CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Thanksgiving Jubilee

Though it was early afternoon, barely past the dinner hour, both Adam and Jamie were bundled into their mutual bed for the sake of warmth.  To conserve on coal, they didn’t bother keeping a fire going during the day, even on Sunday, when they actually spent more time in their room than they did during the week.  Neither of them had any desire for outdoor exercise on this raw, windy November day; they were content to keep their stocking-clad toes beneath the covers while perusing the day’s edition of the New York Times.

They took turns, one reading an article of interest, while the other snuggled down under the thick quilt; then the reader would hand the paper over to the listener and pull the quilt up under his own chin for a while.  When Jamie’s turn came, he read about the closing of the Pony Express.

“Seems a shame,” Adam observed from his pillow.  “It was a splendid sight, those boys galloping into Carson with the mail.”

“Boys?” Jamie laughed.  “Your friend—Billy, isn’t it?—he’s older than you, as I recall.”

“One year, almost to the day,” Adam admitted with a chuckle, “but he’s always seemed like such a kid at heart that I tend to forget he’s older.”

“That’s the trouble with you younger brothers,” Jamie teased.  “Always forgetting your place.”

“I have lived to rue the day I let you take on the role of older brother.”  Adam rose up on his elbows and reached for the paper.  Instead of reading a new article, however, he kept staring at the one about the end of the Pony Express.  “I knew it was coming, of course, the signs were obvious all the way here, and I know Billy will be fine, but I can’t help wondering what he’ll do now,” he mused.  “I should write him and ask . . . though I’m more likely to hear the answer from Pa than Billy.  He’s a terrible hand to write.”

“Maybe he’d like to join us here,” Jamie suggested, rolling to face Adam with one folded arm beneath his head.

Adam collapsed with laughter.  “That’d be the last thing he’d do.  Billy Thomas is about the furthest thing from a scholar you’ll ever meet!”

“I understand,” Jamie said.  “College isn’t for everyone, but I would have enjoyed meeting your friend.  He’s always sounded like such an entertaining person, like those little brothers of yours.  I truly wish I could meet them some time.”

Adam laughed so hard he had to hold his belly.  “Don’t expect them here!  Little Joe hasn’t even started grammar school, and Hoss’s Latin is definitely below Yale standards!”

Jamie pulled the pillow from beneath his head and hammered Adam with it.

A few feathers flew loose as Adam smacked his friend back.  “Seriously, if you want to meet my little brothers and Billy,” he said as they both snuggled under the covers again, “you should come to the Ponderosa for a visit after we graduate.  It would make a fine holiday for you, and I’ll relish showing the place off.”

“I’d love to see it,” Jamie said, “and Hoss and Little Joe and your father.  Perhaps my father would be free to come then, too.”  He didn’t express his doubts that either he or his father would manage to come out of the next four years with enough extra income for a trip across the country.  He didn’t have to; Adam knew his circumstances better than anyone, but it didn’t hurt to dream.

“You’d both be welcome,” Adam said, knowing as well as Jamie that they were dreaming of things that might never be.  So much could happen in a span of four years, especially in a nation at war.  He yawned.  “Do we have time for a brief nap before second chapel?”

“Not really,” Jamie said with a sigh, “though I’d relish one, too.  This sort of weather always makes me drowsy.”  Hearing a branch scrape against the window, he looked out at the gray and gloomy sky.  “It would almost be worth the demerits to skip chapel, just this once.”

“I am appalled,” Adam declared, glowering with mock horror, for he knew that dutiful Jamie would somehow manage to drag himself out into the cold, even without the added incentive of meeting his father, and that he himself would feel obliged to follow his roommate’s good example.

After chapel and a cup of coffee in a nearby café with Jamie’s father, the two boys returned to their room.  While Jamie indulged in the longed for nap, Adam wrapped himself in an extra quilt and sat at his desk, penning a letter to Billy.  He shared Jamie’s suggestion about coming to Yale, knowing that his friend back home could take a joke better than anyone he knew.  “Seriously, though,” he wrote, “do write and tell me what your plans are.  It would be so good to hear from you . . . and I promise not to grade your spelling like Miss Eliza used to do.”

He signed and sealed the letter and then crawled under the covers to snatch a few minutes cozy rest before time to head out into the cold again for supper.  He owed a letter to Ross, too, but his hands were growing so stiff in the chilly room that it would have to wait.  Adam dreamily recalled memories of snatched moments between chores, when he and Ross had shared a bit of poetry or some new lesson from one of his textbooks.  Though Ross really would have relished the opportunity for a little extra learning, he was no more prepared for Yale than Billy.  Too many deficiencies to ever catch up, which seemed a shame, given Ross’s genuine thirst for learning and for bettering himself.  In his letters Adam shared whatever he thought Ross would appreciate of his college experiences, and he promised himself that he’d try to do so more often.  Amid all his varied activities—and they seemed to expand almost daily—it was hard to find time to write to everyone he wanted to keep in touch with.  Hoss was due another letter soon—or was it Little Joe’s turn?  Woe betide him if he got them out of order!  Still trying to figure that one out, he drifted to sleep.

* * * * *

            The weather remained miserable throughout the next week.  Adam and Jamie invested in a used umbrella, fortunately large enough to cover both of them as they hurried from chapel to recitation rooms to dining hall and back to their lodgings in George Street.  Gone were pleasant afternoon walks through the cemetery or to scenic heights outside town.  Adam did still make an occasional excursion to the gymnasium, but working up a sweat and coming out into the bracing wind was quickly losing its appeal.  They studied in the library between classes because it was warmer than their room, but were nonetheless forced to use more of their precious supply of coal than frugality dictated.  It would be false frugality, Adam pointed out, if they ended up spending their meager savings for doctor visits and medicine, instead of fuel to ward off colds in the first place.

When Adam had studied his lessons to perfection, he would wander around the library, noting the numerous curiosities collected there; for the building was, in fact, a museum of ancient manuscripts, coins, art and archeological finds.  Among the manuscripts was a petition to the Emperor of China, four feet long, covered in crimson silk and inscribed in gold characters.  Wouldn’t Hop Sing be proud of his heritage, if he saw something like this!  Not that he wasn’t already proud, Adam admitted with a grin; but he made a note to describe this in his next letter to Hoss.  Not only would his brother enjoy reading about something special to Hop Sing, but he could be trusted to pass it on to the cook.  Hoss would like the coin collection, too, especially if he could have actually seen and handled them.  It might even have heightened his interest in geography and history, for some were from colonial America, others from England, Napoleon’s France, Germany, Japan and China.  Some of those were over two thousands years old, another source of interest and pride to send on to Hop Sing.  Adam himself found the coins from the Roman Empire and Greece fascinating because of his current studies in their classic languages.

He wished that Hoss could be with him to see the archeological finds, as well, although the boy probably wouldn’t have understood their significance any more than did Lucas, who accompanied him on the day he toured those.  In the midst of fascinating objects like a facsimile of the Rosetta Stone, all that caught Luke’s capricious eye were the anklets and bracelets of Egyptian dancing girls!

Adam could have studied, hour upon hour, the architectural engravings of columns from Rome and of St. Giles church in Wales, of historical interest to the college because Elihu Yale was interred in its churchyard.  There was a view of Yale College itself as it had been in the previous century, along with a manuscript of its history and course of study in 1786.  It included a list of stringent rules for students that he was glad they didn’t have to follow in these more modern times.  “Imagine not being allowed to speak English at all, even in our own rooms,” he later told Jamie.

“Ah, but think how proficient we’d become in Latin,” his friend pointed out with a smile, to which Adam responded with an audible and visible shiver not at all influenced by the chill in the room.

No one could work up any enthusiasm for sloshing through the mud to a Brothers in Unity meeting that week.  Extra cups of steaming hot coffee became their new luxury expense, and diligent study of lessons their chief amusement, with an occasional flourish of reading the newspaper.  They did, of course, make their way through the wet streets for the Sigma Ep meeting on Saturday.  That was required, and they would have braved the weather even if it weren’t, because listening to the orations and debates of their classmates was always either entertaining or enlightening–when they were lucky, both.

Monday was another miserable day, but Adam’s face was as bright as sunshine when his stop by the post office was rewarded with a letter from home.  He and Jamie raced back to their room, where they poked up the fire and wrapped up in quilts.

“Keep any part to yourself that you please,” Jamie reminded his friend, although he was almost as eager to hear the news from the Ponderosa as Adam.

“There might be something,” Adam said, assuming his father would have responded to the sober reflections he had written in his last letter home, “but I’ll share everything I can.”  He quickly scanned the contents of the letter and noted that there were some sober words toward the end.  He’d wait to read them privately.  “Well, here’s some information we need to give your father,” he said.  “Pa says they have a post office in Washoe City now, and that’s closer for them, so he asks that all letters be sent there from now on.”

“Oh, yes, Father will certainly want that change of address.”  As Adam read it to him, Jamie wrote it down and laid it aside to give to his father the next time he saw him, probably the following Sunday at chapel.  “Any news of those little brothers?” he asked.

“Pa says Hoss really enjoyed his letter from me and that Little Joe is looking forward to his and, especially, the rock collection I promised.”  He shook his head.  “Rot!  Little Joe’s letter was delayed.  I knew I was in trouble when the Rebs took over St. Joseph.”

“Only briefly,” Jamie reminded him.  “I’m sure Little Joe has his letter and those rocks by now.”

“They’ll be setting me out as bait for wolves if he hasn’t,” Adam moaned.  He shook off the concern and read all the news, including the impending birth of Enos and Katerina’s first child.  “Here’s the sort of story you like,” he chuckled.  “Pa says that when they got my letter, he told the boys that they’d save it for dessert after supper.  Seems Hoss got real concerned that Pa meant they’d be having the letter, instead of dessert.”

“A tragedy for any boy,” Jamie agreed with a grin.

“And then Little Joe chimes in to announce that he wants pie and the letter and Pa adds”—Adam laughed so hard he could barely get the words out—“‘Just thought you’d want to know how you stack up against apple pie, son!’”

Jamie fell back on the bed, laughing.  “Don’t worry, Adam,” he gasped.  “You’ll always stack up against apple pie for me.”

“The rest is pretty personal,” Adam said.

“Would you like me to step out, give you some privacy?” Jamie offered, sensing his friend’s somber mood.

If the weather had not been so inclement, Adam might have taken him up on the offer, but he could scarcely ask Jamie to leave when he had nowhere—at least, nowhere dry—to go.  “No, that’s all right,” he said.  “Just ignore me for a few minutes.”

“Consider yourself ignored,” Jamie said, scrambling up off the bed and shuffling over to his desk, where he opened his Greek text to prepare for the next recitation.

Adam took off his shoes, crawled onto the bed and sat cross-legged, facing the wall.  Closed in as effectively as he could be in a shared room, he unfolded the letter again and read its final paragraphs, his father’s response to his ponderings about the appropriateness of remaining at Yale while the nation was at war.

My dearest boy, never fear that you should withhold from me any thought of your heart.  Though parted by thousands of miles, I am still your father and, as such, am intended to help carry such loads.  My shoulders are broad, Adam, and strong enough to share your concerns.

I’m sure that you were much affected by what you experienced on the trip, and I can understand that you might feel drawn to the service of your country when you see others answering that call.  However, I believe you are wrong in referring to what you are doing as sitting in a classroom, enjoying yourself.  That is not what you are doing, my boy, just seeking your own pleasure; you are preparing yourself for the future beyond this terrible conflict that separates our country.  Remember, Adam, that your goal is to become a builder, and how greatly our country will need builders when this cruel war is over!  You are doing the right thing, and I hope you will no longer waste precious time second-guessing your decision.  Though it is hard to be parted from you, I know—I absolutely know—that you have made the right decision.

Let us hear from you often.  As Hoss said, a letter from you rates higher than even an entire apple pie—with all of us.

With a heart filled with love and longing,

Pa

Adam wiped away the single tear that trickled from one eye.  Pa’s words of support could warm his heart and soothe his troubled thoughts with a power that no one else ever possessed.  That rated above apple pie with him, too—or even an entire plate of Candy Sam’s divinity.

* * * * *

            The Lit. came out on Wednesday, and since Adam and Jamie picked up their copy after the first recitation, they were able to review its contents during breaks from classes and meals.  Adam found the article on the summer tour of the Yale Glee Club fascinating: they’d visited so many scenic and historic places!  “I wish I could have been part of that,” he confided to his best friend, “but evidently it only involved the Class of ’63.”

“Does the Beethoven Society tour?” Jamie asked.

Adam shrugged.  “Not that I’ve heard of.  I think they mostly provide music for chapel, but I don’t suppose I could afford the expense, if they did.”

“God would provide,” Jamie declared fervently.

Adam, whose faith was never as undiluted by doubt as his friend’s, merely quirked a half smile.  “Perhaps.”

“He provided free voice lessons with Professor Stoeckel, didn’t He?” Jamie pointed out.

“That He did,” Adam admitted, “but I think a tour through New England is probably not on His agenda for me any time soon.”

“Oh, Adam,” Jamie chided softly.

“Oh, Jamie,” his friend teased back.  “You don’t expect that for yourself, either, do you?”

“I can’t sing,” Jamie said.

Adam gave his friend’s shoulder a playful shove.  “That, sir, is the lamest argument I have ever heard from you.  Pray use better logic in your upcoming society debate.”

Jamie groaned at the reference to his scheduled appearance before Sigma Ep that Saturday night.  “Don’t remind me.  I’m terrified of speaking before the class.  I wish I had your courage and podium presence, Adam.”

“God will provide,” Adam said with a wicked wink.

Jamie exhaled with exasperation, mostly at himself for providing the ammunition for the jest.  “Ooh, you . . . you . . .”

Adam bounced up and headed for the door.  “Sorry.  I don’t have time to wait for the end of that sentence.  I’m due for those special voice lessons God has provided.”

“Out, you heathen!” Jamie demanded, though a grin cracked through his reddened countenance.

“See you at supper,” Adam called as he went through the door.

* * * * *

            “Good news,” Adam called to Jamie, who was waiting for him just outside the entrance to the Vultures’ dining hall.

“The Beethoven Society is going to tour New England!” Jamie guessed.

“Oh, ye of great faith,” Adam chuckled.  “Nothing quite that grand, but we are giving a special Christmas concert.  Visitors can come, so let’s ask your father.”

“Oh, he’ll come,” Jamie assured his friend.  “He’d skip meals to save enough for that ticket.”

“What’s this talk of skipping meals?” Lucas demanded as he came up to them.  “Don’t tell me you intend to skip supper?”

“Not us!” Adam declared.  “Let’s get in out of the cold.”

They pressed through the narrow doorway and removed their outer garments in the small hall just inside.  “Say, Luke, did you know about the competition for the Yale Literary Medal?  The first I heard about it was when I read who had won in the Lit.”

“Sure, I knew,” Lucas replied, hanging his woolen scarf on one of the wooden pegs provided.

“Then, why did you not tell your fondest friends, my boy?” Adam charged.

Lucas just snorted.  “Freshmen never win.”

“Maybe because they don’t know about it,” Adam pointed out.

Lucas laughed then.  “We prep boys know; it’s just you country rubes who don’t.”  He laid a hand on Adam’s shoulder as if he were a gray-haired sage, imparting the wisdom of his years to a young whippersnapper.  “It’s just another way of keeping underclassmen in their place.”

“Not everyone at Yale is a sophomore,” Jamie said in an undertone, in case any of the Vulture sophomores were already inside.

“Trouble with them again?” Marcus asked, coming in on the tail end of the conversation.

“No, we were talking about the Yale Literary Medal,” Adam said.  “Did you know about it?”

“No,” Marcus admitted.  “I wish I had.  I shall try for it next year, though I doubt I have any chance of winning if Jamie competes, too.  Still it will be good experience for other prizes.”

“What other prizes?” Adam demanded with a stern look at Lucas, their main fount of information regarding life at Yale.  “Lend us your prep school experience, Lucas lad, so we don’t miss another opportunity to let those upperclassmen know we’ve arrived!”

“Tell you over supper,” Lucas promised.  “There is quite a list, though not so many open to freshmen.”

The topic interested everyone at the table, although the two sophomores professed to know everything already.  The seniors undoubtedly did, too, but were happy to point out to the underclassmen just how many opportunities for awards and scholarships were available at Yale.

“They’re all listed in the college catalog, of course,” George Miller said airily.  “Don’t tell me you country boys have lost yours already.”

“We country boys never had one to begin with,” Adam retorted sharply.

“I did,” Jamie admitted reluctantly.  “I guess I didn’t read it closely enough.”

Miller clucked his tongue.  “Dear, dear, is there no limit to the ignorance of freshmen?”

“He was probably more concerned about the section detailing what the entrance exam would cover,” Alexander White suggested generously.  “Do check it when you return to your room, Edwards; dates are listed for all the major prize exams.”

After supper everyone adjourned to their respective open society meetings and made plans for the upcoming Thanksgiving festivities, so it wasn’t until they were in bed that Adam and Jamie returned to the topic of prizes and scholarships.  “We’ll definitely try for the Brothers’ prize debate,” Adam dictated.

“You will,” Jamie demurred.  “I don’t see the point in my competing if you’re making the attempt.”

“You need to take a page from Marc’s book,” Adam insisted.  “Whether you win or not doesn’t matter so much.  The prizes are quite small, after all, but the experience is everything.”

“I suppose,” said Jamie, who was still so edgy about this Saturday’s debate that even contemplating another almost made him nauseous.  “I do plan to sit for the Woolsey and hope for the Hurlbut.”

“With your excellence in Latin, it’ll be the Woolsey for you,” Adam said confidently.  “I’ll be the one settling for the Hurlbut,” he added, mentioning the prize given to the student who placed second in the same exam.

“There’s algebra on it, too,” Jamie pointed out, yawning.  “You’re better at that.”

“Minimally,” Adam said, stifling a yawn himself.  “And we’ll both try for the Berkeley premium . . . even though you’re bound to take it.  You lead the class in Latin composition.”

“So long as I don’t have to deliver it orally,” Jamie moaned.

“Will you quit worrying?” Adam chided.  “You’ll do fine on Saturday . . . but not if we don’t get some sleep between now and then.”

“Too true.  Good night, Adam.”

“Good night, Jamie.”  Though the room was too dark for his friend to see it, Adam sent him a mischievous smile.  “Sweet dreams . . . all about persuasive Latin phrases.”

“And may your dreams be filled with sweet propositions from Euclid,” Jamie countered.

“Ugh,” Adam grunted.  “Why did you have to remind me?  I’m due to recite tomorrow.  And it’s the Pons Asinorum, no less.”

“Better you than me,” Jamie observed with a chuckle.  “You, at least, have some hope of passing the Asses’ Bridge,” he translated, using the nickname the students had given to the fifth proposition in their geometry text because so many of them found it difficult to get across.

“I’d like to get my hands on the ass who wrote that,” Adam grumbled.

“That would be Euclid,” Jamie pointed out, “and he’s safely out of your reach, my friend.”

“Well, you’re not!” Adam pounced upon his bedmate with a well-aimed pillow.

* * * * *

            “He was wonderful,” Adam told Josiah Edwards as he and the Edwards shared an after-chapel cup of coffee on Sunday afternoon.  “His arguments were so cogent that everyone agreed he’d won the debate.”

“Everyone meaning the three most prejudiced listeners in the room,” Jamie demurred.

“Not just us,” Adam insisted.  “I overheard several people paying similar compliments.”

“Really?”  Modest Jamie seemed incredulous.

“Would I lie on Sunday?” Adam asked with an exaggerated air of innocence.

“Oh, just every other day?” Josiah chuckled.

“No, not then, either.”  Adam spread his hands to emphasize the obviousness of his next statement.  “I was raised by Ben Cartwright.”

“Who always had a healthy respect for the truth.”  Josiah nodded his agreement with the son’s assessment of the father’s character.  “Would you care for another cup of coffee, boys?”

“I’d like to, but I can’t,” Adam said, standing.  “At the last Brothers meeting Lucas and I got tapped to sell tickets to the Thanksgiving Jubilee next week: that is to say, Lucas volunteered, and he tapped me.  He wants to meet this afternoon to talk sales strategy.  In return, we’ll get free tickets to the program.”  He gestured toward Jamie with his chin.  “Then we’ll split the price for one for Jamie; it’s just a dollar.”

“Very generous of you, Adam,” said Josiah as he stood and extended his hand in farewell.

Adam shook the man’s hand, but shrugged off the compliment.  “Share and share alike.  Jamie would do the same for me.”

“He would,” Josiah agreed, “but the Edwards were definitely blessed the day the Cartwrights rolled into St. Joe, and as this is the season for counting our blessings, let me say that the friendship we’ve shared over the years and that I still see so strong in you boys heads my list.”

“Here, here!” Jamie cheered, though softly, as they were in a public restaurant.

“You’ve expressed my sentiments, too,” Adam returned, and as he went out into the frosty air, fresh appreciation for the bonds of friendship warmed him from the inside, top to toe.

* * * * *

            After the drizzling misery of recent days, the sunny warmth of Indian summer refreshed the students’ spirits.  There was a bounce in Adam’s step as he trotted into the post office after the noon meal on Saturday, and his face beamed when he came out.

“Who’s it from?” Jamie asked, indicating the envelope in Adam’s hand.

“Pa,” Adam responded.  With the day so bright and clear, he broke open the seal on his father’s letter and spread it open, starting to read as they headed toward George Street.  But his steps soon slowed and then came to a complete halt.

“What is it?” Jamie asked urgently, for the sudden darkening of his friend’s countenance disturbed him.  “Bad News?”

“Not bad, really, just . . . disturbing.”  Adam looked up from the letter, frowning.  “I mean, it didn’t happen, but . . . but just the thought that it could have . . . that anyone for one moment thought . . .”

“Adam, you’re babbling,” Jamie said, gripping his friend’s arm.  “Now tell me directly: what’s wrong?”

Adam leaned his head back against the nearest building.  “There’s this rich couple in Virginia City . . . millionaires, actually.”

“From the mines, I suppose,” Jamie said to draw Adam on, for he seemed to be having trouble getting the story out.

“Yes . . . from the mines.”  Adam took a deep breath.  “They came to see Pa about . . . about . . .”

“Yes?”

“They want . . . they want . . . Little Joe!” Adam cried with the anguish of a man who’d just had a piece of his heart ripped away.  “To adopt him,” he amplified when he got control of his emotions.  “They offered to give him the best of everything, things Pa can’t hope to provide.”

Jamie stared at him in shock.  “Y-your father—he wouldn’t!”

“No, he told them no,” Adam replied, “but”—he swallowed hard—“he sounds so . . . sad . . . well, maybe more worried . . . fearful . . . . about whether he really is a fit father; he brings up that rough time right after we lost Marie, not being there for us then.”  He broke off abruptly and grabbed Jamie by the arm.  “I’ve got to write him,” he insisted, “write and post it tonight.”  Though he knew the letter would take close to a month to reach his father, he felt he couldn’t delay sending it by so much as one hour.

“Of course, you do,” Jamie agreed.  “Fortunately, we’ve got the afternoon free.  Pour out your heart to him, Adam, and we’ll post it on the way to supper.”

* * * * *

            Adam stared at the empty sheet before him.  The room was silent, except for the light rustle of turning pages as Jamie studied at the adjoining desk.  As quiet and considerate a roommate as Jamie was, Adam still couldn’t release the pent-up emotions driving him with anyone as audience.

Jamie must have sensed his conflict or, perhaps, just noticed the blank stationery, for he closed his Greek text and stretched his arms overhead.  “That’s enough studying for now.  I think I’ll go out for some fresh air.”

“You don’t have to,” Adam said as his friend stood.  “This is your room, too.”

“I was aware of that,” Jamie chuckled.  “No, seriously, I need a break.  The weather’s so fine that I think I’ll walk over to meet Father after he gets off work.  See you at the Vultures.”  He donned his coat and cap and moved for the door.

“All right . . . thanks!”  Adam knew full well that his friend was doing this for his sake, especially since there’d be so little time between when Josiah got off work and supper was served that Jamie might as well save himself the walk.

After his friend left, Adam let the quiet settle down over him for a few minutes, and the words finally began to flow:

Dear Pa,

I can’t tell you how shocked I was to hear of the Bowers’ proposal to adopt Little Joe.  Actually, furious is a more correct reflection of my response.  He may be a little rascal, but he’s our little rascal, and the Ponderosa just wouldn’t be the same without him.  So, I am profoundly pleased and, yes, even proud that you sent them packing.

The doubts about yourself that this distressing incident seem to have aroused cause me deep concern.  I know that you blame yourself for your inability to properly parent all of us during those first dark days after Marie’s death, that you feel that you burdened me with responsibilities rightfully yours.  I won’t lie and tell you that those days were easy for me, because they weren’t; I was the one filled with self-doubt then, wondering whether I could possibly be to Hoss and Little Joe what you had been to me.

But don’t you see, Pa?  It is precisely because of the wonderful job of fathering you did with me that I was able to step into your shoes, at least until you were ready to fill them again yourself.  I cherish the memories of the days when it was just you and me.  No man ever gave more of himself to a child than you did to me, and you haven’t changed.  Except for that one brief interlude, you have given of yourself day after day; and while we all miss Marie, I know that you are fully capable of bring up her son without the help of any interfering busybodies.  I know because you did it with me.  And I haven’t turned out all that badly, have I?  (I hope that makes you smile, Pa!)

We’re getting ready to celebrate Thanksgiving here.  There’s a tradition among the students who remain in town over the holiday to hold a jubilee, a student-organized program of mostly nonsense, from what I hear.  Jamie and I are both looking forward to that.  We’ll be having our turkey with the Vultures—the ones that don’t go home, that is—but I’ll be thinking of you and the boys and the Thomases, too, for I’m certain you’ll be sharing the Thanksgiving dinner with them.  I have much to be thankful for this year, especially the opportunity to come to Yale, but the greatest blessing of this or any other year is the knowledge that Ben Cartwright is my father.

Your grateful son,

Adam

Spent, Adam set the pen down and read what he had written.  He had never before expressed himself so openly to his father, and at first he wondered if he could post such personal thoughts.  These words needed to be said, however, so before his courage failed, he sealed the letter, addressed the envelope and immediately took his coat from the wardrobe at the foot of the bed.  Wanting that letter out of his hand and on its way, he hurried out the door.  If he arrived too early for supper, well, it was a pleasant day for a walk.

* * * * *

            Waving two tickets, Lucas came running down the steps of the building shared by the Brothers in Unity and Linonia.  “Mission accomplished,” he called, “with the wildly expressed appreciation of the committee.  They declared themselves amazed at how many subscriptions we’d managed to produce.”

“I’m happy to receive the reward of your hard labor,” Adam laughed.  “You are a phenomenal salesman, Luke, like my friend Billy back home; you sold three times the number of tickets I did.”

“High time I bested you at something,” Lucas declared, “but you did your fair share, Adam.”  He held out the two tickets.  “Here you go: one for you and one for the little preacher boy.”

Adam gaped at him.  “You aren’t going to the jubilee?”

Lucas waved off the idea as ridiculous.  “Of course, I am.  I bought my ticket days ago.”

“But . . . why?”  Adam felt he was almost babbling.  He’d taken on the commission purely to earn the free ticket, but why would Lucas work as hard as he had if his way in was already secured?

“Boosted our total.  Very impressive, you know.”  Then Lucas shrugged.  “Like you said, I’m a born salesman; I enjoy it.  Besides, it’s the kind of thing that can pay dividends later on in a college man’s career, his standing among the other men, I mean.”

“Wouldn’t your standing be more improved by showing up to class on time?” Adam teased.  “And skipping Latin altogether yesterday—tsk, tsk, my boy.”

Lucas gazed at him with longsuffering patience.  “I didn’t mean academic standing, my boy.  That’s a hopeless quest in my case.  I meant—”

“Popularity,” Adam finished for him with a grin.

“Don’t naysay it,” Lucas charged.  “Now, will you take this or do I have to present it to Edwards in person?”

Adam took both tickets.  “It’s very generous of you, but what made you think . . .”

“That the price might be a problem?” Lucas asked.  He gave his friend a rare, sober smile.  “I’m not quite the flighty flibbertigibbet you take me for; I notice more than you think.”

Adam blanched.  Was his and Jamie’s poverty that obvious?  To everyone?

“It’s the way you watch your pennies,” Lucas said as if he’d heard the unspoken question.  “That’s why you wouldn’t go out for baseball, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Adam admitted.  “I would enjoy it, Luke, but . . .”

“No need to explain,” Lucas said promptly, “and no need to feel embarrassed, either.  To most men at Yale it won’t matter; we believe a man’s character dictates his worth, not the plumpness of his pocketbook . . . not that there’s anything wrong with a plump pocketbook, you understand; I pad mine every chance I get.”  His usual impish grin flashed for a moment and then he sobered again.  “Look, I can’t help with club expenses—anything major like that—but a little thing like this . . . it’s nothing.”

“Not to us,” Adam said.  He threw an arm around his friend’s shoulders.  “Loyalty . . . generosity . . . that’s character . . . and friendship.  I value yours and it’s time I said so plainly.”

“I feel the same,” Lucas responded warmly, and they walked to their next recitation arm in arm.

* * * * *

            “Can you believe we’re already reviewing for term exams?” Adam asked as he and Jamie met Marcus outside chapel on Monday morning.  Lucas, of course, never deigned to arrive until the final bell was ringing.

Marcus moaned.  “Thank God we don’t actually take them for another two weeks.”

“The Thanksgiving holiday significantly shortens our class review time,” Jamie commiserated.

“Oh, hush,” Adam chided.  “You don’t need any review time.”

“Adam, that isn’t so,” Jamie protested.

Lucas came running up.

Adam held the back of his palm to his forehead.  “I think I shall swoon,” he declared.  “The first bell hasn’t even rung.  To what do we owe this exemplary promptness.”

“I had business to tend to,” Lucas said, “and if you have spare pennies, my boys, please dig them out.”

“Spare pennies?” Adam adopted a Shakespearean demeanor.  “Prithee, tell me what one looketh like.”

“It’s for Candy Sam,” Lucas explained, ignoring the jest.  “The freshmen always take up a collection for him at Thanksgiving, to show our appreciation for faithful service all through the year.  You can donate clothes, if you don’t have cash available . . . but don’t worry if . . .”

“We’ll come up with something,” Adam said.  “Probably cash.  It won’t be much, but I think Sam might need it more than we do.”

“Yes,” Jamie inserted, “and giving to others is the best way to express thanks for our blessings, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes,” Marcus agreed, as he generally did with anything Jamie said.

“That’s the spirit!” Lucas enthused, “and there’s the bell.  Run for it, lads!”  He frowned as the others laughed at him.

Then Adam reminded him that that was only the first bell.  “Being in the choir, I have to run,” he chuckled, “but the rest of you may remain at leisure for another five minutes.”

* * * * *

            “Why don’t they open the doors?” Jamie complained, blowing warm breath on his hands.  “It’s almost time to start.”

“My dear boy, if you don’t know that by this time, you shouldn’t be in college,” Lucas philosophized.  “It’s another way of keeping freshmen in their place, of course.”

“Oh, Luke,” Adam chided, rubbing his own chilled hands together.

“You don’t see any upperclassmen standing out here, shivering, do you?” Lucas pointed out.

“No,” Marcus grumbled.  “I suppose your brother warned you.”

“If he did, you should have passed it on,” Adam groused.

“Are you kidding?” Lucas hooted.  “Older brothers and upperclassmen think alike on keeping the young ones in their place.”

“Wouldn’t know,” Adam demurred with a smile.

“Well, keep it in mind for when you return home,” Lucas advised.

“I’ll keep it in mind for right now!” Jamie chuckled, giving his “younger brother” Adam a patronizing pat.

Adam’s retort died on his lips as the doors opened, and all the freshmen hurried to enter the building that housed the meeting halls of both the Brothers in Unity and Linonia.  Though most of the freshmen had their tickets in hand, there was no one there to take them; so they all charged up the stairs into the room normally used by Linonia, host for this year’s Thanksgiving Jubilee.

“It’s full!” Marcus gasped.  “Where are we supposed to sit?

“Anywhere we can!  Follow me!” Lucas yelled and raced toward the back of the hall.

Being in the vanguard, he reached one of the few wooden benches remaining for the freshmen and stretched out full length, kicking anyone who tried to push him off.  Adam, Jamie and Marcus weren’t far behind, though, and Lucas’s strategy had ensured that could sit together.  Other freshmen weren’t so lucky—or so ruthless, Jamie said later.  They ended up perching on windowsills or hanging to door casings throughout the proceedings.

More than just freshmen joined in the scuffle, Adam noted, spotting a few sophomores with their distinctive plugs and bangers and some students from the professional schools, pushing and shoving their way through the crowd.  Doesn’t look like everyone got the message about how to get in early, he mused with a far-from-righteous grin.  Looking at the front of the room, Adam spotted Alexander White and Robert Raines, seated with their classmates on comfortable settees near a stage with a drop curtain and footlights.  He felt glad for his friends and glad that someday it would be his turn to sit in the place of honor and watch the freshmen battle to find a spot.  Much as he hated being low man on the totem pole now, college life had a way of evening things out as a man progressed.

While the latecomers scrambled for seats and the upperclassmen yelled at them to hold the noise down, Adam took a look around the room.  While any student, regardless of society affiliation, was welcome to attend the meetings of Linonia, he’d never been in their hall before.  It was exactly the same size as that of the Brothers in Unity, but Adam thought the Brothers’ furnishings were more elegant.  The chief ornament here seemed to be two life-size marble statues.  “Any idea who those statues are supposed to be?” he asked, leaning over to his friends and raising his voice to be heard above the hubbub.

“Demosthenes and Sophocles,” Marcus told him.  “Copies of statues in Rome, I heard from a Linonian chum.”

“Which is which?” Lucas demanded, but Marcus could only shrug.

A handful of sophomores began walking the aisles, flinging programs into the air.  Some freshmen who leaped up to run after one lost their seat in the process, but by working together, the four friends each managed to secure a program to save for their memorabilia books and opened it to see what sort of frolics the evening promised.

Lucas leaned over and pointed to the line of that program listing him and Adam as committee members.  “Feeling famous?”

Adam laughed.  “No, but I admit it’s nice to see my name in print—and I hear such things pay dividends later on in a college man’s career.”

“That they do!” Lucas returned with a grin.

Finally, the curtain slowly rose to reveal several seniors standing on the stage.  Adam recognized two of them as fellow committee members, and it was one of them who stepped forward and announced clearly, “Before we begin tonight’s program, there is one essential piece of business to be transacted.  As you all must be aware, our young freshmen have not yet had an opportunity to elect class officers, so that election will take place tonight—immediately, in fact.”

The freshmen exchanged bewildered glances.  Somehow, this didn’t seem the right atmosphere for conducting serious business like the selection of class officers, but they quickly learned that this election would be anything but serious.

“Obviously, the most appropriate choice for president of our little freshmen,” the senior committee man proclaimed, “is the shortest member of the class.  Who are your nominees?”

Several names were suggested before Adam shouted out, “Marcus Whitmore!”

“Oh, no,” shy Marcus protested.  “I decline; I decline,” he cried.

“What’s that?” asked the man in charge, who hadn’t heard Marcus’ soft voice.

“He declines!” shouted Jamie, not normally one to raise his voice, but motivated by his friend’s discomfort.

The senior on stage laughed heartily.  “No declining allowed,” he declared.  “Pass him up; pass all the nominees up.”

The student body raised the nominees into the air and began passing them overhead from one man to the next, the reluctant ones, like Marcus, receiving extra encouragement from the nearest sophomore.

“They won’t hurt him, will they?” Jamie asked anxiously.

“They’d better not,” Adam said tersely, irritated with himself for having thrust the reticent young man into the spotlight.

“Oh, it’s all in fun,” Lucas insisted.  “Do him good.  He’s getting much too like the preacher boy here.”

“If only you would!” Jamie barbed back.

By this time all the presidential nominees had been handed up onto the stage.  They were directed to lie down and stretch out to their full length.  Then one of the seniors brought forth a huge measuring stick, some fifteen to twenty feet long, and laid it next to each man in turn.  When he measured Marcus, he called out, “Only four barleycorns long, gentlemen.  I think we’ve found your president!”  Amidst shouts of congratulations from all four classes, Marcus was lifted up and escorted to a seat on stage.  Adam, Jamie and Lucas clapped and hurrahed loudest of all.

The senior committee man returned to center stage.  “Now, we must have a secretary to assist the new president, so I call upon you to pass up the tallest men in your class.”

“Aha!” Lucas cried.  “Now’s your chance, Adam.”

“Oh, no,” Adam protested.

“All in fun.  Do you good,” Jamie laughed, for once siding with Lucas against his best friend.

Along with a few others, Adam was lifted overhead and rolled toward the stage.  Once there, he and the other nominees were again asked to lie down for measurement.  “Five and a half square miles long,” announced the man measuring Adam.

“I’ve got one six square miles, even,” declared another man, raising his yardstick.

“The rest of you runts are excused,” announced the master of ceremonies.  As the not-quite-tall-enough freshmen hustled back to their places, he brought Marcus and his newly elected secretary forward.  “Make a place for them on those settees, my friends,” he ordered.  “The class leaders must, of course, have the best seats in the house for tonight’s performance, which will begin directly.”

“Good for Marcus!” Jamie cheered.  “Too bad Adam wasn’t quite long enough for the honor.”

“It’s all for the best,” Lucas declared dryly.  “I need him as a buffer between me and all your saintliness.”

“Oh, hush,” Jamie scolded.  “Sometimes you overdo it, Luke.”

“All in fun,” the other boy assured him just as Adam arrived back at his seat to the strains of the overture from a group of college musicians called the Yale Tooters, according to the program.

The next thing on the program was the Opening Load, but the senior in charge came forward and stated that, unfortunately, the load had already been shot off, like the tongues of too many freshmen and even more sophomores.  A quick drum tattoo from the Yale Tooters punctuated the announcement, and the Censor’s Report was next called for.  With a flourish the censor unrolled his scroll, which cascaded to the floor and even over the edge of the stage.  As he began to read, laughter reigned, for the report was, in essence, a send-up of several people in the audience, mostly seniors and juniors, so the freshmen rarely understood the jokes, but joined in the general merriment nonetheless.

Some of the sophomores came in for the good-natured ribbing, and the freshmen howled their appreciation of any jest at their traditional foes’ expense.  Even a few freshmen were mentioned, among them Lucas, chastised for his perennial tardiness to chapel and charged to work off his demerits by proclaiming the merits of the class above him.  “Don’t know any!” Lucas shouted and was roundly booed by the sophomores.

Adam was surprised to hear his name read from the report, being charged with excessive speech-making ability.  “Unfitting in a freshman,” the censor declared and ordered him to come forward and present an impromptu oration on the virtues of poor grammar.

With a grin Adam trotted forward.  “I are happy to comply with the askin’s of your excellencies,” he jibed, putting on an exaggerated rendition of uneducated speech patterns he’d sometimes heard back home.  He then presented a defense of poor grammar, emphasizing its accessibility to the smallest child or even to sophomores that left the audience rolling in their seats.

“Enough!” declared the censor, clasping himself around the middle.  “I beg you, sir, no more, for the sake of my poor, aching ribs.”

Adam bowed eloquently and, amid welcoming cheers, hurried back to his seat, eager to see the next event on the program.  Musical numbers alternated with comedic plays and a Thanksgiving oration until Miss Cushman and Mr. Booth (actually students portraying the famous actors) gave a serious recitation from Shakespeare’s Macbeth that was a welcome relief from the riotous laughter.  The young man playing Lady Macbeth gave the best portrayal of the evening, which lasted between two and three hours, ending with a play called Limerick Boy that was, by any measure, the most ludicrous item on the entire program.  As they exited the hall, the students were still laughing, and not even the frost in the air could stifle their bubbling spirits.

Lucas spun around, walking backwards so he could face his friends as they departed from Alumni Hall.  “Well, that was grand!  Sets just the right mood for some traditional Thanksgiving fun,” he announced.  “Who’s going gate-lifting with me?”

“Gate-lifting?  What’s that?” Adam asked, for he had learned to be wary of Lucas’s predictably hair-raising proposals.

“Old Yale tradition,” Lucas insisted.  “On the night before Thanksgiving the freshmen go through the town and—well, liberate some gates, you might say.  Take them off their hinges and escort them to the college yard.  Great fun when the townies come after them in the morning.”

“Sounds more like stealing to me,” Jamie said with a frown.

“Oh, no such thing,” Lucas scoffed.  “They get their gates back, so it’s just pure freshman frolic.  Don’t be such a spoilsport, Saint James.”

“I’m no saint,” Jamie stated, “except in the sense that all believers are, but there’s nothing pure about taking private property and I won’t do it.”

“Nor will I,” Adam said.

“Oh, not you, too,” Lucas moaned.  “A bit of mischief never hurt anyone . . . and I’ll treat to beer afterwards.”  He waggled his eyebrows as he dangled the enticement.

For a moment Adam hesitated; then he shook his head.  “No, I’d join you for the beer, but not for what precedes it.”

“Marc?” Lucas pleaded.  “You’re my last hope.  How about it?”

Marcus glanced at Jamie, clearly torn between his desire to retain his best friend’s esteem and the yearning to be accepted by someone as personable and popular as Lucas.

“Do whatever you like,” Jamie said softly, “but be careful.”

“That goes for both of you,” Adam said, looking straight into Lucas’s eyes.  “I can’t imagine the faculty would think highly of this escapade.”

“Kept you from being picked up after that freshman-sophomore rush, didn’t I?” Lucas boasted.  “I know all the back alleys.”

“This is worse idiocy than that!” Jamie declared.

“Just watch yourself,” Adam warned.  “You, sir, cannot afford many more demerits.”

“All right, all right, worrywart,” Lucas laughed.  “Look, just to show my goodwill, even for such stiff and straight articles as you two, I’ll still treat to the beer.”  He grinned at Jamie.  “I presume you’ve taken the pledge.”

“I have,” Jamie admitted with a smile.

“Coffee in your case, then.  Rood’s on Union Street—say, around eleven?”

Jamie looked hesitantly toward Adam, who shrugged.  “I’m not sure, Luke,” he said.  “Don’t wait on us; but if we’re coming, we’ll be there by eleven.”

As Lucas and Marcus joined a group of raucous freshmen and headed off toward town, Adam and Jamie turned their steps the opposite direction.

“Do you want to meet them?” Jamie asked.

“Do you?” Adam countered.

Jamie chuckled.  “Frankly, I don’t relish getting out in the cold again, especially at that hour, but don’t let me hold you back.”

“No lessons ‘til Monday, so the hour doesn’t bother me,” Adam mused, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck, “and it isn’t often a man gets an invitation to free beer.  I wouldn’t want to insult Luke by turning it down.”

“Oh, any excuse will do!” Jamie laughed; then fearing his jest might be misunderstood, he added, “I’m not judging you, Adam.  I assumed that you drank, although I haven’t seen you do so since you’ve been here.”

“No funds for that sort of thing,” Adam admitted, “and I haven’t missed it that much.  I don’t indulge often, and I’m not sure I will tonight.  Hot coffee actually sounds better to me.”  He grinned.  “Or maybe coffee with muscle, as Pa puts it.  I’m not sure I’ll go, though.  As you say, I may not relish getting out in the cold again, once I’m indoors.”

Reaching their lodgings, they hurried in, stoked up the fire and huddled in blankets until the fire knocked the chill off the room.  For once they laid aside their textbooks and indulged in some light literature borrowed from the Brothers-in-Unity’s Library.  Jamie finally set his book aside, yawning and stretching his arms.  “I’m going to turn in,” he said.  “It’s been a full night.  The light won’t bother me, if you want to stay up.”

Adam lifted his coat from the back of his chair and thrust his arms into the sleeves.  “I guess I’ll go down to Rood’s and see how Luke and Marc made out.”

“Good,” Jamie said, reaching for his nightshirt.  “I must admit, I am rather worried about them.”

“I guess I am, too,” Adam admitted, “because, frankly, I’m not sure the drink is worth the cold walk to get it!”

His worries were not alleviated by the cold walk, for neither Lucas nor Marcus were inside Rood’s when he arrived.  While he waited for them, he had a piping hot cup of coffee with muscle, but though he waited until nearly midnight, neither of his friends ever showed up.  Flighty Lucas might have just decided to visit another tavern, but Marcus, Adam was sure, would have insisted on coming here, since they’d said they would.

Troubled, he walked back to his room, entering quietly to avoid waking Jamie.  He changed into his nightshirt and crawled under the covers; and though concern for his friends kept him wakeful, eventually exhaustion won out and he slept soundly.

* * * * *

            Adam suggested they walk to breakfast the next morning by way of the college yard.  “That’s where Luke said they’d bring the gates they lifted,” he reminded Jamie.

“Oh, I do hope he and Marc are there,” Jamie said.  “Well, actually, I’m hoping that they both decided against the whole business last night and were just too embarrassed to show up at Rood’s after backing down.”

“I doubt that,” Adam muttered.  “Luke doesn’t have the sense, and—well, I don’t mean this as criticism, but Marc does tend to be a follower.”

“I know.  It keeps me on my toes to be a good example.”  Jamie sighed.  “He’s got me on a pedestal I may topple off some day.”

“I am shocked, Saint James,” Adam chuckled, “that you would even consider toppling . . . or is it tippling?”

“Not you, too,” Jamie groaned.

Adam grinned.  “Sorry.  Couldn’t resist.”

As they reached the college yard, they heard a rumble of laughter and then a loud shout.  “Lift up your gates!”

“Nothing like mangled Scripture to start the day,” Jamie said with a roll of his eyes.

A couple of disgruntled citizens, each hefting an iron gate over his shoulder, stormed past Adam and Jamie.  “Blasted college kids,” growled a man whose skin was fiery red, all the way up to his bald pate.  “Worse than a plague of rats.  Town’d be better off without the lot of ‘em!”

“Do you see Luke or Marc?” Jamie asked anxiously, knowing that Adam, because of his greater height, could see further.

“No, no sign of them.  I hope that means they’re all right,” Adam replied.

“It could mean that the police caught them,” Jamie fretted.  “I know Luke only intended to pull a prank, but it is illegal.”

“Let’s hurry on to the Vultures’ Nest,” Adam said, using the nickname the group had developed for their dining hall.  “Hopefully, they’re there.”

Skirting around clusters of irate townspeople, either on their way to or from the college, the two friends walked briskly toward the Vultures’ Nest and hurried inside.  They didn’t even take time to shed their coats before peering into the dining room and breathing with relief as they caught sight of Lucas and Marcus, sitting side by side.

“We were certain you’d been hauled off by the peelers,” Jamie said.

“Not quite that bad,” Lucas muttered with a grimace, while Marcus just shook his head.

“I went to Rood’s,” Adam told Lucas as he sat down next to him.  “I waited an hour, but you never showed.”

Luke’s nose wrinkled.  “Sorry.  We—uh—never quite made it.”

Adam chuckled and made what he thought was an educated guess.  “Faculty spotted you and you had to make a run for it?  Too risky to show your faces on the street after that, I suppose.”

“Half right,” Marcus groaned.

“‘Fess up, Marc,” Jamie ordered.

“We made a run for it,” Marc sighed, “but didn’t run fast enough.”

Adam sobered.  “The faculty caught you?”

Hoots of laughter went around the table when Lucas nodded miserably.  “A totally appropriate ending for such juvenile behavior,” Edgar Warington snorted.  “What can one expect from freshmen, though?”

Darts flew from Luke’s eyes straight into Warington’s.  “And, of course, you never touched a townie’s gate last year!”

“We didn’t get caught,” George Miller laughed.  “That, my dear Cameron, is why you are destined to remain a freshman forever.  Why, you’ve already racked up enough demerits to keep you from matriculating, haven’t you?”

Lucas jumped up, looking ready to take Miller’s head off, but Alexander White rapped his glass with his knife to call them back to order.  “If you must scuffle, boys, take it outside,” he directed.  “However, I can’t guarantee there’ll be any breakfast remaining when you return.”

Adam pulled Lucas down into his chair, leaned toward him and whispered, “Is it true?  Do you have that many demerits already?”  He knew that Lucas had been late to chapel a few times and had been caught whispering during recitation a time or two, but he hadn’t tried to add up the total.

“Counting the three for disorderly conduct last night,” Lucas whispered, “I’m up to twelve.”

Adam whistled softly as he snared a biscuit from the plate and passed it on.  “You are going to have to be on your best behavior for the next term, at least, if you plan to matriculate.”  Only after completing six months at the college in good standing would any student be officially admitted, and sixteen demerits was enough to disqualify a man from matriculation.  With twelve, Lucas was already dangerously close to the limit, with an entire term yet to go.

Lucas shrugged.  “If I don’t then, I’ll make it the next go-round.”

Though Adam suspected the nonchalance was just an act, he treated it seriously.  “You will buckle down to work, my boy, and mind your manners, for we have no intention of letting you lag behind.”

On the way home Adam filled Jamie in on what had transpired between him and Lucas.  “Can I count on your help in keeping Luke on the straight and narrow?” he asked.

“If he’ll accept it,” Jamie said.  “You have more influence with him, I’m sure.”

“He thinks the world of you,” Adam assured his friend.  “Don’t take his teasing to heart.”

Jamie smiled.  “I don’t.”  He paused a moment and then added, “I think Marc’s learned his lesson.  Fortunately, he only had one demerit before last night’s escapade, so he’s still in good shape.”

“Yes, that much will be wiped out at the end of the second term,” Adam said, “so he can start fresh after that.”

“They wipe out twelve, remember?  Even Luke will be safe if . . .”

“That’s a big ‘if,’ in his case,” Adam declared.  “I scarcely think he’s going to turn into St. Luke overnight.”

“Or ever,” Jamie laughed, “but I like him, just as he is . . . with a few less demerits.”

“Amen to that, my pastoral friend.”  Adam stretched his arms wide and spun around like a top.  “A whole morning free!  Whatever shall we do with it?”

“Finish the novel I started last night,” Jamie declared.  “Before we know it, it’ll be time to meet Father for the Thanksgiving feast.”

The morning passed quickly, and soon they were back at the Vultures’ Nest, where Josiah Edwards was a special guest for the holiday meal.  More than half of the Vultures had already gone home to be with their families, so there was more than enough food to share, indeed, to gorge themselves on.  And it was hard to resist the bevy of culinary delights, for Mrs. Swanson had outdone herself.  Steaming bowls of split pea soup began the meal; then the steward, Alexander White, who was not returning to his home until that afternoon, carved the turkey and passed the plates until everyone had a healthy portion.  Serving bowls and platters were passed, filled with mashed potatoes, buttery squash, steamed turnips, Harvard beets and creamed onions.  Pumpkin pie and Marlborough pudding rounded out the meal and the stomachs of everyone who participated.

They went around the table, each stating something for which he was thankful.  Everyone laughed when Adam declared simply, “Just being here!”  Without making a speech, he knew no better way to describe his continuing wonder at being a student at Yale College, a long-cherished dream he had never expected to see come true.  Much had stood in his way: the death of a mother, the grief of a father and a hectic rush across the continent, but he had made it.  To him, “just being here” summed up a heart full of thankfulness and earnest expectation for what the coming months would bring.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

The program for the Thanksgiving Jubilee was taken from the Yale Literary Magazine for November, 1861.  Historic issues are available online at Google Books.