It was Thanksgiving morning and in the crowded kitchen of my small home I was busy preparing the traditional Thanksgiving turkey when the doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw two small children in rags huddling together. "Any old papers, lady?" asked one of them. I was busy. I wanted to say "no" until I looked down at their feet. They were wearing thin little sandals, wet with heavy snow. "Come in and I'll make you a cup of hot cocoa." They walked over and sat down at the table. Their wet sandals left marks upon the floor. I served them cocoa and bread with jam to fight against the cold outside. Then I went back to the kitchen and started again on my household budget. The silence in the front room struck me. I looked in. The girl held the empty cup in her hands, looking at it. The boy asked in a flat voice, "Lady, are you rich?" I looked at my shabby slipcovers. The girl put her cup back in its saucer carefully and said, "Your cups match your saucers." Her voice was hungry with a need that no amount of food could supply. They left after that, holding their bundles of papers against the wind. They hadn't said "Thank you." They didn't need to. They had reminded me that I had so much for which to be grateful. Plain blue china cups and saucers were only worth five pence. But they matched. I tasted the potatoes and stirred the meat soup. Potatoes and brown meat soup, a roof over our heads, my man with a good steady job--these matched, too. I moved the chairs back from the fire and cleaned the living room. The muddy prints of small sandals were still wet upon my floor. Let them be for a while, I thought, just in case I should begin to forget how rich I am. Two children came to the writer's front door because   _  .
it was Thanksgiving Day they were beggars they wanted old papers they wanted a cup of cocoa