"An Old-Time Thanksgiving"

by M. Eloise Talbot, November 1896

Here you can see the rising influence of the Victorian interest in the "Pilgrims and Indians" side of Thanksgiving. Incidentally, the Plymouth settlers did not live in log cabins, as indicated here, nor were they "Puritans."

Little Prudence stood by the window, with her face pressed hard against it. She was not looking out; she could not do that, for the window-frame, instead of being filled with clear panes of glass, had oiled paper stretched tightly across it.

It was a very curious window, indeed, and it transmitted a dull light into a very curious room. The floor was of uncovered boards; the walls were built of logs of wood with the bark still clinging to them in places, and overhead were great rafters from which hung suspended many things—swords and corselets, coats, bundles of dried herbs, pots and pans.

The furniture was very simple. In the center of the room was a wooden table, scoured to whiteness, stiff-backed chairs were ranged against the wall, and a dresser, where pewter cups and platters stood in shining rows, adorned the farther corner. In a wide chimney-place a royal fire was blazing, and before it stood Prudence's mother, carefully stirring some mixture in an iron pot which hung upon a crane. Within the circle of the firelight, which played upon her yellow hair and turned it to ruddy gold, Mehitable, Prudence's sister, stepped rapidly to and fro, her spinning-wheel making a humming accompaniment to the crackling of the blaze.

Prudence turned to watch her, pushing farther back a little white cap which pressed upon her short curls; for she was a little Puritan maiden, living in the town of Plymouth, and it was not the present year of our Lord, but about two hundred and seventy-five years ago. She was a very different Prudence from what she would have been if she had been living now. and it was a very different Plymouth from the pleasant town we know to-day, with its many houses climbing up the hill, and the busy people in its streets. There were only seven houses then, and they stood in one line leading to the water, and there was but one building besides — a square wooden affair with palisades, which served as a church on Sundays, a fort when enemies were feared, and a storehouse all the time. Beyond these nothing could be seen but woods — trackless, unknown forests—and, away to the east, the ocean, where the waves were booming with a lonesome sound.

It was not quite a year before that Prudence's father had stood with the other brave colonists on the deck of the "Mayflower," and had looked with eager eyes upon the shore of the New World. This first year in Massachusetts had on the whole been a happy one for Prudence. During the cold winter which followed their landing, she had indeed cast longing thoughts toward the home in Holland which they had left; and especially did she long for the Dutch home when she was hungry, and the provisions which had been brought on the ship were scanty; but she had forgotten all such longings in the bounty given by the summer, and now it seemed to her there was no more beautiful place in the world than this New England.

It was Prudence's father who opened the door and came in, carrying on his shoulder an ax with which he had been felling trees for the winter's fuel. Prudence never could get over the queer feeling it gave her to see her father thus employed. When they lived in Holland, he was always writing and studying in books of many languages, but here he did little else than work in the fields, for it was only so that the early settlers obtained their daily bread. He leaned his ax in a corner, and came toward the fire, rubbing his hands to get out the cold.

"I have news for you, dear heart, to-night," he said to his wife. "I have just come from the granary, and, indeed there is goodly store laid up of corn and rye, and game that has been shot in the forest. The children's mouths will not hunger this winter."

"Praised be the Lord!" replied his wife, fervently. "But what is your news?"

"The governor hath decided to hold a thanksgiving for the bountiful harvest, and on the appointed day is a great feast to be spread; and he hath sent a messenger to bid Massasoit to break bread with us."

"Massasoit the Indian?"

"Ay; but a friendly Indian. He will come, and many of his braves with him. You will be kept busy, my heart, with the other housewives to bake sufficient food for this company."

"Oh, mother, may I– may I go?" cried Prudence, her eyes dancing with excitement, clutching at her mother's skirts; but her father continued:

"How now, Mehitable? The news of a coming feast does not seem to make you merry as it was wont to do in Holland."

Mehitable was grave, and there was even a tear in her eye.

"I know," cried Joel, who was two years older than Prudence; "she is thinking of John Andrew, who is across the sea."

But the father frowned, and the mother said, "Peace, foolish children!" as she placed the porridge on the table.

So Prudence and Joel drew up their benches, and said no more. Chairs and conversation did not belong to children in those days: they sat on little stools and kept silence. That did not keep them from thinking. A thanksgiving feast! What could it be? The only thanksgiving they knew about meant such long prayers in church that the little people grew very tired before the end—but a feast!—that would be something new and interesting.

The feast was to be held on the following Thursday; so, during all the days between, the house was full of the stir of brewing and baking. Prudence polished the apples, and Joel pounded the corn, in eager anticipation; but when the day arrived a cruel disappointment awaited them, for their father decreed that they should remain at home.

"You are over young, my little Prudence, and Joel is over bold; besides which, he must stay and care for you."

"And do neither of you leave the house while your father and I are away," added the mother. "I shall not have a moment's peace of mind, if I think you are wandering outside alone."

"I will bring you back a Dutch cake, my little sister," whispered Mehitable, who looked sweeter than ever in her best attire of black silk and a lace kerchief, which with an unwilling heart she had put on in obedience to her mother's command.

But when the elders were gone the disappointment and loneliness were too much for the children. Prudence, being a girl, sat down in a corner and cried; while Joel, being a boy, got angry, and strode up and down the room with his hands in his pockets.

"It is too bad!" he burst out suddenly. "The greedy, grown-up people, I believe they want all the food themselves! It 's a downright shame to keep us at home!"

"Joel!" gasped Prudence, horrified— "father and mother!"

"Well, I know," admitted Joel, more mildly; "but at least, they need not have shut us up in the house as if we were babies. Prudence, let's go out in the yard and play, if we can't do anything else."

"But mother forbade us," said Prudence.

"I know. But then, of course, she only meant we must not go into the woods for fear of wild beasts. There is no danger here by the doorsteps, and father won't care; he 's not afraid!"

"I—don't—know," faltered Prudence.

"Well, I'm, going, any way," said Joel, resolutely, taking his hat from the peg. "Ah, do come too, Prudence!" he added persuasively.

So Prudence, though she knew in her heart it was a naughty thing to do, took off her cap, and tying her little Puritan bonnet under her chin, followed Joel through the door.

Once outside, I am afraid their scruples were soon forgotten. All the sunshine of the summer and the sparkling air of the winter were fused together to make a wonderful November day. The children felt like colts just loosed, and ran and shouted together till, if there had not been a good deal of noise also at the stone house where the feast was being spread, their shrill little voices must surely have been heard there.

All at once Joel caught Prudence by the arm.

"Hush!" he exclaimed. "Look!"

A beautiful gray squirrel ran across the grass in front of them. It stopped, poising its little head and intently listening.

"I 'm going to catch him," whispered Joel excitedly. "Father said if I could catch one, he would make me a cage for it. Come along."

He tiptoed softly forward, but the squirrel heard and was up and away in an instant. Joel pursued, and Prudence ran after him. Such a chase as the little creature gave them—up on the fence, under the stones, across the fields, and finally straight to the woods, with the children panting and stumbling after, still keeping him in sight. Breath and patience gave out at last; but when they stopped, where were they? In the very heart of the forest, where the dead leaves rustled, and the sunlight slanted down upon them, and the squirrel, safe in the top of a tree, chattered angrily.

"Never saw—anything run—so fast," panted Joel in disgust. "I—give—him up. We had better go back, Prudence. Why– but– I don't think I know the way!"

Prudence's lip quivered, and her eyes filled.

"That 's just like a girl!" said Joel, harshly, "to go and cry the first thing."

"I don't care," cried Prudence, indignation burning away her tears; "you brought me into this, anyhow, Joel, and now you ought to get me out."

This was so obviously true that Joel had no retort at hand. Besides, he did not like to see Prudence unhappy. So, after a moment, he put his arm around her.

"Never mind, Prue," he said; "I think if we try together, we can find the way home."

But though they walked until their feet were weary, they could find no familiar spot.

When they came out of the woods at last, it was only to find themselves unexpectedly on the sandy beach of the ocean. They sat down on two stones, and looked at each other in silence. Joel began to feel even his bravery giving way. All at once they heard a sound of soft feet, and a low, sweet voice said:

"How do, English!"

A little Indian boy stood before them. He wore a garment of skins, and a tiny bow and quiver hung upon his back. His feet were bare, and he walked so lightly that the children could hardly hear his tread. Prudence, in fright, shrank close to her brother; but Joel had seen many Indians during their year in the New World, and the stranger's eyes were so bright and soft that the white boy returned the Indian's salutation. Then, plunging his hand into his pocket, Joel brought forth a handful of nut-meats, and held them out for an offering.

The little Indian smiled delightedly, and politely took a few—not all. Having munched the kernels gravely, the new-comer began to dance.

It was a most remarkable dance. It was first a stately measure, accompanied by many poisings on his toes, and liftings of his head, from which the wind blew back his straight black hair; but gradually his motions grew faster and more furious, his slow steps changes to running, he turned, he twisted his lithe body into all possible contorted shapes, he threw his arms high above his head, waving them wildly, he took great leaps into the air, and finally, when his dance had lasted about fifteen minutes, several amazing somersaults brought him breathless, but still smiling, to the children's feet.

His spectators had been shouting with delight during the whole performance, and now asked him eager questions. What was his name? How did he learn to dance? Could he not speak any more English? But to all their inquiries he only shook his head, and at last sat down beside them, motionless now as any little bronze statue, and looked steadily out to sea.

Prudence's head drooped upon her brother's shoulder.

I 'm rather tired, Joel," she said, wistfully; "don 't you think we could get to Plymouth pretty soon?"

"I don't know," said Joel, despondently.

At the words the Indian boy sprang to his feet. He ran toward the woods, then stopped, and beckoned them to follow.

"He is going in the wrong direction, I am sure," said Joel, shaking his head.

The boy stamped on the ground with impatience, and, running back, seized Prudence's hand, and gently pulled her forward.

"Plymout'!" he said, in his strange accent.

The children looked at each other.

"We might as well try him," said Joel.

The boy clapped his hands together, and ran on before them into the forest. It was a weary journey, over bogs and fallen trees, and seemed three times as long as when they had come. A wasp once stung Prudence on the cheek, making her cry out with pain; but quick as thought the little Indian caught up a pellet of clay, and plastered it upon the wound, and, marvelous to relate, before many minutes the sharp pain had quite gone away.

The woods seemed gradually to grow a little more open, and pretty soon they heard the distant tinkle of a cow-bell. At last (Prudence held her breath for fear it might not be true) they emerged suddenly into the clearing, and home lay before them.

They found they had made a complete circle since they started.

Their little guide stooped and picked up a gaudy-colored feather from the ground. He examined it closely, and then he shouted aloud, and began to run toward the storehouse as fast as his sturdy legs could carry him.

"I want to see mother," said Prudence, half crying with fatigue; so they ran all together across the clearing.

All this while the feast had been progressing. About noontime the great Massasoit, chief of the Indian tribe called the Wampanoags, had emerged from the forest with all his tallest braves in single file behind him. They wore their best beaver-skins, and their heads were gay with nodding feathers. They were received at the door of the storehouse by their English entertainers, who also wore the bravest attire that Puritan custom allowed. They gave the braves a hearty welcome.

Within, the long table fairly groaned with abundance of good cheer; for the housewives had vied with one another to provide the fattest game and the daintiest dishes that Dutch or English housewifery had taught them.

After asking a blessing, they all sat down, the stalwart colonists and their fair-haired women side by side with the taciturn Indians. The white men felt that the best way to thank God for the harvest was to share it with their dark-skinned brethren, who had first taught them to plant and raise the maize which now furnished the table.

Governor Bradford sat at the head of the table. He hoped much from this feast; first, that it might cement the friendship between the colonists and their Indian neighbors, the Wampanoags; and, second, that the news of it might induce the neighboring tribes, which were still partly hostile, to live in peace with the settlers. But though food and talk passed blithely round among the other guests, the governor saw, with growing dismay, that the great Massasoit sat frowning and depressed. The governor was not long in learning the cause. The interpreter, observing the governor's uneasiness, whispered in his ear that in a recent war with the Narragansetts, Massasoit's only child, a boy, was missed and was thought to have been taken prisoner, and of course put to death, after the cruel savage custom.

Toward the end of the feast, drink was served to every guest. For the first time Massasoit showed animation. He seized his cup, and lifted it in the air, and cried aloud in his native tongue, as he sprang to his feet:

"May plague and famine seize the Narragansetts!"

At that very moment the house-door opened, and a pretty group appeared upon the threshold. Two English children stood there, as fair and rosy as the May-time, and between them a dark, lithe little Indian, with sparkling eyes.

Prudence ran straight to her mother.

Massasoit paused and trembled; then, as his cup fell and shivered upon the ground, he crossed the room in one stride, and caught the Indian boy in his arms, looking at him as if he could never see enough.

Governor Bradford knew in an instant that the lost child had been restored, even without the Indian warrior's shout of triumph, and Massasoit's passionate exclamation: "Light of my eyes—staff of my footsteps!—thou art come back to me—the warmth of my heart, the sunlight of my wigwam!"

The rejoicing was so great that no one thought of chiding Joel and Prudence for their disobedience. The governor himself gave Joel a large slice of pudding, and Prudence told all her adventures, throned upon her father's knee, wearing around her neck a string of wampum which the grateful Massasoit had hung there.

"And, oh!" she exclaimed, "while the Indian boy was dancing for Joel and me, I looked out to sea, and I saw such a wonderful bird—a great white bird, flying along close to the water, and rising up and down. It was many times greater than the swans in Amsterdam!"

"Was it, my little maid?" said the good governor, laying his hand on her head, and then he exchanged a keen look with Prudence's father, saying nothing more. But when the guests had departed, bearing home the Indian boy in triumph, none was so early as the governor to reach the seashore; and it was his call that brought the colonists to see the good ship Fortune (Prudence's "great white bird") already rounding the point, and making ready to cast anchor in Plymouth harbor.

Ah, then indeed the great guns rang out from the shore to hail the ship, and the ship's cannon boomed a quick reply, and the whole little town was full and running over with glad welcome for the second English vessel to land upon our Massachusetts coast.

In the evening a happy circle gathered round the fire in the house of Prudence's father, and there was eager talk, for all had much to learn and to tell.

"I know now," said Joel to Prudence, as they sat side by side, "I know now what Thanksgiving means. It means plenty to eat."

Prudence looked at the dear faces around her, at Mehitable's sweet smile, and at the shining eyes of John Andrews, for he had been a passenger by the Fortune.

"Perhaps," she replied; "but I think, Joel, that we have Thanksgiving because we are so glad to be all together once more."

This first Thanksgiving happened long ago, but out of it all our later ones have grown; and when we think of the glad meetings of long-parted parents and sons and daughters, of the merry frolics with brothers and sisters and cousins, which come upon Thanksgiving Day, in spite of our bountiful dinner-tables we shall agree with Prudence that it is the happy family party which makes the pleasure, after all.

"The First Christmas Tree in New England"

by Sarah J. Pritchard, December 1887

The Victorians loved Christmas so much that it may have seemed unbelievable to them that their revered Puritan ancestors allowed not one inch of merriment to touch them on Christmas Day. This gave rise to fanciful stories like this one, in which Christmas was celebrated for the sake of a child, with no punishments meted. As was common in those days, no distinction was made between the Pilgrims of Plymouth and the more severe Puritans that came later. Neither celebrated Christmas, however.

It was in the year 1635. On a November afternoon Mrs. Rachel Olcott was spinning flax in the cheerful kitchen of a small house not far from Plymouth Rock, in Massachusetts. Eastward from the house, the ocean broke with a sullen roar on the rocks of the coast below; northward lay the few homes of the few Pilgrims who were Mrs. Olcott's neighbors.

Captain Olcott's ship had sailed from Boston for England, in the year 1632, and had not been heard from. The little band of Pilgrims had ceased to look for news from the captain or his ship.

Mrs. Olcott kept up a brave heart and a cheerful face for the sake of her four children, Robert, Rupert, Lucy, and poor, crippled little Roger; but this November afternoon anxiety filled her heart. Day by day her little store of provisions had lessened under the stress of hunger until even the corn-meal had vanished, and it became necessary to send corn to be ground at the only mill in all that region. Early in the day, Robert and Rupert with their sister Lucy had been sent to the miller's, for it was well understood that each comer must await his turn at the mill. This grinding in those early days was slow work, and much of the day had passed before Mrs. Olcott expected them to return.

But when the sky grew dark and the snow began to fall, the loving mother grew anxious. She drew the great arm-chair, in the cushioned depths of which poor, pale-faced little Roger lay curled, far into the fireplace; and then, when anxiety grew to fear, she threw over her head the hooded red cloak that all the Puritan matrons wore, and hurried over the hill, as fast as the drifting snow would permit, to the house of her nearest neighbor, Master John Hawley.

As she drew the latch and walked in with impetuous haste, up sprang John Hawley and stalked to the corner, where, ever ready, stood his trusty musket.

"Indians, Rachel?" shrieked Mrs. Hawley, springing to drop the curtain that hung above the one window of the room.

"Put up your musket, friend," gasped Mrs. Olcott. "It is my boys who are in danger. They went to the mill with grist. Lucy is with them. Oh, save them!" she pleaded.

"They 're young and tough; they 'll weather it through, and be home by supper-time," said John Hawley, the stanch Puritan, dropping his musket to its corner. "I 'll step over after supper and see. Go home, and don't worry."

To him, nothing less than Indians seemed worth a moment's uneasiness.

When he turned, Rachel Olcott was gone, and his wife was at the door, watching the red cloak as its wearer urged it through the snow.

"A woman has no business to look as she does," exclaimed Mrs. Hawley, closing the door.

"She 's had trouble enough in Plymouth, goodness knows!—her husband lost, and that crippled child to care for night and day, those boys to bring up, and hardly enough money to keep soul and body together. And there she goes this minute with a face like a sweetbrier rose"; and John Hawley demanded his supper at once.

He had it, his wife looking as stern as any Puritan of them all, as he put on his greatcoat and went out, saying:

"If those youngsters have come home, I 'll be right back."

But he was not "right back." Midnight came down on all the Atlantic coast, and he had not returned.

The supper for the young Olcotts was baked at the hearth, and set back to await their coming. The blazing logs filled the long, low kitchen with light. There was no need of a candle, as the mother sat, to sing her poor boy to sleep. But Roger could not sleep.

"Tell me something more about England, mother," he pleaded, again and again. "It keeps me from thinking of Lucy and the boys, when you talk."

The firelight illumined the white face and made the blue eyes of the boy more pitiful than ever in their plaintive asking that night.

The mother's thoughts and her heart were out in the snowdrifts searching with her neighbors for her bright, rosy darlings, but her words and her hands were ministering to this child, bereft of almost everything belonging to the outside world of work and endeavor.

"Well, then, Roger, shut your eyes and try to go to sleep, while I tell you something about Christmas—the way we used to keep it—before Mama was a Puritan, you know."

Then she told the boy of old-time customs in her native land; of her father's house, and the great rejoicings that came at Christmas-time, and lastly, with a vague feeling of regret in her heart, she came to the story of the great green bough that was lighted with tapers and hung with gifts for the good children.

"What made you be a Puritan, mother? Why did n't you stay at home?" asked Roger.

"Don't ask me, my boy," she said, touching the shining face with a kiss.

"Mother, I 'd like it, if I could see a Christmas-bough just for once before I die."

At that moment the door was thrust in, and the boys, Robert and Rupert, clad in snow, entered the room. The mother, dropping Roger's mite of a hand, sprang to meet them with untold gladness in her eyes, that still looked beyond them in search of something more.

"Lucy's all right, mother!" cried Robert. "If it had n't been for Mr. Hawley, though, and Richard Cooper, and the rest, we 'd have had a night of it in the old cedar-tree. We could n't get a bit farther with the meal and Lucy; so we scooped out the snow in the big hollow, put Lucy in first, when we had made sure there was n't a fox or anything inside; crawled in ourselves, with a big stick apiece to keep off enemies, and were getting very hungry and sleepy, when a light flashed in our eyes."

"But where is Lucy?" interrupted Mrs. Olcott.

"Oh, they are bringing her! And mother, Mr. Hawley has been scolding us half the way home for going to mill on such a day. And we never told him that we had n't meal enough in the house to last till to-morrow. We took it brave."

"That's right, my good boys; but how did they find you?" Mrs. Olcott demanded.

"They did n't; we found them," cried Rupert. "They had a lantern, and we saw it; and then we made a dash after the light, and brought them back to the hollow. When they drew Lucy out, she was fast asleep, and as warm as toast, 'cause Robert gave her his jacket, and I tied my muffler on her, too."

"And she 's fast asleep this minute, I do believe!" added Robert, as two vigorous young men entered,—one drawing the sled-load of meal and the other bearing Lucy in his arms.

From that night in November little Roger fell to thinking so much of the beautiful Christmas-bough. He talked of it when awake, he dreamed of it when he slept; and he told his dreams and said, with tears on his cheeks, how sorry he was to awake and find that he had n't seen it after all—and, oh, he wanted to so much!

The time of Christmas in that far, far-away year drew near, and in all the land there was not a Christmas-bell, a Christmas-tree, nor even a Christmas-gift.

A physician from Boston had come down, and told Mrs. Olcott that the lad must die. This bright little mother wished, oh, so much! to make her child happy, and his little heart was set on seeing a Christmas-bough before he died. She could not withstand his wishes, and she said to herself, "If I am punished for it as long as I live, Roger shall see a Christmas-bough." So she took her boys, Robert and Rupert, and little Lucy, outside the house one day, just a week before Christmas, and told them what she was going to do.

"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Robert, the eldest son. "They 'll persecute you to death; they 'll drive us into the wilderness; we shall lose our home and everything!"

"Remember, boys, your mother has been into the wilderness once, and she is n't afraid of that. We shall have the Christmas-bough! I am going up to Boston to-morrow, if the day is fine, and I 'll fetch back some nice little trinkets for poor Roger. Maybe a ship has come in lately; one is expected."

On the morrow, clad in the scarlet cloak, Mrs. Olcott set forth for Boston. She had not been there since the day she went up to see the ship sail, with her husband on it—the ship that never had been heard from. But that was more than three years before, and it was in going home from Boston that Roger had been so hurt and maimed that his little life was spoiled.

Great was the astonishment in Plymouth when it was learned that the Widow Olcott had gone to Boston. Why had she to go to Boston? She had no folk living there to go to see; and what had she been buying, they wondered, when she came back. Mrs. Hawley went down the hill that same day to make inquiry, and found out very little.

As soon as Mrs. Olcott was well rid of Mrs. Hawley, she called her boys, and bade them go to the pine-woods and get the finest, handsomest young hemlock-tree that they could find.

"Get one that is straight and tall, with well-boughed branches on it, and put it where you can draw it under the woodshed, after dark," she added.

The boys went to Pine Hill, and there they picked out the finest young tree on all the hill, and said, "We will take this one." So, with their hatchets they hewed it down and brought it safely home the next night when all was dark. And when Roger was quietly sleeping in the adjoining room, they dragged the tree into the kitchen. It was too tall, so they took it out again and cut off two or three feet at the base. Then they propped it up, and the curtains being down over the windows, and blankets being fastened over the curtains to prevent any one looking in, and the door being doubly barred to prevent any one coming in, they all went to bed.

Very early the next morning, while the stars shone on the snow-covered hills,—the same stars that shone sixteen hundred years before on the hills when Christ was born in Bethlehem,—the little Puritan mother in New England arose very softly. She went out and lit the kitchen fire anew from the ash-covered embers. She fastened upon the twigs of the tree the gifts she had bought in Boston for her boys and girl. Then she took as many as twenty pieces of candle and fixed them upon the branches. After that, she softly called Rupert, Robert, and Lucy, and told them to get up and dress and come into the kitchen.

Hurrying back, she began, with a bit of a burning stick, to light the candles. Just as the last one was set aflame, in trooped the three children.

Before they had time to say a word, they were silenced by their mother's warning.

"I wish to fetch Roger in and wake him up before it," she said. "Keep still until I come back!"

The little lad, fast asleep, was lifted in a blanket and gently carried by his mother into the beautiful presence.

"See! Roger, my boy, see!" she said, arousing him. "It is Christmas morning now! In England they have only Christmas-boughs, but here in New England we have a whole Christmas-tree."

"Oh, mother!" he cried. "Oh, Lucy! Is it really, really true, and no dream at all? Yes, I see! I see! Oh, mother! it is so beautiful! I sha'n't mind going," said the boy, "now that I 've seen the Christmas-bough. I—What is that, mother?"

What was it that they heard? The little Olcott home had never before seemed to tremble so. There were taps at the window, there were knocks at the door — and it was as yet scarcely the break of day! There were voices also, shouting something to somebody.

"Shall I put out the candles, mother?" whispered Robert.

"What will they do to us for having the tree? I wish we had n't it," regretted Rupert; while Lucy clung to her mother's gown and shrieked with all her strength, "It's Indians!"

Pale and white and still, ready to meet her fate, stood Mrs. Olcott, until, out of the knocking and the tapping at her door, her heart caught a sound. It was a voice calling, "Rachel! Rachel! Rachel!"

"Unbar the door!" she cried back to her boys. "It 's your father calling!" Down came the blankets; up went the curtain; open flew the door, and in walked Captain Olcott, followed by every man and woman in Plymouth who had heard at break of day the glorious news that the expected ship had arrived at Boston, and with it the long-lost Captain Olcott. For an instant nothing was thought of except the joyous welcoming of the captain in his own home.

"What's this? What is it? What does this mean?" was asked again and again, when the first excitement was past, as the tall young pine stood aloft, its candles ablaze, its gifts still hanging.

"It's welcome home to father!" said Lucy, her only thought to screen her mother.

"No, child, no!" sternly spoke Mrs. Olcott. "Tell the truth!"

"It 's— a— Christmas-tree!" faltered poor Lucy.

One and another and another, Pilgrims and Puritans all, drew near with faces stern and forbidding, and gazed and gazed, until one and another and yet another softened slowly into a smile as little Roger's piping voice sang out:

"She made it for me, mother did. But you may have it now, and all the pretty things that are on it, too, because you 've brought my father back again; if mother will let you," he added.

Neither Pilgrim nor Puritan frowned at the gift. One man, the sternest there, broke off a little twig and said:

"I 'll take it for the sake of the good old times at home."

Then every one wanted to take a bit for the same sweet sake, until the young pine was bereft of half its branches. But still it stood, like a hero at his post, candles burning and gifts hanging, until all but the little household had departed; and even then, the last candle was permitted to burn low and flicker out before a gift was distributed, so glad were the Olcotts in the presence of the one great gift of that Christmas morn; so eager were they to be told every bit of the story, the wonderful story, of their father's long, long voyage in a poor, little, storm-beaten and disabled ship which, at last, he had been able to guide safely into port. His return voyage had been made in the very ship that Mrs. Olcott had hoped would arrive in time for her Christmas-tree.

That morning brought to Roger something better than Christmas-trees, better, if such a thing were possible, than the home-coming of the hero-captain—renewed life. It may have been the glad surprise, the sudden awaking in the bright presence of a real, live Christmas-tree; it may have been the shock of joy that followed the knocking and the shouts at door and window, or the more generous living that came into the little house near Plymouth. Certain it was, that Roger began to mend in many ways, to grow satisfied with bleak New England wind and weather, and to rejoice the heart of all the Olcotts by his glad presence with them.

"How the Pilgrims Came to Plymouth"

by Azel Ames, M.D., June 1902

"Ancestor worship" became very popular during Victorian and Edwardian times. It was to this era that we owe most our myths about the Pilgrims, including the iconic painting of Pilgrims walking to meeting with buckles on their hats and shoes, and all clad in black, none of which was accurate The story of Plymouth Rock actually dated back only to the Revolutionary War period and was never substantiated by any period text.

For nearly twelve years "brave little Holland" had given shelter to the true men and women who, in 1607—8, were driven out of England by the persecution of the bishops because they would worship God in their own way.

After many trials and dangers they came together at Amsterdam in 1608, and formed a little "Independent" church, with Richard Clifton, their old pastor among the Nottingham hills, for their minister, and John Robinson, their teacher, as his assistant.

Governor Bradford tells us, in his "Historic," that "when they had lived at Amsterdam about a year they removed to Leyden, a fair and beautiful city and of a sweet situation," on the "Old Rhine." Clifton was growing old and did not go with them, and Robinson became their pastor.

For eleven years—nearly the whole time of "the famous truce" which came between the bloody wars of Holland and Spain—they lived here, married, children were born to them, and here some of them died.

Most of them had been farmers in England, but here "they fell to such trades & imployments as they best could, valewing peace & their spirituall comforte above any other riches whatsoever, and at length they came to raise a competente and comfortable living, but with hard and continuall labor."

But about 1617 these good, brave people of Pastor Robinson's flock became very anxious as to their circumstances and future,—especially for their children,—and at length came sadly to realize that they must again seek a new home. Their numbers had much increased, they could not hope to work so hard as they grew older, while war with the Spaniard was coming, and would surely make matters harder for them. But the chief reasons which made them anxious to find another and better home were the hardships which their children had to bear and the temptations to which they were exposed. Besides this, they were patriotic and full of love of their God, their simple worship, and their religious liberty.

As Englishmen, though their king and his bishops had treated them cruelly, they still loved the laws, customs, speech and flag of their native land. As they could not enjoy these in their own country, or longer endure their hard conditions in Holland, they determined to find a home—even though in a wild country beyond the wild ocean—where they might worship God as they chose, "plant religion," live as Englishmen, and reap a fair reward for their labors. It was very hard to decide where to go, but at last they made up their minds in favor of the "northern parts of Virginia" in the "New World" across the Atlantic. They found friends to help them both in England and in Holland, and they helped themselves; but even then, owing to enemies, false friends, and many difficulties, it was far from easy to get away, and they had sore trials and disappointments.

And now "the younger and stronger part" of Pastor Robinson's flock, with Captain Miles Standish and his wife Rose and a few others, were to go from Leyden, in charge of Elder Brewster and Deacon Carver, and some were to join them in England, leaving the pastor and the rest to come afterward.

It was a busy time in the Klock Steeg, or Bell Alley, where most of the Pilgrims lived, all the spring and early summer of 1620, when they were getting ready for America. Deacon Carver and Robert Cushman, two of their chief men, were in England, fitting out a hired ship—the Mayflower. But the Leyden leaders had bought in Holland a smaller ship, the Speedwell, and were refitting her for the voyage, an English "pilot," or ship's mate (Master Reynolds), having come over to take charge. (Bradford spells the word "pilott." He was in reality a mate, or "master's mate," as Bradford also calls him—the executive navigating officer next in rank to the master. The term "pilott" had not to the same extent the meaning it has now of an expert guide into harbors and along coasts. It meant, rather, a "deck" or "watch" officer, capable of steering and navigating a ship. He was on board the Mayflower practically what the mate of a sailing-ship would be to-day.) Thirty-six men, fifteen women, sixteen boys, four girls, and a baby boy—seventy-two in all, besides sailors—made up the Leyden part of the Pilgrim company. Of these, six went no farther than Plymouth, Old England, though three of them afterward joined the others in New England. Of the fifteen women, fourteen were wives of colonists and one was a lady's-maid. The thirty-six men of Leyden included all who became Pilgrim leaders, except three.

At last they were off, and on Friday, July 21 (31)¹ they said good-by to the grand old city that had been so long their home. Going aboard the canal-boats near the pastor's house, they floated down to Delfshaven, where their own little vessel, the Speedwell, lay waiting for them. At Delfshaven they made their last sad partings from their friends, and Saturday, July 22 (or August i, as we should call it), hoisted the flag of their native land, sailed down the river Maas, and Sunday morning were out upon the German Ocean, under way, with a fair wind, for the English port of Southampton, where they were to join the other colonists.

For three fine days they sailed down the North Sea, through Dover Straits, into the English Channel, and the fourth morning found them anchored in Southampton port. Here they found the Mayflower from London lying at anchor, with some of their own people—the Cushmans and Deacon Carver—and some forty other Pilgrim colonists who were going with them. Among these our Leyden young people were no doubt very glad to find eight more boys and six girls of all ages, two of them being Henry Sampson and Humility Cooper, little cousins of their own Edward Tilley, who was to take them with him.

For ten days the two ships lay in this port. Trying days for the elders indeed they were. Mr. Weston, their former friend (who had arranged with the merchants to help them, but was now turned traitor), came to see them, was very harsh, and went away angry. The passengers and cargoes had to be divided anew between the ships, thirty persons going to the Speedwell and ninety to the Mayflower. Then the pinnace sprung a leak and had to be reladen. To pay their "port charges" they were forced to sell most of their butter. And there were many sad and anxious hearts. But great times those ten days were for the larger boys and girls who were allowed to go ashore on the West Quay (at which the ships lay), and to whom every day was full of new sights, both aboard the vessels and ashore. "Governors" were chosen for the ships; a young cooper—John Alden—was found, to go over, do their work, and come back, if he wished, on the Mayflower; and all was at last ready. They said what they thought were their last farewells to England, and down the Solent, out by the lovely Isle of Wight, into the broad Channel, both ships sailed slowly, "outward bound."

But twice more the leaky Speedwell and her cowardly master made both ships seek harbor—first at Dartmouth, where they lay ten days while the pinnace was overhauled and repaired, and again at Plymouth, after they had sailed "about 100 leagues beyond Land's End." At Plymouth it was decided that the Speedwell should give up the voyage and transfer most of her passengers and lading to the Mayflower, which would then make her belated way over the ocean alone.

Some twenty passengers—the Cushmans, the Blossoms, and others—went back to London in the pinnace, and after a weary stay of nine days, on Wednesday, September 6 (16), the lone Pilgrim ship at last "shook off the land" and, with a fair wind, laid her course for "the northern coasts of Virginia."

One hundred and two passengers sailed from Plymouth on the Mayflower. They had been so constantly stirred up, in so many ways, since leaving Leyden or London, that they were glad to settle themselves at last for their long voyage. After the two ships' companies were united, Carver became Governor (in place of Mr. Martin, the treasurer, who made many enemies), and though the vessel was badly crowded, and of course many were seasick, things were soon in order, and with the fine weather which lasted till they were half-way over the sea all were soon used to the ship life.

But who were the passengers? Of the seventy- six who came from Leyden six went back, leaving seventy, and there were but thirty-two left of those who joined at Southampton. Of these thirty-two, nine were men, four young men, five women (wives), eight were boys, and six girls. So there were, in all, forty-four men (including the hired seamen and servants of full age), nineteen women, twenty-nine young men, boys, and male (minor) servants, and ten girls of all ages.

The master of the Pilgrim ship was Thomas Jones, "a rough sea-dog" who had been a pirate, but was a good navigator and had sailed one or more voyages to "Virginia" (as all North America was then called). The first mate (or "pilot") was John Clarke, a quiet man and good officer, who had also been to "Virginia"; the second mate (or "pilot") being Robert Coppin, an "over-smart" young man who had made one voyage to the New England coast. Besides these were the "ship's merchant," or supercargo, Mr. Williamson, a fine man, who had doubtless also been in some parts of "Virginia," as he seems to have known the Indian "lingo," and lastly, the ship's surgeon, Giles Heale, of whom we know very little.

Not much that is good can be said of Master Jones, and his record is wholly bad. He inspired confidence only in his skill as a seaman and sportsman. The Pilgrim leaders evidently made little talk with him, and we may be sure that the young folks feared him. He died a pirate. Clarke was modest and faithful, one in whom all seem to have had confidence. Coppin was not, as a certain author has portrayed him, "old," "saintly," or even a "pilot" (in the sense of a guide), and he was but the third officer of the Pilgrim ship, and of very little account, though he came very near wrecking the Colony by his blunders on the shallop's first visit to Plymouth harbor.

If our young folks of to-day could see the old Mayflower they would think her a queer sort of ship, with her high, three-decked stern, high forecastle, stumpy masts, big lateen sail, toy cannon, bowsprit sails, funny anchors, etc. She was no less queer inside, for her main deck after-house was divided up into little cabins for the women and girls, set around a central cabin, or saloon; the deck-house above was taken up by the officers' quarters; while in the "between-decks" were the little cabins and bunks of the men and boys who were passengers, and their crude appliances for fire and cooking.

The high, tilting, pitching poop-deck at the stern was no place to play shovel-board or ring-toss, as one does to-day on an ocean liner, or, in fact, for any one to be without good sea-legs. The deck-space in the "waist," or middle, of the ship was apt to be very wet and unsafe because of the breaking seas, and in very rough weather there were above decks no places where even the men and larger boys could safely stay.

John Howland, one of the Leyden young men, proved this. "Coming above the gratings [i.e., upon the high after-deck] he was, by a sudden seel [roll] of the ship," tossed overboard, and would surely have drowned if he had not caught hold of a rope trailing alongside, and, though he was buried deep under the waves, held on, and by means of the rope and a boat-hook was drawn into the ship. Though he was ill after this escape, he lived many years to tell the story to his grandchildren, and became a prominent man in the Pilgrim Colony.

The Pilgrim leaders very wisely bought a large sail-boat, or shallop, for fishing, and to take them from place to place; but when they tried to put it aboard the Mayflower it was so large they had to cut it down to stow it between decks. They got it in, and as the men and boys could not stand or lie about the decks in stormy weather, they lay in the shallop. It must, in fact, have been a favorite lounging-place during the voyage, for Bradford says that the shallop "was much opened [i.e., her seams were opened] with the people lying in her."

In the beautiful weather which they had for weeks under the harvest moon, after they left the land, many of the passengers could walk or lie about the decks at times; could sometimes cook (no very easy matter at sea in those days); could chat with old friends or new acquaintances; and could give the little ones, now and then, a whiff on deck of the fresh air and a sight of the big ship and the sea.

A sharp change of weather came all too soon, and heavy gales, wild seas, and severe storms followed the fine days and nights. "The ship was shrewdly [roughly] shaken and her upper works made very leaky. One of the main [deck] beams in the midships was bowed and cracked and [there was] some fear that the ship could not perform the voyage." Clearly there was great anxiety and alarm and some danger. Fortunately a passenger had brought a jack-screw aboard, by which the bent deck-beam was forced up into its place, so that a post was set under it, the leaky decks were calked, and the danger and discomfort lessened. The jack-screw has become historic and is sometimes said to have saved the ship and Colony; but a few wedges would have done as well.

In late October, after the fine weather had come again, a son was born to Mistress Elizabeth Hopkins, the wife of Master Stephen Hopkins. This boy was named Oceanus in commemoration of his having been born at sea.

A few days after the birth of the first child to the colonists, the first death occurred among them —though one of the crew had died before. William Butten, Dr. Fuller's servant-assistant, who had come with him from Leyden,— and was no doubt known to all the Mayflower boys and girls as "Billy Butten,"—died and was buried in the sea. Although they were now nearing land and were full of joy and hope at thought of it, there can be no doubt that as Elder Brewster offered prayer, and the shrouded form slid into the dark waters, there were many saddened hearts among those who had known the poor boy in the old Dutch city.

All were now anxiously watching for signs of land, and three days later, on the morning of Friday, November 10 (20), at daybreak, the lookout at the masthead gave the welcome cry of "Land, ho!" They made it out to be "Cape Cod," as named by the navigator Gosnold, and laid down on the chart of Captain John Smith—of Pocahontas fame—as "Cape James."

But they were not yet where they meant to land, so they "squared away" around the cape for the mouth of "Hudson's River," little dreaming of the plot to be sprung upon them, or how soon they would turn back. Not long after noon the ship was in the midst of dangerous "rips and shoals" off the easterly shore of the cape, and, after much (apparent) trouble, got out of them before dark. The wind shifted to "dead ahead," and Master Jones declared it impossible to go on, and that he should go back to Cape Cod harbor.

We know now that he had been hired and ordered by his employers, Thomas Weston and Sir Ferdinando Gorges, and by the Earl of Warwick, whose evil work he had long done, to land his passengers somewhere north of the forty-first parallel of north latitude. They would then be within the territory of the Council of Affairs for New England, controlled by the wily Gorges, who had long wanted these Pilgrim colonists and plotted and manceuvered to get them upon his domain. This was Master Jones's chance, and he was quick to seize it, and so steal the Pilgrim Colony for his masters from the London Virginia Company, who were the colonists' friends and patrons.

So round again the good ship went for the harbor of Cape Cod. All night under "short sail" she worked slowly back to the "sighting" point. And now another trouble arose; for as soon as it was determined to go about and land farther north, Stephen Hopkins, John Billington, and others of the colonists who joined in England, began to whisper that if they settled on territory not covered by their "patente," neither Governor Carver nor any other would have authority over them, and that "when they came ashore they would use their own libertie."

To meet this difficulty the Leyden leaders and others drew up that famous "[Mayflower] Compact" by which the first "civill body politick" was organized in America, and "government by consent of the governed" was first set up. A little beginning for such mighty results!

Saturday morning, November 11 (21), found them just north of the cape, with only the harbor to reach. Bradford says: "This day before we came to harbor ... it was thought good there should be an association and agreement, that we should combine together in one body, and to submit to such government and governors, as we should by common consent make and choose." So while the ship was slowly "beating" into harbor the "Compact" was made and signed, Carver was "confirmed" as Governor, and the peace and good order of the Pilgrim Colony were made secure.

They sounded their way carefully into the harbor, and, circling round it, let go their anchors, three quarters of a mile from shore, under the wooded point (now Long Point, Provincetown harbor) separating the harbor from the sea—sixty-seven days from Plymouth, ninety-nine from Southampton, one hundred and twenty-nine from London.

To get out the long-boat and set ashore "a party of fifteen or sixteen men in armor, and some to fetch wood, having none left, landing them on the long point toward the sea," was the work of an hour. The party returned at night, having seen no person or habitation, but with the boat loaded with juniper wood (savin), and fires were soon lighted between decks.

Their first Sunday in New England, we may be sure, was a quiet, grateful, and restful one; but they were up betimes on Monday, got out their shallop, and set the carpenters to work on her. The women went ashore to wash their clothes in the fresh water of a near-by beach pond; but the water was shallow where they landed, and the men had to wade ashore from the boats and carry the women, bundles, and kettles. A very merry time they no doubt had, that first morning ashore in the New World, and a sight it was at which to have snapped a kodak; but, alas! many colds were taken that day, from which some never recovered.

"Some sickness began to fall among them," Bradford tells us, but with soldierly steadiness they closed ranks where one or another dropped out, and bravely sent out two expeditions to spy out the land and find a fit place for them to inhabit. They saw a few Indians at a distance, found their habitations, graves, and concealed corn, a few deer, wild fowl and sassafras in plenty, and good water, but no good place for a home. The weather changed suddenly,—was cold and stormy; the ground froze, and Master Jones became surly and domineering.

Monday, November 27 (December 7 according to our reckoning), a son was born to Mistress Susanna White, wife of Master William White. He was named Peregrine, and he was the first white child born in New England, and the last survivor of all the Pilgrim company.

Numbers of "whales" (probably blackfish or grampuses) frequently played about the ships in the harbor, "and one lying within half a musket shot, two of the planters shot at her." But the musket of one blew in pieces, stock and barrel; yet none were hurt—nor was the whale.

On Wednesday, December 6 (16), the third exploring party got away in the shallop, to try to find a harbor recommended by young Coppin, the second mate. Captain Standish was in command, and with him were Governor Carver, Bradford, Winslow, Warren, Hopkins, the brothers Tilley, Rowland, Dotey, two of the colonists' seamen, Alderton and English, the mates Clarke and Coppin, the master gunner, and three of the sailors—eighteen in all, most of them the leaders. If disaster befell this party it would surely end the undertaking—and they narrowly escaped it.

The day after their departure Master Bradford's wife fell overboard and was drowned, and the day following Master Chilton died, and was buried ashore.

On Wednesday, December 13 (23), the third exploring party returned to meet sorrowful news, but bearing good tidings. They had a short but fierce encounter with Indians (Nausets), and met a severe gale with snow later the same day, in which they were very near being cast away in making a harbor which Master Coppin thought he knew, but about which he was mistaken. They—and the Colony—were saved by the quick sense and pluck of Thomas English, master of the shallop, and landed on an island which they named for Master Clarke, the first mate, and spent two days there.

On Monday, December 11 (21), which we now call "Forefathers' Day," they examined and sounded the harbor, landed on a rock upon the shore (the now famous "Plymouth Rock"), found a good town-site, and agreed upon it as the place for settlement—the colonists approving the same upon their report.

On Friday, December 15 (25), the ship weighed anchor to go to the place agreed upon (which is called "Plimoth" by Captain John Smith upon his chart of 1616) after lying in Cape Cod harbor five weeks and losing four of her company. The shallop piloted them across the bay, but when within six miles, the wind coming northwest, they could not get into the harbor, and were forced to go back to their old anchorage. This would have been Christmas day according to our present reckoning, but was ten days earlier by theirs. But to them Christmas was an offense, as a holy day of the Church of England which the Pilgrims had left, and it was many years before they would in the least honor it. When Christmas day, as they knew it, arrived, ten days later, three more had died, and sorrow and sickness filled the ship; those who could, worked hard all day on their first log-house, and so far were they from merrymaking that they began that day to drink water instead of beer, though Master Jones gave some at night to those on board. There was no "Christmas" on the Mayflower!

The next day, December 16 (26), the wind again being fair, ship and shallop took final departure from Cape Cod, this time made Plymouth harbor safely, and the shallop piloted the ship to the anchorage she had sounded out for her the Monday before. A little before dark the weary but immortal Mayflower let go her anchors just within a long spur of beach a mile and a half from the landing rock—one hundred and two days from Plymouth to Plymouth, one hundred and fifty-five from London. The Pilgrim voyage was over. "Freedom's ark had reached her Ararat."

The next day was the Sabbath. Goodwin says: "It was devoted to worship and rest; yet curious eyes must have been peering over that ship's rail much of the day." But wild and beautiful nature was all those eyes could discover. The old village of the Patuxets which once stood on the westerly shore had been without hut or inhabitant since the terrible plague of 1612-15 had swept the red man away. The good Massasoit dwelt forty miles away, at Pokanoket. Not an Indian did the Pilgrims see till the last of January, nor one to talk with till Samoset came, in the middle of March. It was March 22 before he brought Massasoit.

By the extinction of the Patuxets they were practically

Monarchs of all they surveyed, their right there was none to dispute;
From the center around to the sea they were lords of the fowl and the brute.

On the morrow they began to lay the foundations of the Pilgrim Republic, with Liberty for their corner-stone.


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¹ Owing to a difference in the methods of reckoning time used by England and other nations between the years 1582 and 1752,—when all became practically alike,—it was common to make use of "double-dating." In so doing, the terms "Old Style" and "New Style" were used, and to make the dates of the former and the latter correspond, ten days are added to all dates of the period between 1582 and 1700, eleven days to those between 1700 and 1800, and twelve days to those between 1800 and 1900. December 11, 1620, Old Style, would be by our present reckoning December 21, 1620 ("Forefathers' Day").