Chanticleer: A Thanksgiving Story of the Peabody Family

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York. PREFACE. Shall the glorious festival of Thanksgiving, now yearly celebrated all over the American Union, (said the author to himself one day,) be ushered in with no other trumpet than the proclamations of State-Governors? May we not have a little holiday-book of our own, in harmony with that cherished Anniversary, which, while it pleases your fellow-countrymen, should it have that good fortune, may acquaint distant strangers with the observance of that happy custom of our country? With the hope that it may be so received, and as a kindly word spoken to all classes and sections of his fellow citizens, awakening a feeling of union and fraternal friendship at this genial season, the writer presents this little volume of home characters and incidents. November, 1850. CONTENTS. THE LANDSCAPE OF THE STORY. ARRIVAL OF THE MERCHANT AND HIS PEOPLE. THE FARMER-FOLKS FROM THE WEST. THE FORTUNES OF THE FAMILY CONSIDERED. THE CHILDREN. THE FASHIONABLE LADY AND HER SON. THE THANKSGIVING SERMON. THE DINNER. THE NEW-COMERS. THE CONCLUSION. THE LANDSCAPE OF THE STORY. I see old Sylvester Peabody—the head of the Peabody family—seated in the porch of his country dwelling, like an ancient patriarch, in the calm of the morning. His broad-brimmed hat lies on the bench at his side, and his venerable white locks flow down his shoulders, which time in one hundred seasons of battle and sorrow, of harvest and drouth, of toil and death, in all his hardy wrestlings with old Sylvester, has not been able to bend. The old man's form is erect and tall, and lifting up his head to its height, he looks afar, down the country road which leads from his rural door, towards the city. He has kept his gaze in that direction for better than an hour, and a mist has gradually crept upon his vision; objects begin to lose their distinctness; they grow dim or soften away like ghosts or spirits; the whole landscape melts gently into a pictured dew before him. Is old Sylvester, who has kept it clear and bright so long, losing his sight at last, or is our common world, already changing under the old patriarch's pure regard, into that better, heavenly land? It seemed indeed, on this very calm morning in November, as if angels were busy about…