“THANKSGIVING ANN,” A STORY OF SYSTEMATIC GIVING.
In the kitchen doorway, underneath its arch of swaying vines and dependent purple clusters, the old woman sat, tired and warm, vigorously fanning her face with her calico apron. It was a dark face, surmounted by a turban, and wearing, just now, a look of troubled thoughtfulness not quite in accordance with her name—a name oddly acquired from an old church anthem that she used to sing somewhat on this wise:— “Johnny, don’t play dar in de water, chile!” “Run away now, Susie, dearie.” “Take care dat blessed baby! Here’s some gingerbread for him.” “Thanksgivin’ an’ de voice of melody.” You laugh! But looking after all these little things was her appointed work, her duty; and she spent the intervals in singing praise. Do many of us make better use of our spare moments? So the children called her Thanksgiving Ann; her other name was forgotten, and Thanksgiving Ann she would be, now, to the end of her days. How many these days had already been, no one knew. She had lived with Mr. and Mrs. Allyn for years, whether as mistress or servant of the establishment they could scarcely tell; they only knew that she was invaluable. She had taken a grandmotherly guardianship of all the children, and had a voice in most matters that concerned the father and mother, while in the culinary department she reigned supreme. The early breakfast was over. She had bestowed unusual care upon it, because an agent of the Bible Society, visiting some of the country places for contributions, was to partake of it with them. But while she was busy with a final batch of delicate waffles, the gentleman had pleaded an appointment, and, taking hasty leave of his host and hostess, had departed, unobserved from the kitchen windows; and Thanksgiving Ann’s “Bible money” was still in her pocket. “Didn’t ask me, nor give me no chance. Just’s if, ’caus a pusson’s old an’ colored, dey didn’t owe de Lord nuffin,’ an’ wouldn’t pay it if dey did,” she murmured when the state of the case became known. However, Silas, the long-limbed, untiring, and shrewd, who regarded the old woman with a curious mixture of patronage and veneration, had volunteered to run after the vanished guest, and “catch him if he was anywhere this side of Chainy.” And even while Thanksgiving sat in the doorway the messenger returned, apparently unwearied by his chase. “Wa’ll, I came up with him—told ye I would—and give him the three dollars. He seemed kind of flustered to have missed such a nugget; and he said ’twas a generous donation—equal to your master’s. Which proves,” said Silas, shutting one eye, and appearing to survey the subject meditatively with the other, “that some folks can do as much good jest off-hand as some other folks can do with no end of pinchin’ an’ screwin’ beforehand.” “Think it proves dat folks dat don’t have no great ’mount can do as much in a good cause by thinkin’ ’bout it a little aforehand, as other folks will do dat has more, and puts der hands in der pockets when de time comes. I believe in systematics ’bout such things, I does”; and with an energetic bob of her head, by way of emphasizing her words, old Thanksgiving walked into the house. “Thanksgivin’ an’ de voice of melody,” she began in her high, weird voice. But the words died on her lips; her heart was too burdened to sing. “Only three dollars out’n all der ’bundance!” she murmured to herself. “Well, mebbe I oughtn’t to judge; but then I don’t judge, I knows. Course I knows, when I’se here all de time, and sees de good clo’es, an’ de carr’ages, an’ de musics, an’, de fine times—folks an’ hosses an’ tables all provided for, an’ de Lord of glory lef’ to take what happens when de time comes, and no prep’ration at all! Sure ’nough, he don’t need der help. All de world is his; and he can send clo’es to his naked, an’ bread to his hungry, an’ Bibles to his heathen, if dey don’t give a cent; but den dey’re pinchin’ an’ starvin’ der own dear souls. Well—’tain’t my soul! But I loves ’em—I loves ’em, and dey’re missin’ a great blessin’.” These friends, so beloved, paid little attention to the old woman’s opinion upon what she called “systematics in givin’.” “The idea of counting up all one’s income, and setting aside a fixed portion of it for charity, and then calling only what remains one’s own, makes our religion seem arbitrary and exacting; it is like a tax,” said Mrs. Allyn, one day; “and I think such a view of it ought by all means to be avoided. I like to give freely and gladly of what I have when the time comes.” “If ye hain’t give so freely an’ so gladly for Miss Susie’s new necklaces an’ yer own new dresses dat ye don’t have much when de time comes,” interposed Thanksgiving Ann. “I think one gives with a more free and generous feeling in that way,” pursued the lady, without seeming to heed the interruption. “Money laid aside beforehand has only a sense of duty and not much feeling about it; besides, what difference can it make, so long as one does give what one can when there is a call?” “I wouldn’t like to be provided for dat way,” declared Thanksgiving. “Was, once, when I was a slave, ’fore I was the Lord’s free woman. Ye see, I was a young, no-’count gal, not worf thinkin’ much ’bout; so my ole marse he lef’ me to take what happened when de time come. An’ sometimes I happened to get a dress, an’ sometimes a pair of ole shoes; an’ sometimes I didn’t happen to get nuffin’, an’ den I went barefoot; an’ dat’s jist de way—” “Why, Thanksgiving, that’s not reverent!” exclaimed Mrs. Allyn, shocked at the comparison. “Jist what I thought,—didn’t treat me with any kind of rev’rence,” answered Thanksgiving. “Well, to go back to the original subject, all these things are mere matters of opinion. One person likes one way best; and another person, another,” said the lady, smilingly, as she walked from the room. “’Pears to me it’s a matter of which way de Master likes best,” observed the old woman, settling her turban. But there was no one to hear her comment, and affairs followed their accustomed routine. Meanwhile, out of her own little store she carefully laid aside one-eighth. “’Cause if dem ole Israelites was tol’ to give one-tenth, I’d jist like to frow in a little more, for good measure. Talk ’bout it’s bein’ like a tax to put some away for such things! ’Clare! I get studyin’ what each dollar mus’ do, till I get ’em so loaded up wid prayin’s an’ thinkin’s dat I mos’ b’lieve dey weigh double when dey does go.” “O de Lamb! de lovin’ Lamb!
De Lamb of Calvary!
De Lamb dat was slain, an’ lives again,
An’ intercedes for me!” And now another call had come. “Came, unfortunately, at a time when we were rather short,” Mrs. Allyn said, regretfully. “However, we gave what we could,” she added. “I hope it will do good, and I wish it were five times as much.” Old Thanksgiving shook her head over that cheerful dismissal of the subject. She shook it many times that morning, and seemed intensely thoughtful, as she moved slowly about her work. “’S’pose I needn’t fret ’bout other folks’ duty—dat ain’t none o’ my business; yes ’tis, too, ’cause dey’s good to me; an’ I loves ’em. ’Tain’t like’s if dey didn’t call dar-selves His neither.” Mr. Allyn brought in a basket of beautiful peaches, the first of the season, and placed them on the table by her side. “Aren’t those fine, Thanksgiving? Let the children have a few, if you think best; but give them to us for dinner.” “Sartain, I’ll give you all dar is,” she responded, surveying the fruit. Presently there came the pattering of several pairs of small feet; bright eyes espied the basket, and immediately rose a cry: “Oh, how nice! Thanksgiving Ann, may I have one?” “Help yourselves, dearies,” answered the old woman, composedly, never turning to see how often or to what extent her injunction was obeyed. She was seated in the doorway again, busily sewing on a calico apron. She still sat there when, near the dinner-hour, Mrs. Allyn passed through the kitchen, and a little surprised at its coolness and quietness at that hour, asked wonderingly: “What has happened, Thanksgiving? Haven’t decided upon a fast, have you?” “No, honey; thought I’d give ye what I happened to have when de time come,” said Thanksgiving Ann, coolly, holding up her apron to measure its length. It seemed a little odd, Mrs. Allyn thought. But then old Thanksgiving needed no oversight; she liked her little surprises now and then, too, and doubtless she had something all planned and in course of preparation; so the lady went her way, more than half expecting an especially tempting board because of her cook’s apparent carelessness that day. But when the dinner-hour arrived, both master and mistress scanned the table with wide open eyes of astonishment, so plain and meager were its contents, so unlike any dinner that had ever before been served in that house. “What has happened, my dear?” asked the gentleman, turning to his wife. “I do not know,” she replied, with a questioning glance at Thanksgiving. “Dat’s all de col’ meat dar was—sorry I didn’t have no more,” she said, half apologetically. “But I sent home a choice roast this morning,” began Mr. Allyn wonderingly, “and you have no potatoes, either—nor vegetables of any kind!” “Laws, yes: but den a body has to think ’bout it a good while beforehand to get a roast cooked, an’ jist de same wid ’taters; an’ I thought I’d give ye what I happened to have when de time come, an’ I didn’t happen to have much of nuffin’. ’Clare! I forgot de bread!” and, trotting away, she returned with a plate of cold corn-cake. “No bread!” murmured Mrs. Allyn. “No, honey; used it all up for toast dis mornin’. Might have made biscuit or muffins, if I had planned for ’em long enough; but that kind o’ makes a body feel’s if dey had to do it, an’ I wanted to get dinner for yer all out o’ my warm feelin’s when de time come.” “When a man has provided bountifully for his household, it seems as if he might expect to enjoy a small share of it himself, even if the preparation does require a little trouble,” remarked Mr. Allyn, impatiently, but still too bewildered at such an unprecedented state of affairs to be thoroughly indignant. “Cur’is how things make a body think of Bible verses,” said Thanksgiving, musingly. “Dar’s dat one ’bout ’who giveth us all things richly to enjoy,’ an’ ’what shall I render to de Lord for all his benefits to’ards me?’ Dar! I didn’ put on dem peaches!” “Has Thanksgiving suddenly lost her senses?” questioned the gentleman, as the door closed after her. “I suspect there is a ‘method in her madness,’” replied his wife, a faint smile crossing her lips. The old woman returned with the basket, sadly despoiled of its morning’s contents, but she composedly bestowed the remainder in a fruit dish. “Dat’s all. The children’s eat a good many, an’ dey was used up one way an’ ’nother. I’s sorry dar ain’t no more, but I hopes ye’ll ’joy what dar is, an’ I wishes ’twas five times as much.” A look of sudden intelligence flashed into Mr. Allyn’s eyes; he bit his lips for a moment, and then asked quietly: “Couldn’t you have laid aside some for us, Thanksgiving?” “Well, dar now! ’spose I could,” said the old servant, relenting at the tone. “B’lieve I will next time. Allers kind o’ thought de folks things belonged to had de best right to ’em; but I’d heard givin’ whatever happened was so much freer an’ lovin’er way o’ servin’ dem ye love best, dat I thought I’d try it. But it does ’pear’s if dey fared slim, an’ I ’spects I’ll go back to de ole plan o’ systematics.” “Do you see, George?” questioned the wife, when they were again alone. “Yes, I see. An object-lesson with a vengeance!” “And if she should be right, and our careless giving seem anything like this?” pursued Mrs. Allyn, with troubled face. “She is right, Fanny; it doesn’t take much argument to show that. We call Christ our King and Master; believe that every blessing we have in this world is his direct gift, and all our hopes for the world to come are in him. We profess to be not our own, but his; to be journeying toward his royal city, and that his service is our chief business here; and yet, strangely enough, we provide lavishly for our own apparel, entertainment, and ease, and apportion nothing for the interests of his kingdom or the forwarding of his work, but leave that to any chance pence that may happen to be left after all our wants and fancies are gratified. It doesn’t seem like very faithful or loving service,” Mr. Allyn answered, gravely. “I have been thinking in that direction occasionally, lately, but have been too indolent, careless, or selfish to come to a decision and make any change.” There was a long talk over that dinner-table—indeed, it did not furnish opportunity for much other employment; and that afternoon the husband and wife together examined into their expenses and income, and set apart a certain portion as sacred unto their Lord—doing it somewhat after Thanksgiving’s plan of “good measure.” To do this they found required the giving up of some needless indulgences—a few accustomed luxuries. But a cause never grows less dear on account of the sacrifices we make for it, and as these two scanned the various fields of labor in deciding what to bestow here and what there, they awoke to a new appreciation of the magnitude and glory of the work, and a new interest in its success—the beginning of that blessing pronounced upon those who “sow beside all waters.” Mrs. Allyn told Thanksgiving of their new arrangement, and concluded, laughingly, though the tears stood in her eyes: “So you see we have adopted the ‘systematic’ plan, too; and you needn’t starve us for supper, Thanksgiving Ann, you dear, faithful old soul!” Silas heard of the change in that mysterious way in which he contrived to hear of everything that happened anywhere within a circuit of ten miles of him, and coming to the old colored woman that evening, as, with face of content, she occupied once more her favorite seat in the doorway, he launched forth on the subject at once: “An’ now I s’pose you’re satisfied.” “I’se ’mazin’ glad,” said Thanksgiving, looking up brightly; “but satisfied—that’s a long, deep word, an’ de Bible says it’ll be when we ’wake in His likeness.” “Wa’ll, now, I don’t profess none of these kind of things,” said Silas, standing on one foot and swinging the other, “but I don’t mind tellin’ ye that I think your way’s right, an’ I don’t believe nobody ever lost nothin’ by what they give to God; ’cause he’s pretty certain to pay it back with compound interest to them, you see.” “Maybe so; but don’t ye think, Silas Ridgelow, dat it’s a dreadful mean way to offer a little gift to yer best an’ dearest Friend—a calc’latin’ dat he’ll pay back more?” “Wa’ll, ye see folks don’t always feel right,” observed Silas, dropping dexterously on the other foot. “No, dey don’t. When every body feels right, an’ does right, dat’ll be de millennium. Does yer know dat’s a prophecy ’bout de time when even de bells of de hosses shall hab ’Holiness to de Lord’ on ’em? Don’t know what dat means, ’less ’tis dat de rich folks’ carriages behind de hosses shall be goin’ on his errands, an’ carryin’ part of de time, ’de least of dese, his brethren.’ Guess de lovin’ ’ll have got so strong den dar’ll be no thinkin’ ’bout prayin’,” said the old woman, musingly. “Well, I’se glad of59the faint streak of dat day dat’s come to dis house!” And she went in with her old song upon her lips: “Thanksgivin’ an’ de voice of melody.”