Nov. 1908.

Some Thoughts for Thanksgiving Day.

Not long ago a little girl was asked by another little girl what she usually did on Thanksgiving Day. "I eat all I can hold of good things," was her quick reply. "That's a pity," remarked her questioner, "for it doubtless makes you ill, and does nobody good. Now, I enjoy a good dinner, too, but I eat in moderation. And I carry a basket of