going to have a real comfortable dying, I guess. I always did think I should like this bed to die in."
Melissa looked at her with a little ave. "Don't you feel any pain, Aunt Nancy?" she asked.
"Not a mite. I'm paralyzed up to here." There was an accent of pride in her voice as she laid her wrinkled hand on her heart.
"'Twon't be many days, the doctor says. The hills look real good, don't they." Her glance strayed to the window, where the mountains rose, blue and hazy, in the soft light. Her eyes dwelt on them with a look of content. "There ain't anything in the world just like 'em, is there?" she said gently, "but they do make it dreadful hard goin'—'specially for horses. You didn't expect I'd be coming up here like this?" She turned quickly to look at her niece.
Melissa shook her head.
"I al'ays knew I should come back," said Aunt Nancy. "I knew I'd come back—if I could get here—to die. I wanted to go to sleep in the hills. They're a good place to sleep." She smiled faintly.
She turned her face to the pillow with a sigh. "I guess I'll take a nap," she said slowly. "When I wake up you can bring the baby in to see me—I always did—love babies—and folks."
THANKSGIVING
BY J. HAMMOND BROWN
INSIDE, the grand church organ pealed
And sweet-voiced choir-boys sang;
Broadcloth and Satin lolled at ease.
While belfry music rang.
Outside, the wind blew bitter cold,
A lonely street-waif stood
Hard by the door, with wondering eyes.
In need of clothes and food.
The preacher in his robes of white
Gave thanks in long-drawn prayer;
Broadcloth and Satin bowed their heads—
Gave thanks, each, for his share.
The little stranger out-of-doors
In garments soiled and rent.
Passed on into the great, wide world,
And wondered what it meant.
