“Want to go, Joey?” asked Mr. Higginson. “Yes, sir,” Joey’s thin cheek glowed at once, and his eyes sparkled. “Now, I feel just like a ride on this cold afternoon,” declared Parson Higginson, jumping up, and swinging his arms. “I’m going over cross lots to ask Farmer Hooker to lend me his green wagon and Betty the mare. Want to go, Jack and Corny, and help harness?” Both boys signified without any hesitancy, that they did. “Joey, you have the first invitation,” said the parson, nodding over at the lame boy; “get all bundled up in fine style,—and all you others,” waving his ministerial hands merrily toward the group; “follow suit, and we’ll pick you up in about ten minutes—oh! here’s my coat; thank you, Jack, and Rosy, for my hat. Come on, boys!” And so, what was supposed to be rather a hard and unwelcome duty of trudging down to the Corners with a heavy basket containing some of the Thanksgiving goodies, turned out to be, under the minister’s management, the most royal frolic of the season, and one well suited to wind up a Thanksgiving party with. And then came Christmas. There was no party at the old Brimmer place, of course. Mother Brimmer would have held up her hands in amazement at such an idea. One festive occasion was quite enough to indulge in for a year, and the memory of it would follow each day of the twelvemonth, with inspiration to heartier work than ever. “It’s Thanksgiving all the year,” said Corny one day, well along in December. “Didn’t we have a good time? I haven’t got the taste of those pies out of my mouth yet,” and he smacked his lips. “Those were the most economical pies I ever made,” said Mrs. Brimmer, laughing, “they last so long.” “I’m going to pretend,” said Corny, nailing away vigorously on his mother’s washboard, which a rainy day had allowed him to mend, “that we’re going to have some more on Christmas.” “Better not,” said Mother Brimmer wisely, “for you’re not going to, and when the time comes you’ll be disappointed.” “No, I sha’n’t, Mamsie,” said Cornelius decidedly, “’cause I know you aren’t going to make any. But I remember just how they tasted, and when I’m pretending we can have ’em all over again, it’s ’most as good as eating any.” “It’s a very cheap way of getting a nice dish,” said Mrs. Brimmer, cutting up her meat for the stew, “but I don’t think sham pies are as good as the plain boiled dinner we’re going to have Christmas.” Cornelius pounded away a few moments in silence; then he said, “I suppose we ought to do something for Christmas; that don’t take money, I mean,” with an anxious glance at his mother. “Well, now, children,” said Mrs. Brimmer, neatly dividing an obdurate joint, “there, that’s done. I’ve been thinking about Christmas, and a plan has come to me.” “Don’t tell till Jack comes,” cried Rosalie, over in the corner busy with her ironing holders. “O, Mamsie, do wait!” she begged in alarm.