Ragamuffin Day (m+f+/F)
Posted: Thu Nov 27, 2025 4:36 pm
Greenwich Village, Thanksgiving, 1923
Evelyn Harper had been in New York for barely three weeks. She had arrived on November 1st for her new job as a typist on Madison Avenue, which meant her first Thanksgiving away from her parents and younger brothers in rural Pennsylvania. Her one-room apartment still smelled faintly of paint and coal dust. Every sound traveled through the paper-thin walls: boots clattering on the stairs, a baby insistently crying on the second floor, and radios broadcasting sports games.
The only person with whom she had made any connection so far was Thomas Reilly, the quiet accountant across the hall. He was twenty-eight, with neat brown hair, wore neat sweaters with rolled-up sleeves, and was carefully polite. He helped her carry her trunk up on move-in day. He always greeted her with a soft “Mornin’, Miss Harper,” and once joked that the two of them were “the only people on this floor who never made a racket.”
She thought about him more than she’d ever admit.
Thanksgiving morning crept in gray and chill. Evelyn tied a white cotton headkerchief around her bobbed brown hair to keep it off her face. She wore her navy blue dress, complete with a white collar and a fringe hem, the nicest piece of clothing she owned. Paired with it were stockings rolled below the knee, shoes currently warming near the radiator, and a pink cardigan thrown over a chair.
She planned a simple holiday meal for one: a pot of simmering beans, a loaf of rye bread, and three McIntosh apples for a small dessert. She swept the floor as the beans cooked, humming lightly as she worked. She missed her family, but this was a serviceable enough distraction from that.
Then came the shouting and the pounding of feet down the stairwells. Children repeated the same chant rhythmically:
“Anything for Thanksgiving?”
“Anything for Thanksgiving?”
‘Ragamuffin Day.’ She had heard the term mentioned by one or two parents in the building in passing over the last week, but didn’t fully understand it. She had assumed it was some celebration that belonged to other neighborhoods.
But she was wrong. A knock rattled her door. It was soft at first, but grew more insistent with each consecutive raps.
Evelyn opened the door a few inches. Six children stood jammed together in a cluster of ash-smudged faces and ragged costumes: oversized coats, mismatched shoes, floppy hats, and patch-fixed pants. One boy wore a crooked Uncle Sam mask. A girl had tied a flour sack as a cape. Another boy wore his father’s black suspenders over torn trousers.
The leader, a wiry girl with sharp green eyes and a gap tooth, stepped forward. “Anything for Thanksgiving, Miss?” she chirped.
Evelyn frowned. “I’m terribly sorry. I only just moved here. I didn’t know you’d be coming around. I don’t have anything to give.”
“You got no treats?” a boy asked.
“Not even a penny?” another insisted.
“I…no,” she managed, again with a frown. “I wish I did, really.”
The children looked at each other. Annoyance replaced disappointment. “She’s stingy,” the leader muttered.
Before Evelyn could shut the door, the smallest boy wedged his hand inside. The door flew open. They barreled past her in a blur of shouts and heavy footsteps.
“Wait!” Evelyn cried. “Please! Stop!”
They didn’t. Instead, two grabbed her by the elbows and made her watch the ensuing chaos. Another overturned her pot of beans. A fourth tore the bread loaf in half, then squashed it with their bare hands. Flour burst into the air as someone ripped the bag and slammed it onto her table. Apples rolled across the floor.
Evelyn broke the two kids’ grips and stumbled back, helpless in her own kitchen.
“Get her!” the leader shouted.
Four pairs of hands seized her. They grabbed her dress sleeves and stretched them out, shoving a broom handle from the hallway through them so her arms stuck out rigidly. Rags ripped from their costumes became bonds around her wrists, tying her to the broom handle so tightly her arms burned.
“Please!” she gasped. “D-don’t-”
“Hold still,” a girl said, almost cheerfully.
One boy forced one of the dessert apples between her teeth, jamming it in until her jaw ached. She choked and tried to spit it out, but the leader tied a red triangle-folded handkerchief tightly over her mouth, pinning the apple in place. “Mmph!” was all she could manage as she tried to move her arms, only for the rigid broomstick to offer no yield.
A pink and white floral pillowcase from her own bed was yanked over her head. Someone pulled twine around her chin and neck to cinch it so she couldn’t shake it off. Everything went dark, except for the faint warmth of light bleeding through the thin cotton.
Two boys dropped her onto her stomach. A girl tied her ankles with her own stockings after they were yanked off her feet. Another tied her knees with a blue scarf pulled from her closet. A boy knelt on her back for a moment as they “finished the job,” tugging each knot so hard she winced and whined.
“Now she’s proper,” the leader smugly declared.
Their laughter poured out the door as they fled, leaving it wide open.
Evelyn lay motionless on the floor, bound so tightly she felt like a trussed turkey. She tried to speak, but the apple and handkerchief gag muffled everything. She tried to roll onto her side, but the broom handle prevented her from doing so.
The apartment smelled of spilled flour and beans. Her family’s faces and the holiday dinners they enjoyed together floated in her mind. She blinked homesick tears into the dark pillowcase.
Minutes passed. Maybe an hour? Evelyn wasn’t sure. Every awkward attempt to move ended in a thud and a gasp.
Evelyn finally managed to squirm herself toward the doorframe with awkward kicks and body wiggles. Her tied legs found and then thumped against it once, then again, and then a third time.
Footsteps approached, and then Thomas’s startled voice. “Miss Harper? Is that you?”
She tried to call out, but only muffled, indignant sounds escaped.
He stepped into her apartment. There was silence for two seconds as he took everything in. “Oh my god…”
His boots moved fast toward her. He knelt beside her and gently loosened the twine around the pillowcase. He eased it off her head, careful not to accidentally catch her hair in the material. When her eyes finally adjusted, he was staring at her with a mixture of horror and sympathy. “What did they do to you?” he whispered.
She whimpered, shaking her head.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, genuinely not having considered the fact that she was still gagged. “Let’s get that out.”
He untied the handkerchief and eased the apple from her mouth. She drew a breath so sharp it shuddered through her whole body.
“Those Ragamuffin Day kids,” he shook his head. “They used to terrorize my mother for her pies back in the day. She’d bake three extra pies, and they’d still storm the house. It got so bad they moved across the city a few years back.” He gestured at the mess. “I guess they’ve gotten meaner.”
He freed her ankles next. Then her knees. Then he turned her slightly so he could reach the knots binding her to the broom handle. His fingers worked gently, untangling each knot without hurting her raw wrists.
“I saw your door open after I was out for a walk to avoid those kids,” he explained. “Everyone else on the floor’s out visiting cousins or cooking with the windows open. If your door hadn’t been left like that…I don’t want to think about it.”
When her arms finally slipped free, she let out a small, broken exhale. He helped her sit up, one hand steady at her back. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He nodded. “You shouldn’t spend Thanksgiving alone after something like this.”
“That was my original plan,” she said softly, gesturing at the spilled food, “but they ruined everything.”
Thomas hesitated as he thought of an offer. “My family’s having supper in two hours. Turkey, mashed potatoes, the works. My mother always cooks too much. You’d be more than welcome, truly.”
Evelyn blinked at him, surprised by how much the offer warmed her. “I…” She swallowed. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he smiled faintly. “I’d get an earful if my mother learned I hadn’t.”
She laughed and let him help her to her feet. He brushed flour from her shoulder, embarrassed by the gesture but not stopping.
“I’ll, uh, get cleaned up,” she murmured.
“I’ll be right across the hall,” he said. “Knock when you’re ready.”
oOo
An hour later, Evelyn stepped out in a clean dress, hair neat again, cheeks still a little pink from the ordeal. Thomas waited with his coat on and a shy smile on his face. They took each other’s hands and walked out together into the fall afternoon, leaving the wrecked apartment behind for now.
Evelyn Harper had been in New York for barely three weeks. She had arrived on November 1st for her new job as a typist on Madison Avenue, which meant her first Thanksgiving away from her parents and younger brothers in rural Pennsylvania. Her one-room apartment still smelled faintly of paint and coal dust. Every sound traveled through the paper-thin walls: boots clattering on the stairs, a baby insistently crying on the second floor, and radios broadcasting sports games.
The only person with whom she had made any connection so far was Thomas Reilly, the quiet accountant across the hall. He was twenty-eight, with neat brown hair, wore neat sweaters with rolled-up sleeves, and was carefully polite. He helped her carry her trunk up on move-in day. He always greeted her with a soft “Mornin’, Miss Harper,” and once joked that the two of them were “the only people on this floor who never made a racket.”
She thought about him more than she’d ever admit.
Thanksgiving morning crept in gray and chill. Evelyn tied a white cotton headkerchief around her bobbed brown hair to keep it off her face. She wore her navy blue dress, complete with a white collar and a fringe hem, the nicest piece of clothing she owned. Paired with it were stockings rolled below the knee, shoes currently warming near the radiator, and a pink cardigan thrown over a chair.
She planned a simple holiday meal for one: a pot of simmering beans, a loaf of rye bread, and three McIntosh apples for a small dessert. She swept the floor as the beans cooked, humming lightly as she worked. She missed her family, but this was a serviceable enough distraction from that.
Then came the shouting and the pounding of feet down the stairwells. Children repeated the same chant rhythmically:
“Anything for Thanksgiving?”
“Anything for Thanksgiving?”
‘Ragamuffin Day.’ She had heard the term mentioned by one or two parents in the building in passing over the last week, but didn’t fully understand it. She had assumed it was some celebration that belonged to other neighborhoods.
But she was wrong. A knock rattled her door. It was soft at first, but grew more insistent with each consecutive raps.
Evelyn opened the door a few inches. Six children stood jammed together in a cluster of ash-smudged faces and ragged costumes: oversized coats, mismatched shoes, floppy hats, and patch-fixed pants. One boy wore a crooked Uncle Sam mask. A girl had tied a flour sack as a cape. Another boy wore his father’s black suspenders over torn trousers.
The leader, a wiry girl with sharp green eyes and a gap tooth, stepped forward. “Anything for Thanksgiving, Miss?” she chirped.
Evelyn frowned. “I’m terribly sorry. I only just moved here. I didn’t know you’d be coming around. I don’t have anything to give.”
“You got no treats?” a boy asked.
“Not even a penny?” another insisted.
“I…no,” she managed, again with a frown. “I wish I did, really.”
The children looked at each other. Annoyance replaced disappointment. “She’s stingy,” the leader muttered.
Before Evelyn could shut the door, the smallest boy wedged his hand inside. The door flew open. They barreled past her in a blur of shouts and heavy footsteps.
“Wait!” Evelyn cried. “Please! Stop!”
They didn’t. Instead, two grabbed her by the elbows and made her watch the ensuing chaos. Another overturned her pot of beans. A fourth tore the bread loaf in half, then squashed it with their bare hands. Flour burst into the air as someone ripped the bag and slammed it onto her table. Apples rolled across the floor.
Evelyn broke the two kids’ grips and stumbled back, helpless in her own kitchen.
“Get her!” the leader shouted.
Four pairs of hands seized her. They grabbed her dress sleeves and stretched them out, shoving a broom handle from the hallway through them so her arms stuck out rigidly. Rags ripped from their costumes became bonds around her wrists, tying her to the broom handle so tightly her arms burned.
“Please!” she gasped. “D-don’t-”
“Hold still,” a girl said, almost cheerfully.
One boy forced one of the dessert apples between her teeth, jamming it in until her jaw ached. She choked and tried to spit it out, but the leader tied a red triangle-folded handkerchief tightly over her mouth, pinning the apple in place. “Mmph!” was all she could manage as she tried to move her arms, only for the rigid broomstick to offer no yield.
A pink and white floral pillowcase from her own bed was yanked over her head. Someone pulled twine around her chin and neck to cinch it so she couldn’t shake it off. Everything went dark, except for the faint warmth of light bleeding through the thin cotton.
Two boys dropped her onto her stomach. A girl tied her ankles with her own stockings after they were yanked off her feet. Another tied her knees with a blue scarf pulled from her closet. A boy knelt on her back for a moment as they “finished the job,” tugging each knot so hard she winced and whined.
“Now she’s proper,” the leader smugly declared.
Their laughter poured out the door as they fled, leaving it wide open.
Evelyn lay motionless on the floor, bound so tightly she felt like a trussed turkey. She tried to speak, but the apple and handkerchief gag muffled everything. She tried to roll onto her side, but the broom handle prevented her from doing so.
The apartment smelled of spilled flour and beans. Her family’s faces and the holiday dinners they enjoyed together floated in her mind. She blinked homesick tears into the dark pillowcase.
Minutes passed. Maybe an hour? Evelyn wasn’t sure. Every awkward attempt to move ended in a thud and a gasp.
Evelyn finally managed to squirm herself toward the doorframe with awkward kicks and body wiggles. Her tied legs found and then thumped against it once, then again, and then a third time.
Footsteps approached, and then Thomas’s startled voice. “Miss Harper? Is that you?”
She tried to call out, but only muffled, indignant sounds escaped.
He stepped into her apartment. There was silence for two seconds as he took everything in. “Oh my god…”
His boots moved fast toward her. He knelt beside her and gently loosened the twine around the pillowcase. He eased it off her head, careful not to accidentally catch her hair in the material. When her eyes finally adjusted, he was staring at her with a mixture of horror and sympathy. “What did they do to you?” he whispered.
She whimpered, shaking her head.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, genuinely not having considered the fact that she was still gagged. “Let’s get that out.”
He untied the handkerchief and eased the apple from her mouth. She drew a breath so sharp it shuddered through her whole body.
“Those Ragamuffin Day kids,” he shook his head. “They used to terrorize my mother for her pies back in the day. She’d bake three extra pies, and they’d still storm the house. It got so bad they moved across the city a few years back.” He gestured at the mess. “I guess they’ve gotten meaner.”
He freed her ankles next. Then her knees. Then he turned her slightly so he could reach the knots binding her to the broom handle. His fingers worked gently, untangling each knot without hurting her raw wrists.
“I saw your door open after I was out for a walk to avoid those kids,” he explained. “Everyone else on the floor’s out visiting cousins or cooking with the windows open. If your door hadn’t been left like that…I don’t want to think about it.”
When her arms finally slipped free, she let out a small, broken exhale. He helped her sit up, one hand steady at her back. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He nodded. “You shouldn’t spend Thanksgiving alone after something like this.”
“That was my original plan,” she said softly, gesturing at the spilled food, “but they ruined everything.”
Thomas hesitated as he thought of an offer. “My family’s having supper in two hours. Turkey, mashed potatoes, the works. My mother always cooks too much. You’d be more than welcome, truly.”
Evelyn blinked at him, surprised by how much the offer warmed her. “I…” She swallowed. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he smiled faintly. “I’d get an earful if my mother learned I hadn’t.”
She laughed and let him help her to her feet. He brushed flour from her shoulder, embarrassed by the gesture but not stopping.
“I’ll, uh, get cleaned up,” she murmured.
“I’ll be right across the hall,” he said. “Knock when you’re ready.”
oOo
An hour later, Evelyn stepped out in a clean dress, hair neat again, cheeks still a little pink from the ordeal. Thomas waited with his coat on and a shy smile on his face. They took each other’s hands and walked out together into the fall afternoon, leaving the wrecked apartment behind for now.