One day when my husband was sitting at the receipt of customs, for he had obtained a modest appointment, I sat by a little desk, where my portfolio lay open.
A pen was near, which I took up, and it began to write, wildly like "Planchette" upon her board, or like a kitten clutching a ball of yarn fearfully.

But doing it again--I could not say why--my mind began upon a festival in my childhood, which my mother arranged for several poor old people at Thanksgiving.

I finished the sketch in private, and gave it the title of "A Christmas Dinner," as one more modern.

I put in occasional "fiblets" about the respectable guests, Mrs.Carver and Mrs.Chandler, and one dreadful little girl foisted upon me to entertain.

It pleased the editor of _Harper's Magazine_, who accepted it, and sent me a check which would look wondrous small now.