Mr. Makely said that claret all came now from California,
no matter what French chateau they named it after,
but burgundy you could not err in. His guests
were now drinking the different wines, and to much
the same effect, I should think, as if they had mixed
them all in one cup; though I ought to say that several
of the ladies took no wine, and kept me in countenance
after the first taste I was obliged to take of each,
in order to pacify my host.
You must know that all the time there were plates
of radishes, olives, celery, and roasted almonds set
about that every one ate of without much reference
to the courses. The talking and the feasting were
at their height, but there was a little flagging of
the appetite, perhaps, when it received the stimulus
of a water-ice flavored with rum. After eating
it I immediately experienced an extraordinary revival
of my hunger (I am ashamed to confess that I was gorging
myself like the rest), but I quailed inwardly when
one of the men-servants set down before Mr. Makely
a roast turkey that looked as large as an ostrich.
It was received with cries of joy, and one of the
gentlemen said, “Ah, Mrs. Makely, I was waiting
to see how you would interpolate the turkey, but you
never fail. I knew you would get it in somewhere.
But where,” he added, in a burlesque whisper,
behind his hand, “are the—”
“Canvasback duck?” she asked, and at that
moment the servant set before the anxious inquirer
a platter of these renowned birds, which you know
something of already from the report our emissaries
have given of their cult among the Americans.
Every one laughed, and after the gentleman had made
a despairing flourish over them with a carving-knife
in emulation of Mr. Makely’s emblematic attempt
upon the turkey, both were taken away and carved at
a sideboard. They were then served in slices,
the turkey with cranberry sauce, and the ducks with
currant jelly; and I noticed that no one took so much
of the turkey that he could not suffer himself to
be helped also to the duck. I must tell you that
there a salad with the duck, and after that there was
an ice-cream, with fruit and all manner of candied
fruits, and candies, different kinds of cheese, coffee,
and liqueurs to drink after the coffee.
“Well, now,” Mrs. Makely proclaimed, in
high delight with her triumph, “I must let you
imagine the pumpkin-pie. I meant to have it, because
it isn’t really Thanksgiving without it.
But I couldn’t, for the life of me, see where
it would come in.”
XV
The sally of the hostess made them all laugh, and
they began to talk about the genuine American character
of the holiday, and what a fine thing it was to have
something truly national. They praised Mrs. Makely
for thinking of so many American dishes, and the facetious
gentleman said that she rendered no greater tribute
than was due to the overruling Providence which had
so abundantly bestowed them upon the Americans as a
people. “You must have been glad, Mrs. Strange,”
he said to the lady at my side, “to get back
to our American oysters. There seems nothing else
so potent to bring us home from Europe.”
Copyrights
Through the Eye of the Needle from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
