history of your great, great, great grandfather apple.”

“Knerly,” said Beachamwell, “was a little cross-grained from the very bud. Before he had cast off the light pink dress which as you know we apples wear in our extreme youth, the dark spot might be seen. It is probable that some poisonous sting had pierced him in that tender period of his life, and the consequence is, as I have said, some hardness of heart and sourness of disposition. As you see, he has not softened under the sun’s influence, though exposed to it all his life; and it is doubtful whether he ever attains a particle of the true Beachamwell colour. There are however good spots in Knerly; and even Half-ripe can be sweet if you only get the right side of her.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” said Carl, “for I’ll go all round. Come, go on.”

“Unfortunately,” said Beachamwell, “I cannot give the information which you desire about my respected and venerable ancestors. The pedigree of apples is not always well preserved, and in general the most we can boast of is the family name: nor is that often obtained except by engrafting upon a very different stock. For one generation back, however, we may claim to be true Beachamwells. From root to twig the parent tree was the right stuff. The remarkable way in which this came about I am happily able to tell you.

“A number of years ago, one Thanksgiving-eve, Widow Penly was washing up the tea-things, and her little boy Mark sat looking at her.

“‘I wish we could keep Thanksgiving, mother,’ said he.

“‘Why so we will,’ said his mother.

“‘But how?’ said Mark, with a very brightened face. ‘What will you do, mother?’

“‘I’ll make you some pies—if I can get anything to make them of,’ said Mrs. Penly.

“‘Ah but you can’t,’ said Mark, his countenance falling again: ‘there aren’t even any potatoes in the house. You used to make potato pies, didn’t you, mother, when father forgot to bring home the pumpkin?’

“‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Penly, but as if she scarce heard him; for other Thanksgiving-days were sweeping across the stage, where Memory’s troupe was just then performing.

“‘So what will you do, mother?’ repeated little Mark, when he had watched her again for a few minutes.

“‘Do?’ said the widow, rousing herself. ‘Why my dear if we cannot make any pies we will keep Thanksgiving without them.’

“‘I don’t think one can keep Thanksgiving without anything,’ said Mark, a little fretfully.

“‘Oh no,’ said his mother, ‘neither do I; but we will think about it, dear, and do the best we can. And now you may read to me while I mend this hole in your stocking. Read the hundred and third Psalm.’

“So Mark got his little Bible and began to read,—

“‘Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies——’

“‘Don’t you think, Mark,’ said his mother, ’that we could keep Thanksgiving for at least one day with only such blessings as these?’

“‘Why yes,’ said Mark, ‘I suppose we could, mother—though I wasn’t thinking of that.’

“‘No, of course not,’ said his mother; ‘and that is the very reason why we so often long for earthly things: we are not thinking of the heavenly blessings that God has showered upon us.’

“‘But mother,’ said Mark, not quite satisfied, ’it goes on to say,—

“‘Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle’s.’

“And Mark looked up as if he thought his mother must be posed now, if she never was before.

“It did occur to Mrs. Penly as she glanced at the child, that his cheeks were not very fat nor his dress very thick; and that a greater plenty of pies and other relishable things might exert a happy influence upon his complexion: but she stilled her heart with that word,—

“‘Your Father knoweth that ye have need of such things.’

“‘I am sure we have a great many good things, Mark,’ she answered cheerfully,—‘don’t you remember that barrel of flour that came the other day? and the molasses, and the pickles? We must have as much as is good for us, or God would give us more; for it says in another part of that Psalm, ‘Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.’ I wouldn’t keep from you anything that I thought good for you.’

“‘But you are my mother,’ said Mark satisfactorily.

“‘Well,’ said the widow, ‘the Bible says that a mother may forget her child, yet will not God forget his children. So you see, dear, that if we have not a great many things which some other people have, it is not because God has forgotten to care for us, but because we are better without them.’

“‘I wonder why,’ said Mark. ‘Why should they hurt us any more than other people?’

“‘God knows,’ said his mother. ‘It is so pleasant to have him choose and direct all for us. If I could have my way, I dare say I should wish for something that would do me harm—just as you wanted to eat blackberries last summer when you were sick.’

“‘But we are not sick,’ said Mark.

“‘Yes we are—sick with sin; and sin-sick people must not have all that their sinful hearts desire; and people who love earth too well must want some of the good things of this world, that they may think more of heaven.’

“‘Well,’ said Mark, the last thing before he got into bed, ‘we’ll keep Thanksgiving, mother—you and I; and we’ll try to be as happy as we can without pies.’

“‘Maybe we shall have some pleasant thing that we do not think of,’ said his mother, as she tucked the clothes down about him.

“‘Why what?’ said Mark starting up in an instant. ‘Where could anything come from, mother?’

“‘From God in the first place,’ she answered; ‘and he can always find a way.’

“‘Mother!’ said Mark, ‘there’s a great many apples in the road by Mr. Crab’s orchard.’

“‘Well, dear’—said his mother—‘they don’t belong to us.’

“‘But they’re in the road,’ said Mark; ‘and Mr. Smith’s pigs are there all day long eating ’em.’

“‘We won’t help the pigs,’ said his mother smiling. ‘They don’t know any better, but we do. I have cause enough for thanksgiving, Marky, in a dear little boy who always minds what I say.’

“Mark hugged his mother very tight round the neck, and then went immediately to sleep, and dreamed that he was running up hill after a pumpkin.

“But Mark woke up in the morning empty-handed. There were plenty of sunbeams on the bed, and though it was so late in November, the birds sang outside the window as if they had a great many concerts to give before winter, and must make haste.

“Mark turned over on his back to have both ears free, and then he could hear his mother and the broom stepping up and down the kitchen; and as she swept she sang.