American Cookery: Thanksgiving Menus and Recipes - - (good books for high schoolers .txt) 📗

"Some time in the early fall," Anne told her callers, who arrived by two's, three's and four's, as the news began to circulate among her friends.

"No, I won't keep this," with a jerk of her thumb towards the big, bare room which had been hers since she left Aunt Milly and the little home town. "There's a room at the top of the Kensington I can have, with a light as good as this, and that settles the last problem. I'd hate to have to go outdoors for meals, when I'm working."

"Nan Gilbert!" exclaimed her dearest friend. "You have the best luck! You can do good work, and get good pay for it, and be happy all by yourself; and now you're going to be happier, with a husband who'll let you live your own life; you'll be absolutely free, not even a percolator to bother with, nothing to take your mind from your own creative work, free to express your own personality!"

"Mercy," said Anne, closing the door upon this last caller. "If I don't set the North River, at least, on fire, pretty soon, they'll all call me a slacker."

She hung her card, "Engaged," upon the door leading into the hall (some one had scrawled "Best Wishes" underneath the printed word), and proceeded to get her dinner in a thoughtful frame of mind. The tiny kitchenette boasted ice-box, fireless, and a modest collection of electric cooking appliances; in a half-hour Anne had evolved a cream soup, a bit of steak, nearly cubical in proportions, slice of graham bread, a salad of lettuce and tomato with skilfully tossed dressing, a muffin split ready to toast, with the jam and spreader for it, and coffee was dripping into the very latest model of coffee-pots. Anne had never neglected her country appetite, and was a living refutation of the idea that neatness and art may not dwell together. She moved quietly and with a speed which had nothing of haste; her mind was busy with a magazine cover for December, she believed she'd begin studying camels.

After dinner came Burt Winchester, a steady-voiced, olive-skinned young man, in pleasant contrast to Anne's vivacious fairness, and together they journeyed uptown and then west to the Kensington, for a final decision upon the one vacant apartment. The rooms were of fair size, they were all light, and the agent had at least half a yard of applicants upon a printed slip in his pocket.

Burt studied the apartment not at all, but his fiancée with quiet amusement. He was much in love with Anne, but he understood her better than she had yet discovered.

"I don't think we'll ever find anything better," she was saying to him. "Perhaps he'd have it redecorated for us, with a long lease—"

The agent coughed discreetly. "The leases are for one year, with privilege of renewal," he said to Burt. "It has just been redecorated; is there anything needed?"

"It would all be lovely, if one liked blue," murmured Anne. "Just the thing for some girl, but not for me, all that pale blue and silver, it doesn't look a bit like either of us, Burt. I had worked out the most stunning scheme, cream and black, with a touch of Kelly green—"

Another cough, somewhat louder, and accompanied by an undisguised look of sympathy for Burt. "The owner prefers to decide the decorations, Madame," said the agent. "Tastes differ so, you understand."

"Please hold the suite for me until tomorrow night," said Burt, decisively. "I suppose we'll take it; if not, I'll make it right with you."

"I should say, 'tastes differ,'" laughed Anne, tucking her arm into Burt's, as they began the long walk down-town. "Do you know, Aunt Milly and the girls thought, of course, we'd keep house, and Dan and George are going to pick out girls that will keep house, I saw it in their eyes. You—you're going to be satisfied, Burt?"

"I think so," answered Burt, judiciously, and then with a change of tone, "Nan, you precious goose, you've always told me you were not domestic."

"And you've always said you were no more domestic than I was," finished Anne, happily. She entirely missed the quizzical expression of the brown eyes above her. "Nuff said.—Are we going to Branton tomorrow, Burt, with the crowd? Can you take the day?"

Anne's "crowd," the half-dozen good friends among the many acquaintances she had formed in the city, were invited for a day in the country. She and Burt now talked it over, agreeing to meet in time to take the nine-thirty train, with the others.

But at nine, next morning, Burt had not appeared at the studio; instead, Miss Gilbert had a telephone message that Mr. Winchester was delayed, but would call as soon as possible. It was unlike Burt, but Anne, sensibly, supposed that business had intervened, and, removing her hat, was glad to remember that she had not definitely accepted the invitation when it was given. The "crowd" were sure enough of each other and of themselves to appear casual: Burt and she could take a later train, and have just as warm a welcome.

At nine-thirty Burt appeared, explaining briefly, "Best I could do. There's a train in twenty minutes, we'll catch it if we hurry."

Anne hurried, which proved to be unnecessary, as the train seemed late in starting; during the trip there was little conversation, as Anne was tactful, and Burt preoccupied.

"Branton!" called the conductor, at least it sounded like Branton, Burt came out of his revery with a start, and Anne followed him down the aisle. They stood a moment upon the platform of the quiet little station and watched the train pull out; as they turned back into what seemed the principal street, Anne craned her neck to look around an inconvenient truck piled with baggage, and made out the sign, Byrnton.

"Oh, Burt, what were we thinking of?" she exclaimed. "This isn't the right place at all! We were to take the road up past a brick church—and there isn't any here—this is Byrnton, and we wanted Branton. What shall we do—why don't you say something?"

"Fudge!" said Burt, soberly, but in his eyes the dancing light he reserved for Anne. "I'll ask the ticket-agent."

He came out of the station, smiling. "This isn't the Branton line at all, but a short branch west of it," he informed her. "We took the wrong train, but he says lots of people make the same mistake, and they are going to change one name or the other, eventually. I am to blame, Nan, for I know this place, Byrnton; I have, or used to have, an Aunt Susan here, somewhere—shall we look her up? We have nearly three hours to kill. It will be afternoon before we can get to Branton—and Aunt Susan will give us nourishment, at least, if she's home."

"Very well," Anne assented. If Burt's business absorbed him like this, she must learn to take it philosophically.

"What a pretty place, Burt! Do see those wonderful elms!"

Byrnton proved to be an old-fashioned village, which had had the good fortune to be remodelled without being modernized. Along the main street many of the houses were square, prim little boxes, with front yards bright with sweet williams, marigolds, and candytuft; these had an iron fence around the garden, and, invariably, shutters at the front door. An occasional house stood flush with the brick or flagged sidewalk; in that case there were snowy curtains at the window, and a glimpse of hollyhocks at the back. The newer houses could be distinguished by the wide, open spaces around them; the late comers had not planned their homes to command the village street, and neighbors, as an older generation had done, but these twentieth century models did not begin until one had left the little railway station well behind.

"What a homely, homey place," said Anne, noting everything with the eye of an artist. "I don't see how you could forget it, if you have an aunt living here."

"That's the question," answered Burt. "Have I an aunt living here? She may be in California; however, in that case, the key will be under the mat."

Anne continued to look about her, with sparkling eyes. "If Aunt Milly had lived in a place like this, I'd be there yet," she told him. "The factories spoiled the place for me, but they made business good for Uncle Andy and the boys, and Aunt Milly likes the bustle, she'd think this was too quiet.—Isn't it queer how people manage to get what they want—in time?"

"It is, indeed," smiled Burt. "There, Nan, that low white cottage at the very end, the last before you come to open fields. That's Aunt Susan's."

They quickened their pace; Anne was conscious of an intense wish that Aunt Susan might be home. She wanted to see the inside of the white house, bungalow, it might almost be called, if one did not associate bungalows with stucco or stained shingles. This cottage was of white wood, with the regulation green blinds. There was an outside chimney of red bricks; a pathway of red bricks in the old herringbone pattern led up to the front door, with its shining brass knocker. A row of white foxgloves stood sentinel before the front of the house, on each side the entrance, their pointed spires coming well above the window-sills; before them the dark foliage of perennial lupins, tossing up a white spray of flowers, and then it seemed as if every old-fashioned flower of white, or with a white variety, ran riot down to a border of sweet alyssum. Above all the fragrance came the unmistakable sweetness of mignonette.

"Oh, Burt!" called Anne, "I do hope she's home. What a woman she must be, I can guess some things about her, just from the outside of her house. I hope she'll show me the inside of it."

Burt shook his head. "She'd have seen us before this and been out here," he suggested. "Come 'round to the back."

The back of the premises proved no less fascinating; there was the neatest of clothes-yards, a vegetable garden, and a small garage, after which Anne regarded the silent cottage with wistful eyes.

"Those beautiful, old-fashioned flowers, no petunias but the white frilled kind,—she's an artist—and has the wash done at home," she enumerated, "and runs her automobile herself, I am sure, for she's a practical person as well; if she were just a sentimental flower-lover, she'd have had something or other climbing up the house, and it spoils the woodwork."

"It's safe to say Aunt Susan's in California," said Burt, disregarding this. "No joke, Nan, she has a married daughter who has been trying to get her out there for years, and Aunt Susan's always threatening to go. Never thought she would, but we can soon find out; I know who'll have the key."

He left Anne and walked back to the house just passed, and presently reappeared with the key. "Here you are. Aunt Susan left it with Mrs. Brown, who is to look after the place, and to use her judgment about letting people in. Aunt Susan has only been gone two days, she went hurriedly at the last, and Mrs. Brown is to close the house for her, but she hasn't got 'round to it yet. Lucky for us, there'll be everything we need for lunch; I brought eggs—see?"

Laughing like a boy. Burt unlocked the back door, and then produced four eggs, from as many pockets. He laid them carefully down upon the kitchen table.

"Now, Nan, we can use anything in the kitchen or pantry, and Mrs. Brown has a blueberry pie in the oven which she'll give us, she'll bring it over when it's done.—Want to go over the house?—Give you my word it's all right, in fact Aunt Susan told Mrs. Brown she wished she could rent it, as is, if she only knew somebody who would love it—that was her word. You can love