



Produced by David Widger.









                        THE SNOW-IMAGE

                             AND

                     OTHER TWICE-TOLD TALES



                 JOHN INGLEFIELD'S THANKSGIVING

                              By

                      Nathaniel Hawthorne



On the evening of Thanksgiving day, John Inglefield, the blacksmith, sat
in his elbow-chair, among those who had been keeping festival at his
board.  Being the central figure of the domestic circle, the fire threw
its strongest light on his massive and sturdy frame, reddening his rough
visage, so that it looked like the head of an iron statue, all aglow,
from his own forge, and with its features rudely fashioned on his own
anvil.  At John Inglefield's right hand was an empty chair.  The other
places round the hearth were filled by the members of the family, who all
sat quietly, while, with a semblance of fantastic merriment, their
shadows danced on the wall behind then.  One of the group was John
Inglefield's son, who had been bred at college, and was now a student of
theology at Andover.  There was also a daughter of sixteen, whom nobody
could look at without thinking of a rosebud almost blossomed.  The only
other person at the fireside was Robert Moore, formerly an apprentice of
the blacksmith, but now his journeyman, and who seemed more like an own
son of John Inglefield than did the pale and slender student.

Only these four had kept New England's festival beneath that roof.  The
vacant chair at John Inglefield's right hand was in memory of his wife,
whom death had snatched from him since the previous Thanksgiving.  With a
feeling that few would have looked for in his rough nature, the bereaved
husband had himself set the chair in its place next his own; and often
did his eye glance thitherward, as if he deemed it possible that the cold
grave might send back its tenant to the cheerful fireside, at least for
that one evening.  Thus did he cherish the grief that was dear to him.
But there was another grief which he would fain have torn from his heart;
or, since that could never be, have buried it too deep for others to
behold, or for his own remembrance.  Within the past year another member
of his household had gone from him, but not to the grave.  Yet they kept
no vacant chair for her.

While John Inglefield and his family were sitting round the hearth with
the shadows dancing behind them on the wall, the outer door was opened,
and a light footstep came along the passage.  The latch of the inner door
was lifted by some familiar hand, and a young girl came in, wearing a
cloak and hood, which she took off, and laid on the table beneath the
looking-glass.  Then, after gazing a moment at the fireside circle, she
approached, and took the seat at John Inglefield's right hand, as if it
had been reserved on purpose for her.

"Here I am, at last, father," said she.  "You ate your Thanksgiving
dinner without me, but I have come back to spend the evening with you."

Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield.  She wore the same neat and maidenly
attire which she had been accustomed to put on when the household work
was over for the day, and her hair was parted from her brow, in the
simple and modest fashion that became her best of all.  If her cheek
might otherwise have been pale, yet the glow of the fire suffused it with
a healthful bloom.  If she had spent the many months of her absence in
guilt and infamy, yet they seemed to have left no traces on her gentle
aspect.  She could not have looked less altered, had she merely stepped
away from her father's fireside for half an hour, and returned while the
blaze was quivering upwards from the same brands that were burning at her
departure.  And to John Inglefield she was the very image of his buried
wife, such as