American Cookery: Thanksgiving Menus and Recipes, - [i have read the book a hundred times TXT] 📗

member of the Civic Betterment Committee of Loudon, I shall do my duty." ("I bet she will!" commented Jimmie, sotto voce.) "Again I thank you!" went on Aunt Rachel. "There's a work for you and for me now to do, and—" she paused impressively, "we will do it." ("I'll bet on you every time, Auntie," commented Jimmie to himself.)

"Jimmie Atherton, what in the world are you doing?" whispered an exasperated voice. "Hurry, Jimmie, hurry—do!" urged Jennie. "Dinner is almost ready to serve, and you haven't even made the first move to dress. Hurry, Jimmie, please!" And Jimmie did. He fairly sprinted into his clothes, appearing presently fully clad and good to look upon.

"Bet you a nickel Jennie couldn't have done that," he reflected, complacently. "Women never can get a move on them, where clothes are concerned."

That was the best evening Aunt Rachel had ever spent. She was the center of attraction; she had found a mission—not a desultory one, but one far-reaching in scope, so it seemed to her; and like a war-horse, she was after the charge.

Jennie's plans went through without a hitch. Aunt Rachel became, not only a member of the Committee on Civic Betterment, but, as well, its head and, in due season, mayor of the little city itself. Under her active management, Loudon became noted as a model city of its size, one good to look upon and good to live in. Crime fled, or scurried to cover, and Aunt Rachel blossomed like a rose. One day when Jimmie came home something seemed to please him greatly.

"What do you think, Jennie," he said, "Aunt Rachel is going to be married! Yes, she is! I've got it on the best of authority—the groom himself."

"Who?" gasped Jennie. "Why, Jimmie, she just HATES men! She's always said they were only a necessary evil."

"Yes, I know," smiled Jimmie, "that's what she used to say, but she'd never met Jacob Crowder then."

"Jacob Crowder!" exclaimed Jennie. "Why, Jimmie, he's as rich as Croesus, and he's always hated women as much as Aunt Rachel has hated men!"

"Yes," said Jimmie, "but that was before he met Aunt Rachel. He has been her righthand man for some time now, and they've seemed to hit it off pretty well. Guess they'll get along all right in double harness."

"When the girls and I steered Aunt Rachel into politics," said Jennie, "little we thought where it would all end. I'm glad, glad, though! Aunt Rachel is really splendid, but I've always thought she was suffering from something. Now I know what—it's ingrowing ambition. She will have all she can do now to take care of her own home and we won't see her so often."

"Oh, ho! So that's it?" smiled Jimmie. "Well, you girls, as has happened to many another would-be plotter before now, have found things have gotten rather out of your hands, haven't you?"

Jennie shrugged her shoulders.

"We can have the wedding here, can't we, Jimmie?" she asked, somewhat wistfully.

Jimmie wondered if she had heard him. Perhaps—and then again, perhaps not.

"I don't see where we come in on it," he remarked. "It's a church affair, you know."

"Oh!" said Jennie. "But there'll be a reception, of course, and if she'll let us have it here, I'll have every one of us girls she has helped so much in the past."

Jimmie stared. "Consistency—" he muttered.

"What's that you said, Jimmie? Are you ill?" inquired Jennie, anxiously.

"No!" replied Jimmie, "it's you women! I can't understand you at all!"

"You're not supposed to, Jimmie, dear," answered Jennie sweetly.

Somebody's Cat By Ida R. Fargo

I never thought I should come to like cats. But I have. Perhaps it is because, as my Aunt Amanda used to say, we change every seven years, sort of start over again, as it were; and find we have new thoughts, different ideas, unexpected tastes, strange attractions, and shifting doubts. Or, it may be, we merely come to a new milestone from which, looking back, we are able to regard our own personality from a hitherto unknown angle. We discover ourselves anew, and delight in the experiment.

Or, it may all be, as my husband stolidly affirms, just the logical result of meeting Sir Christopher Columbus, a carnivorous quadruped of the family Felidæ, much domesticated, in this case, white with markings as black and shiny as a crow's wing, so named because he voyaged about our village, not in search of a new world, but in search of a new home. He came to us. It is flattering to be chosen. He stayed. But who could resist Sir Christopher?

My husband and my Aunt Amanda may both be right. I strongly suspect they are. I also strongly suspect that Sir Christopher himself has much to do with my change of mental attitude: He is well-mannered, good to look upon, quite adorable, independent and patient. (Indeed, if people were half as patient as my cat this would be a different world to live in.) More: He has taught me many things, he talks without making too much noise; in fact, I have read whole sermons in his soft purrings. And I verily believe that many people might learn much from the family cat, except for the fact that we humans are such poor translators. We know only our own language. More's the pity.

Had I known Sir Christopher as a kitten, doubtless he might have added still more to my education. But I did not. He was quite full grown when I first laid my eyes upon him. He was sitting in the sun, on top of a rail fence, blinking at me consideringly. The fence skirted a little trail that led from my back yard down to Calapooia Creek. It seemed trying to push back a fringe of scrubby underbrush which ran down a hillside; a fringe which was, in truth, but a feeler from the great forest of Douglas fir which one saw marching, file upon file, row upon row, back and back to the snows of the high Cascades.

And the white of Sir Christopher's vest and snowy gauntlets was just as gleamingly clean as the icy frosting over the hills. Sir Christopher, even a cat, believed firmly in sartorial pulchritude. I admired him for that, even from the first glance; and, afterward, I put me up three new mirrors: I did not mean to be outdone by my cat, I intended to look tidy every minute, and there is nothing like mirrors to tell the truth. Credit for the initial impulse, however, belongs to Christopher C.

But that first morning, I merely glanced at him, sitting so comfortably on the top rail of the fence, blinking in the sun.

"Somebody's cat," said I, and went on down to the creek to see if Curlylocks had tumbled in.

Coming back, the cat was still there. Doubtless he had taken a nap between times. But he might have been carved of stone, so still he lay, till my youngest, tugging at my hand, coaxed:

"Kitty—kitty—kitty. Muvver, see my 'ittle kitty?"

And I declare, if Sir Christopher (my husband and ten-year-old Ted named him that very evening) didn't look at me and wink. Then he jumped down and followed, very dignified, very discreet.

I attempted to shoo him back. But he wouldn't shoo. He merely stopped and seemed to consider matters. Or serenely remained far enough off to "play safe."

Meanwhile, my youngest continued to reiterate: "Kitty—kitty—kitty! My 'ittle kitty!"

"No, Curlylocks," said I, "it isn't your little kitty. It is somebody's cat."

Which merely shows that I knew not whereof I spoke. Sir Christopher proceeded to teach me.

Of course, at first I thought his stay with us was merely a temporary matter; like some folk, he had decided to go on a visit and stay over night. But when Sir Christopher continued to tarry, I enquired, I looked about, I advertised—and I assured the children that some one, somewhere, must surely be mourning the loss of a precious pet; some one, sometime, would come to claim him.

But no one came.

Days slid away, weeks slipped into months, winter walked our way, and spring, and summer again. Sir Christopher C. had deliberately adopted us, for he made no move toward finding another abiding place. He was no longer Somebody's cat, he was our cat; for, indeed, is not possession nine points of the law?

Then one day when heat shimmered over the valley, when the dandelions had seeded and the thistles had bloomed, when the corn stood heavy and the cricket tuned his evening fiddle, when spots in the lawn turned brown, where the sprinkler missed, when the baby waked and fretted, and swearing, sweating men turned to the west and wondered what had held up the sea breeze—Sir Christopher missed his supper. He vanished as completely as if he had been kidnapped by the Air Patrol. Three weeks went by and we gave him up for lost, although the children still prowled about looking over strange premises, peeping through back gates, trailing down unaccustomed lanes and along Calapooia Creek, for "We might find him," they insisted. Truly, "Hope springs eternal."

"Perhaps, he has gone back where he came from," said Daddy. "Perhaps, he has grown tired of us."

But My Man's voice was a little too matter-of-factly gruff—indeed, he had grown very fond of Sir Christopher—and as for the children, they would accept no such explanation.

It was Curlylocks who found Sir Christopher—or did Sir Chris find Curlylocks? Anyway, they came walking through the gate, my youngest declaiming, "Kitty—kitty—kitty! My 'ittle kitty!"

And since that time, every summer, Sir Christopher takes a vacation. He comes back so sleek and proud and happy that he can hardly contain himself. He rubs against each of us in turn, purring the most satisfied purr—if we could but fully understand the dialect he speaks!—as if he would impart to us something truly important.

"I declare," said Daddy, one day, "I believe that cat goes up in the hills and hunts."

"Camps out and has a good time," added daughter.

"And fishes," suggested Ted. "Cats do catch fish. Sometimes. I've read about it."

Daddy nodded. "Seems to agree with him, whatever he does."

"Vacations agree with anybody," asserted my oldest. And then, "I don't see why we can't go along with Sir Chris. At least we might go the same time he does."

"Mother, couldn't we?"—it was a question that gathered weight and momentum like a snowball rolling down hill, for I had always insisted that, with a big family like mine, I could never bother to go camping. I wanted to be where things were handy: running water from a faucet, bathtubs and gas and linoleum, a smoothly cut lawn and a morning postman. Go camping with a family like mine? Never.

But the thought once set going would not down. Perhaps, after all, Sir Christopher was right and I was wrong. For people did go camping, most people, even groups to the number of nine (the right count for our family), and they seemed to enjoy it. They fought with mosquitoes, and fell into creeks; they were blotched with poison oak, black from exposure, lame from undue exercise, and looked worse than vagrant gipsies—but they came home happy. Even those who spent days in bed to rest up from their rest (I have known such) seemed happy. And every one sighs and says, "We had such a good time! We're planning to go back again next summer."

So at last I gave up—or gave in. We went to the mountains, following up the trail along Calapooia Creek; we camped and hunted and fished to the hearts' content. We learned to cook hotcakes out-of-doors, and how to make sourdough biscuit, and to frizzle bacon before a bonfire, and to bake ham in a bread pan, such as our mothers fitted five loaves of bread in; we learned to love hash, and like potatoes boiled in their jackets, and coffee with the cream left out. We went three miles to borrow a match; we divided salt