Thanksgiving PoemsThanksgiving Poems - Victorian … · 2013-11-27 · Thanksgiving...

Thanksgiving PoemsThanksgiving PoemsThanksgiving PoemsThanksgiving Poems ________________________________________________________________________


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Copyright 2013 Mary Schlueter


About These PoemsAbout These PoemsAbout These PoemsAbout These Poems Thanksgiving was one of the most loved, if not the loved, holidays during the Victorian era. It was a day of expressing love and gratitude to God for all the blessings of the year and was a time for family to get together, often after long absences. Thanksgiving has not been without controversy. Both religious and political differences played a role in the development of our now present Thanksgiving Day. Thanksgiving, in the beginning was not celebrated on any specific day or even month. It was up to each settlement, town, or state to decide. It was not until President Abraham Lincoln proclaimed a national day of Thanksgiving and Praise that a Thursday and November became associated to the celebration of Thanksgiving. The first Thanksgiving in the Americas was held in 1621 by the Pilgrims after their first harvest in the New World. It was a feast that lasted three days and was celebrated with the American Indians, who had helped them survive by teaching them how to plant corn as well as where to fish and hunt beaver. The First National Proclamation of Thanksgiving was given by the Continental Congress in 1777 recommending December 18 as a day for Solemn Thanksgiving and Praise. George Washington, leader in the American Revolutionary War, also proclaimed a day of Thanksgiving in December, 1777, in celebration of the victory at Saratoga against the British. The first of these celebrations was observed on November 28, 1782. The first Thanksgiving Day designated by the national government of the United State was mandated on October 3, 1789.assigning Thursday the 26th day of November next as the day of celebration. George Washington had proclaimed Thanksgiving in 1795, President John Adams in 1798 and 1799; however, Thomas Jefferson never made any Thanksgiving proclamations. From then to the Civil War, Thanksgiving proclamations were made by a various entities, often with dissent or dissatisfaction of others.


During the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln proclaimed Thanksgiving to be celebrated on the final Thursday in November of 1863. Professional football became popular and in the 1890's quickly became associated with Thanksgiving. Other festivities included people dressing up in costumes and fancy masks and roamed the streets. Over time, this form of merrymaking became parades of children dressed as "ragamuffins.” This tradition lasted until the early 1950's and then slowly became non-existent. In 1939, President Franklin D. Roosevelt changed the day to the fourth Thursday of November. In this year, there were five Thursdays, and traditionally, Thanksgiving would have been celebrated on the last Thursday. It is surmised that he did this to extend the Christmas shopping period for store owners (at that time, no one ever advertised Christmas before Thanksgiving). Almost half of the states disregarded his proclamation and celebrated on the last Thursday of the month anyway. In 1941, Congress passed a resolution fixing the fourth Thursday of November the day of Thanksgiving. It was signed by President Roosevelt making the date of Thanksgiving a federal law. Not all states agreed, and until 1956, some states continued to celebrate it on the last Thursday of November. All states now celebrate Thanksgiving on the same day.

————— The following poems were all published between 1885 and 1900 in popular magazines of the time and are windows into the views of the Victorians about their beloved Thanksgiving Day.


THANKSGIVING DAY. Hurrah! the house begins to smell Of everything thats nice, — Of puddings boiled and puddings baked, Of fruit and powdered spice. A merry clatter is kept up With chopping-knife and tray; And everybody, great and small, Helps for Thanksgiving Day. By mother's magic, pumpkins change To sweet and luscious pies: While cranberry tarts at her command, From nowhere seem to rise. From out the oven comes a whiff, So warm and fragrant too, It may be our mince turnovers — Oh dear, I wish I knew!

— Youth’s Companion


HOME-MADE PUMPKIN PIES.

I've tried the best In East and West, I've lunched 'neath tropic sun, I've tested all The fruits that fall, And like them every one; But North or South No human mouth, I will the world apprise, E'er tasted food One-half so good As our own pumpkin pies, Upon the vine, In rain and shine, Through fragrant day and night, The yellow globe In emerald robe Drinks up the summer light, Oh, golden sweet, The suns repeat To mold thy luscious size, That we may come And roll thee home, And make our pumpkin pies, Our lovely girls, With shining curls Put neatly in a cap, Cut slice on slice And peel it nice, And stew it to a pap Then milk is had And eggs they add And sweeten as is wise While others haste To spice to taste, These home-made pumpkin pies.

Oh pure and fair, This food so rare, Made up of all that's best! No creature's pain Goes to its gain But only nature's zest; For summer days And autumn's haze And smiles from beauty's eyes Are in the dish, Mixed to our wish, That we call pumpkin pies. No wonder, then, That loyal men, From Florida to Maine, Their quarter eat, The same repeat, And pass their plate again; That exiles fret With vain regret, And vex the air with sighs, When forced to stay In climes away From their own pumpkin pies. So to our boast I give a toast, Embroidered all in rhyme: May pumpkins round With us abound Through future autumn time! And may our girls, With shining curls And tender beaming eyes, All learn by heart The happy art Of making pumpkin pies.

— Unidentified.


THANKSGIVING. Around the board we meet again,

O, loved ones true! With words of greeting, not in vain,

We welcome you! The laugh of children in the hall

Delights our ears; While snowflakes falling on the wall

Call forth their cheers. Old Towser, sleeping on the mat,

The scene enjoys, Though all unused to dancing girls

And noisy boys. O, blessed day of thankfulness

To Him above! Who showers upon unworthy heads

His gifts of love. Let not our happy ears be deaf

To other calls, But let the poor ones feast this day

Within our walls.

— Jone J. Jones.


THANKSGIVING. The grain is garnered in,

The apples ripe are stored, The yellow pumpkins gleam among

The farmer's treasured hoard. The earth is brown and bare,

That once was green and gay; Where regal Autumn charmed the eye,

Dead leaves bestrew the way. Though clouds be dark o'erhead,

With wind and unshed rain, The good which once has crowned the earth

Will make it bloom again. Then let us thank our God

For spring-time soft and fair, For April rain and May-day sun

And June's delicious air For July showers and heat,

For dreamy August haze, For cool September's purple fields,

For glad October days, For dull November skies,

And barns with harvest filled, We thank Thee, Lord, who richly blessed

The land Thy servants tilled. The year to come is Thine,

Thou knowest what will be; Send rain and dew, and wind and sun,

As seemeth best to Thee.

— Abbie F.Judd.


NIGH UNTO THANKSGIVING.

The chill November days have come With weather strips and grates; The careful housewife bustles 'round, The boys look up their skates; And on the table in our homes, The buckwheat's sun-burnt cheek Reflects the joy the youthful hearts May know but cannot speak. The Ague and the "Rheumatiz" Are playing side by side, And in the open fire-place Crackles the Anthracite. The dead dry leaves go rushing by, The doctor smiles again, And thinks of colds and cramps and coughs Which come in winter's train. The farmer looks his apples o'er And puts the prices higher; The flies just give their legs a shake' And nestle near the fire, The rabbit sniffs the "coming man" And leaves his wonted haunts, The bicyclist puts by his steed And dons his longer pants.

Upon the fences far and near We read with inward chill, "For all Malarial Disease Use Sniffen's Duplex Pill;" The plumber dreams of sudden frost, And twirls his massive chain; The gouty man proclaims a storm, His feet proclaim a rain. The schoolboy, with the calendar, Sits counting up the days, To see what time Thanksgiving comes, And then goes out and plays; The prudent housewife counts again The cost of sealskin sacque; Her husband takes his fall coat down, And has her pad the back. With cider juice from ruddy fruit The press is running o'er, The gentle grocer doctors up The lot he has in store. The coal man adds an extra “half," "As the supply is short," And far and near, with wondrous ills, This wondrous month is fraught. But never mind, we've still enough And good things now abound, So let's be thankful every day’ Till Thanksgiving comes round.

— E. H. Shannon


THANKSGIVING- ON THE FARM.

When gray November's skies are o'er us We raise our glad Thanksgiving chorus, Cheerful and glad and gay. For Winter's biting blasts are near, And frosty rime, short days and drear, E'en Indian summer's passed away. Yet stored in garret, cellar, barn, In stacks and corn-cribs on the farm, Are gifts from Summer's hand; Hid in the woodpile's mammoth heap, What cheer and sparkle lay asleep To glow at our command! Within the house is homely thrift, What matter if the snow- clouds drift, Comfort and love abound! No idle hands around the hearth, No waste, no want, but joy and mirth Within these walls are found!

What though the house is small and old. 'Twill shield us well from storm and cold; Aye! and the stranger too I 'Twill hold as much of happy love As if its roof reached heaven above, Spread wide as ocean blue. Thank God for all; and may the year Now standing our worn threshold near Bring us as hearty joys Of loving, earnest, vigorous toil. Work and hard study will not spoil Our eager girls and boys. For all the rest, we bow the head, And follow as we may be led, With honest hearts and true. Content to know where duty leads ; With grateful hearts and faithful deeds Our life path to pursue.

— Mary Hume Dougine.


COMING HOME TO THANKSGIVING. OME rest a bit, dear wife, for all Is now in neat array, And waiting trim, and all the bairns Are coming home to-day. There's goodly store of cakes and pies. And jell in quivering molds, And piles on piles of fruit and nuts The spacious granary holds. There’s savory smell of roasting fowls, And all is of the best; So let the girls keep watch, dear wife, And sit you down and rest. The train will soon be coming in With John, and James and Ruth. Each with a little family — A goodly sight in truth. It’s just a year ago to-day, Since all have gathered here, And there's a grandchild coming too, We didn’t have last year. So rest a while, dear wife, and let Us count our blessings o'er, And thankful be that all the bairns Are coming home once more.

—Lillian Grey.


THE WONDERFUL WISH-BONE. FTER service, up the aisle Trips small Bettie fast and faster. She has something strange to tell To the dear and honored pastor, — “Do you know what is at home? I’ve a little baby sister! Yes, she is my very own, I have patted her and kissed her. She's so cunning; it's so nice Papa has another daughter, It was only just last night On their wings the big storks brought her" Then, continuing her story, "If you want a baby sister, You must break a chicken's wish-bone — What you wish you mustn't whisper. That's the very way that I did, And you see that I have got her; I’m so glad the door was open When the storks to our house brought her"

— Kavin Case.


A THANKSGIVING DISH.

ILED high with earnest words of praise, With noble deeds and charities, And crowded full of gentle love For home and friends, our God above, And all His creatures here below The homeless ones, where'er they go.

A dish well filled with mirth and joy, With sweetest songs, — the symphony Of fervent hearts and open hands, Of hearts enthralled with golden bands. And may this happy festal dish Be on thy board. This is my wish.

— Gay Davidson.

THE OLD TURKEY-HEN'S LAMENT. MOURN as one that struts alone, Some barnyard all deserted; My feathered spouse is in the house, His bones and giblets sorted.

His fattening side did ill betide His neck so proudly arching, The hatchet bright did on it light, And sent his soul a-marching.

His young ones dear bemoaned him here With guileless hearts and tender; They did not know how soon they'd go To roast upon the fender.

Oh! why was I left here to sigh Alone in this cold coop, I would not mind if I should find Myself stewed into soup.

Ah woe is me, ah, woe is he, And children hotly frying; Mine is the loss and theirs the sauce, I scarce can keep from crying.

— G. W. Haight.


THANKSGIVING DAY.

Back to the home of childhood, Though scattered far and wide, Back to the dear old kitchen, Yes, back to your mother's side. Come, kiss her wrinkled forehead, Her hair, as white as snow, And sit down on her foot-stool, As in the long ago, While father bends above you, Weak with the weight of years, His trembling voice with gladness, His dim eyes filled with tears. To both the greatest pleasure The year brings on its way Is this, the glad home-coming Upon Thanksgiving Day. Once more the rooms re-echo From kitchen, stairs and hall, The sound of old-time voices, And merry dinner call, While many sweet grandchildren, With laughter light and gay, Come pressing round the table, This glad Thanksgiving Day,

So come, ye sons and daughters, From restless city strife; Come, ere you lose your relish For the quiet joys of life; Come back, ye roving children, From prairies far and wide, And cluster round the hearth-stone Once more at even-tide. Take up the song of childhood, And sing it o'er again; Forget that ye are matrons, Or business-loving men. And if your eyes grow misty, Rejoice that it is so; A heart sincerely tender Is the purest one to know. Remember, with your loved ones Life's lamp doth feebly burn; Your parents may not linger To greet a late return. Forget them not, though patient, Oh, come now while you may; — Praise God — rejoice together — On this Thanksgiving Day.

— Mrs, Mary Felton.


THANKSGIVING FLOWERS. Just underneath old home windows Is a wonderful topaz light, And a fire of rubies flaming forth From a mystical ring of white; Lo, the afterglow of the summer — Chrysanthemums, warm and bright.

Just under the old home windows Is a frolicsome childish band, And they pluck the topaz blooms — to them The most wonderful flowers in the land; But the maidens pace the old garden, With rose-red buds in their hand.

Just under the old home windows Is a sorrowful, grieving one, And she culls a sombre fringe of flowers, Like her darkened life. “But the sun Shines for purple blossom and golden,” She says, with new hope begun. Then out from the old home threshold Comes the mother — dear household saint — And she plucked a white chrysanthemum, Like some purified soul, from which plaint, 0Passion, pain and darkness have vanished, And left neither stain nor taint.

So under the old home windows Meet the loving, grieving and worn, And they find a message rare and sweet In the radiant flower-petals borne; And a prelude to joy is sounded, This gracious Thanksgiving morn!

— Helen Chase.


A SONG FOR THANKSGIVING. A song for Thanksgiving! We've garnered the wheat, We've gathered the vintage all purple and sweet; To-day we may feast, for the reaping is done, The crowns of fulfillment our labors have won! And over the land, in the blessing of God, The banners of peace wave in beauty abroad; In freedom of conscience the home is secure; What the fathers bequeathed to the children is sure. Thank God for the schools where the little ones throng, For their sweet silver voices in story and song; Thank God for the promise of hope in their eyes, To serve him when they to our places shall rise! Thank God for the gospel that carries afar The tidings once gleaming in Bethlehem's star! Thank God that the desert grows bright with the rose As o'er its waste spaces life's glad river flows! A song for Thanksgiving! To Him be the praise Who has pledged to his people full strength for their days. A song for Thanksgiving! We honor the name Of the Triune Jehovah, through ages the same!

— American Messenger.


WELCOMING HOME THE CHILDREN.

It's a long, long time since we welcomed them home, Our children who've gone away; But we're waiting and ready, so eager and glad, To welcome them home to-day. How each one will smile and talk, and perhaps A tear-drop or two will fall. But not in sorrow, dear wife, oh, no! For to-day we will see them all. All, did I say? There'll be one vacant chair One sleeps where the daisies are white; But, mother, God knows how our hearts throbbed and ached When he beckoned our treasure that night. So we'll banish sad thoughts, for the children, you know, Must be merry and glad to-day; We'll clasp their dear hands as in "auld lang syne,” And smile in the old fond way. There's Jennie, our patient and sweet-tempered girl. "So like mother," we used to say; And Willie, our rollicking, roguish one, And golden-haired, dainty May; There's Tom, our oldest and tallest boy, And Will, with his mischief and fun, And Harry, so dignified, grave and wise, He is our “preacher" son; Ah, wife, it seems but a dream, or day, Since we rocked our babies here, And laughed at their joy; but when they wept We kissed away each tear.

They are all coming home, dear wife, to-day, Back to the old tree-nest. To them 'tis the place of all the world The dearest, the sweetest and best. We've decked the house with flowers they like And scattered them everywhere — Old-fashioned sweet-peas, and pansies too, Woodbine and maiden-hair; We've dressed ourselves in the colors they like, And piled the table high With good things mother knows how to make, From doughnuts to pumpkin pie. Why the cat, he knows, our old yellow Tom, And the dog, the children's old Tray — Both watching so wistfully down by the gate — They know who is coming to-day. How they'll wander around all over the farm; And down in the woods by the spring I've fixed something just as they used to have, An old-fashioned, log-chain swing. Perhaps you are laughing; the children will too; But each one will swing, I know. They'll always be children to wife and I, No matter how old they grow. But, mother, see Tray, how he's wagging his tail, Some one is coming this way. Is it them? Oh, Father, we thank Thee for this, Our children have come to day.

— Western Rural.


A THANKSGIVING RHYME. The sleekest, fattest turkey strutted in and out among His fellows of the barnyard as he spoke with scornful tongue: “Am I not the farmer's favorite, the one he feeds the best?" And his air betrayed the proud contempt he felt for all the rest. Said the ancient lean and hungry-looking Dr. Turkey-Cock, The oracle, adviser, and physician of the flock: "Overeating isn't healthful; it affects a fellow's head." But not a silly turkey caught the drift of what he said. “I have often noticed this, my friends," he said with knowing leer, "That fasting is a profit at the present time of year; For November is a month in which, if one is over-fed, One may suffer from excitements till at last he'll lose his head." Still the fat and haughty turkey strutted up and down the place, And the others thought the doctor didn't understand the case. But they will see, before the sun has set upon Thanksgiving, That the doctor knows a thing or two about the art of living.

— Washington Post.


A THANKSGIVING DINNER.

Young Turkey Gobbler, with highly arched head, Looked at his mates gathered round. "To-morrow's Thanksgiving," he earnestly said, "And not one of us must be found; For I heard the farmer tell his wife That he would only kill three — And all the while he sharpened his knife He kept his eye on me. ‘Forewarned is forearmed’ — a saying old; Come, let's hide!" he said; But the next morning, stiff and cold, He hung by his legs in the shed. Miss Yellow Pumpkin, with tears in her eyes, Grew on a sunny slope. "To-morrow's Thanksgiving — they always have pies; But they won't find me, I hope! To be made into pies what a dreadful fat” And she rolled from side to side. "On, there comes the farmer's daughter, Kate, And I must surely hide!" Then Miss Yellow Pumpkin rolled down-hill, Bruising her dainty self, And she didn't come to her senses until There were twelve golden pies on the shelf. “I wonder what they are trying to do?"

Said the Apples in the bin." If we're to be pared and cut in two, I think it's a shame and a sin! And only think— to be wrapped in dough, And put over a kettle to steam! But now comes the very worst of it, though To be eaten— with sugar and cream! "The Potatoes and Onions, the Turnips and Squash Got into a regular flutter, When the farmer's wile gave each a taste Of the very same kind of butter. They counted their portion according to size, And were angry as they could be. Said Early Rose, as she opened her eyes, "She gave the most to me — he! he!" “How can I stand it?" Sir Table said; And he groaned, as if in pain. "Oh, dear, I would be really glad If Thanksgiving wouldn't come again. Oh me! oh me! “and he groaned the more As the children took their places. But smilingly his load he bore When he saw their happy faces.

— Lesbia Bryan .


THANKSGIVING. For the fair May morns, for the rose of June; For the summer's grace, for the wild bird's tune; For the autumn leaf, for the harvest's boom; For sweet hopes born and for sorrows dead; For true songs sung and for fond words said; For the ready cup, for the daily bread; For the strength that put bold wrong to rout; For the faith that rose with a victor's shout, Glad, white-winged, from the grave of doubt; For the castles grand in our far-off Spain; For the loss that the long years turned to gain; For brave, sweet songs on the lips of pain; For the race that the faithful feet have run; For the bitter strife, for the battle won; For brave deeds planned and for brave deeds done; For the blessed touch of the mother hand; For the innocent laugh of childhood, and For u the light that was never on sea or land; "For the joy that comes — quick, glad, intense — With the bounding blood and the quickened sense; For Nature's marvelous opulence; For the truth that liveth for evermore; For mercy's graciously open door; For the light that shines from the other shore, Give thanks, give thanks. Lo, the Spirit saith, Let everything that hath voice or breath Give thanks for life, for — life and death.

— Carlotta Perry.


THANKSGIVING. To the Giver of all blessings Let our voices rise in praise For the joys and countless mercies He hath sent to crown our days; For the homes of peace and plenty, And a land so fair and wide, For the labor of the noonday, And the rest of eventide. For the splendor of the forest, For the beauty of the hills, For the freshness of the meadows, And a thousand sparkling rills, For the blossoms of the springtime And the memories they bring, For the ripened fruits of autumn, Do we thank Thee, O our King. For the wealth of golden harvests, For the sunlight and the rain, For the grandeur of the ocean, For the mountain and the plain, For ever-changing seasons And the comforts which they bring, For Thy love so grand, eternal, We would thank Thee, O our King.

— Wm. G. Park.


THANKSGIVING SONG. Sing out, O heart of mine! sing out A welcome to this festal day! Tune thy glad pulses till they throb In time with Nature's grateful lay; Its rhythm floats along the winds, It echoes in the surging sea, While in the dim and voiceless wood It breathes in tender, minor key. The budding joys that lit the wood When hill and dell were all atune; The sweet suggestions of the May, The luscious promises of June Are crowned with rich fulfillment now In stores of corn and sheaves of wheat, And fruitage of the vine and tree, That rained their treasures at our feet. Dear festival of happy homes And reunited household bands, Thine is the joy of throbbing hearts, Of clinging lips and clasping hands. Yes, heart of mine! sing out, sing out Thanksgiving's paean loud and clear, And welcome in, with prayer and praise, The gladdest day of all the year.

— Claudia Tharin.


THANKSGIVING.

Father, whose gracious hand doth hold All that we prize as good — The wine of life, its purest gold, Air, light and daily food;

Whose kindly eye is watching o'er Each struggling, stumbling child, Who gently beckons to His door, Whose call is sweet and mild;

Be Thou so near to us to-day Our arms can rest in Thine, Our footsteps feel Thy strength and stay, Thy love around us twine.

We know from Thee all blessings flow — The fields of ripened grain, Our blushing orchards bending low, The herds upon the plain.

The sea, the forest, bending sky, The sun and stars above, The pale, sweet moon, so tender, shy, Are tokens of Thy love.

The meadows green, the laughing rill, The flowers that bloom for all, Are touches of Thy wondrous skill, Our hearts to hold in thrall.

Woo us, dear Father, unto Thee, E'en by sweet song of bird; Through tiny flower and towering tree, Alike Thy voice is heard.

So many ties of human love On tender heart-strings play, That very near seems heaven above To earth, this autumn day.

We own Thy all-directing hand, And humbly bow to Thee; The high and lowly of the land, Both own Thy majesty.

— D. H, Kent.


THANKSGIVING DAY. What if the gold of the corn lands Is faded to somber gray? And what if the down of the thistle Is ripened and scattered away? There's gold in the gathered harvest; There's homely and heartsome cheer; And so we will be full joyous — The day of thanksgiving is here.

A sigh for the vanished splendor Of the Autumn's purple and red — For the golden-rod that is whitened, For the gentian bloom that is dead; Then turn to the hearthstone cheery; Behold, 'tis the time of year To count our blessings and mercies — The day of thanksgiving is here.

Bare and brown in the shadows, The meadowland meets the gaze, Where the bold, blithe bee went seeking Its sweets in the Summer days. The honey is stored in plenty, So what if the Winter is near? The time is not one for repining — The day of thanksgiving is here.

The fruit has matured in its season, The sunshine has ripened the seed. Then sing to the Lord of the harvest A song of thanksgiving indeed. The morn and the noon have passed by us; 'Tis the sweet afternoon of the year; So let not your tribute be lacking — The day of thanksgiving is here.

— Hattie Whitney.


Thanksgiving Day.Thanksgiving Day.Thanksgiving Day.Thanksgiving Day.

Dawns now the golden festal day! Fair Plenty is the Season's bride, And standing at the altar side Are Peace and Joy in bright array. The bridal gifts are Nature’s own — A crown of grain, of corn a thrown, And gems of all the fruits that grow. The new shorn fields lie sere and bare, While stricken glories everywhere Await the benediction of the snow.

How sweet the dawning of this morn! Now quickened pulses gladly beat, Again the scattered loved ones meet. Oh, scarce a brighter day were born! Once more we see the old home place Again that sweetest mother’s face,

And father, with his silver crown; The old brick church, a sermon, song; And then the happy family throng — The turkey, big and crisp and brown!

— Gay Davidson


THANKSGIVING. "Have you cut the wheat in the blowing fields, The barley, the oats, and the rye, The golden corn, and the pearly rice? For the winter days are nigh. " "We have reaped them all from shore to shore, And the grain is safe on the thrashing floor."

"Have you gathered the berries from the vines, And the fruit from the orchard trees? The dew and the scent from the rose and thyme In the hive of the honey bees? " "The peach and the plum and the apple are ours, And the honeycomb from the scented flowers."

The wealth of the snowy cotton field, And the gift of the sugar cane, The savory herb and the nourishing root, There has nothing been given in vain. We have gathered the harvest from shore to shore, And the measure is full and running o'er."

Then lift up the head with a song! And lift up the hands with a gift, To the ancient Giver of all The spirit in gratitude lift! For the joy and the promise of spring, For the hay and clover sweet, The barley, the rye, and the oats, The rice and the corn and the wheat, The cotton and sugar and fruit, The flowers and the fine honeycomb, The country, so fair and so free, The blessing and glory of home. "Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving!" Joyfully, gratefully call To God, the “Preserver of Men," The bountiful Father of all.

— Amelia E. Barr.


THANKSGIVING TIME. Oh! what is the meaning of such a great flurry? Say, why in the kitchen does every one hurry? Just look at the dog and the cat — how they scurry.

Why, 'tis Thanksgiving time!

There's Bob, stoning raisins quite sober and steady, There's Nell peeling apples, there's dear little Teddy, Each doing a part in the grand getting ready

For Thanksgiving time!

Oh, the fun and the frolic, the shouts and the laughter, The mirth and the music that ring round each rafter! The boys and the girls will remember long after

This Thanksgiving time.

There's grandfather, grandmother, uncles and cousins, There's aunties and neighbors and friends by the dozens, There's dear Sister May with the dearest of husbands,

At Thanksgiving time.

Come every one now, great and small, to the table! Let every one eat just as long as he's able! Let the old house resound from cellar to gable,

For 'tis Thanksgiving time!

Alas, the poor turkey! what's left of his splendor? Where now are his airs he so proudly did render? Ah, peace to his leavings but wasn't he tender!

This Thanksgiving time.

Hurrah for Thanksgiving! Hurrah for the dinner! Who can help but be glad be he seraph or sinner? Of all the good holidays this is the winner

Dear Thanksgiving time!

— Author Unknown


THANKSGIVING. Thy works, O God of might, Sun, moon, and stars of night, Obey Thy will. The earth yields up to Thee Her tribute full and free. At Thy command the sea Is loud or still. All people bless the Lord, Give thanks with one accord, And sing His praise. He gives us health and peace, Makes harvest fields increase; His bounties never cease Through all our days. The wonders Thou hast done, O Christ, God's only Son, Declare Thy grace. In truth and love arrayed, Redemption Thou hast made, The ransom fully paid, For all our race. Thy loving kindness, Lord, We praise with one accord — Our hearts are Thine. We consecrate to Thee Ourselves, henceforth to be From sin and death set free By Love divine.

Rev. Epher Whitaker.


THANKSGIVING. Thanks, unceasing thanks I owe

Him whose love hath blessed me so,

" All is well," since this I'm told

" No good thing will He withhold;"

Knowing "all things " work "for good;"

Shall in Heaven, be understood.

Grace "enough” is promised me;

" In His light," such hopes I see;

" Very present help" and cheer,

In the hour of pain and fear."

Not my own "praise, praise for this!

God in Christ hath made me His.

— Unidentified.

A SONG FOR THANKSGIVING.

A few late roses linger and smiling deck the sod, And the world is like a picture where the harvests smile to God! There's a greater joy in living — for no blessing he denies, And the soul's divine thanksgiving drifts in incense to the skies! Through the darkness and the danger, through the peril of the past, To the starred and stormless haven he has led our ship at last, And with richest treasures laden we have furled the flags above, For the garlands of his glory and the banners of his love! Sing sweet thy sweet thanksgiving, O soul, and ring, ye bells, Till the world shall catch the chorus and the anthem heavenward swells! For his love and for his mercy, his cross and chastening rod, For his tender benedictions, let the whole world thank its God!

— Unidentified.


THANKSGIVING. In stack and cellar, bay and bin, Now rest the harvests of the year; The orchard's wealth is gathered in; The ricks are filled; the fields are clear. To-day we take a truce from toil And at the genial fireside meet; Nothing shall come our peace to spoil As we the annual feast repeat. How calm the Indian summer haze Above the distant mountain lies! The squirrel darts from place to place; The crow across the valley flies. The rippling stream with murmuring tone Seems lonelier as it passes by, And one slow hawk, reserved, alone. Cuts his broad sweep across the sky. The colored pallet, rich and rare, Is gone which made the forests gay; A Quaker russet now they wear, And even that shall pass away. But we, around our ample board, Confront the winter without fear, Whose fruits are housed, whose crops are stored, Whose friends are true, whose home is dear. For all, may some good fortune come, Some cheer to drive sad thoughts away, Thrice happy friendships, love and home, And naught to mar Thanksgiving Day.

— Once a Week.


SIX LITTLE TURKEYS. Six little turkeys, all in a row! Now what they were hatched for, they didn't know Our grandma did, but she would not tell; She watered and fed them every day well. But not one of the six heard her say She was fattening them for Thanksgiving Day. Six little turkeys! From morning till night They would run away and hide out of sight. Grandma's sun-bonnet scarcely at all Found time to hang on its peg on the wall; For they kept her all summer watching about The by-ways and hedges, calling them out. Six large, fat turkeys, and all in a row On Thanksgiving morn! One was to go To Sam, one to Tom, another to Lu ( Dear little grandchildren, loving and true); One was to be sent to poor Widow Gray, With six helpless children to feed that day; Our Betty cooked one for lame little Joe His mother is sick and feeble, you know. Grandma was so happy, she didn't mind Running all summer the turkeys to find; She knew when Thanksgiving Day came round The very best place for each would be found.

— Unidentified


THANKSGIVING HYMN. We thank thee, O Father, for all that is bright — The gleam of the day, and the stars of the night; The flowers of our youth and the fruits of our prime, And blessings that march down the pathway of time. We thank thee, O Father, for all that is drear — The sob of the tempest, the flow of the tear: For never in blindness, and never in vain, Thy mercy permitted a sorrow or pain. We thank thee, O Father, for song and for feast — The harvest that glowed and the wealth that increased: For never a blessing encompassed earth's child, But thou in thy mercy looked downward and smiled. We thank thee, O Father of all, for the power Of aiding each other in life's darkest hour; The generous heart and the bountiful hand, And all the soul help that sad souls understand. We thank thee, O Father, for days yet to be — For hopes that our future will call us to Thee — That all our Eternity form, through thy love, One Thanksgiving Day in the mansions above.

— Will Carleton


THANKSGIVING ON THE FARM.

The sky is cloudy, dull and gray, And in the groves the trees are bare, All save the red oak trees, and they Still their bright-colored foliage wear. The river's frozen out from shore Full half its width, and anchor ice Still crowds along with grind and roar; Smooth spots, the boys with skates entice. We hear on prairie roads the sound Of wagons rolling miles away, Shrill creaking o'er the frozen ground, Mingled with shouts of boys at play. Outside the barnyard in the lane Are wagons new with high spring seat; Strong, like their owners, stanch and plain, And covered buggies trim and neat. The colts that, turned into the yard, Around the straw stacks run and race, Reach their head o'er the gate that's barred, Or to the quiet cows give chase. The young folks skate upon the pond, Or round a blazing fire play; A chime of churchbells far beyond Proclaim it is Thanksgiving Day.

— Minneapolis Tribune;


THE HERITAGE OF THANKSGIVING. Our songs are sweetest for the songs they lifted, Our praises higher for their praises given; And though the firelight show their vacant places, Heart cleaves to heart, in bonds of song unriven. So at the feasts when some will miss our faces, Our notes from far-off days will meet their own; The past and the present in one chorus blending To swell Thanksgiving hymns around the Throne!

— George T. Packard.

FALL IN LINE. Get ready for Thanksgivin' — jest set your table fine! An' put the finest crock'ry out, an' make the silver shine; No matter how the country goes — jest carve the turkey's neck; An' while the carvin's going on, be thankful you're on deck! Get ready for Thanksgivin' — jest fall into your place; An’ if the preacher ain't along, be sure an' say the grace; No matter how the country goes — jest carve the turkey straight, An' with a smile o* thankfulness pitch in an' pass your plate!

— Atlanta Constitution.


THANKSGIVING DAY.

Still thy winds, O wild November; let their angry music sleep! Give us Sabbath o'er the city; hush thy tempest on the deep! With the golden sheaf of autumn lifted in its stalwart hands, At the threshold of the winter, lo, a grateful nation stands! Up the year's long path of blessings, heedless, thankless, we have trod; But, to-day, the people's altar sends its incense up to God. Ring aloud, in spire and turret — in your windy prison cells — Ring the morning in with anthems of Thanksgiving, O ye bells! Gather, O ye people, gather, where the ruddy hearths are bright, And the shades of care and sorrow vanish backward from the light! Link anew the charmed circle of the household's broken chain; Let the land be full of worship, and the heart of love, again; Homeward to the festal service call the wandering child that roams; For to-day the nation's altars are its firesides and its homes. Moon by moon the year has circled, and before us is unrolled All the season's perfect drama, as in countless years of old; In the valley sank the snow drift, and the snowdrop sprang anew, And anon earth woke in flowers from a summer-dream of dew; Winter, spring and summer failed not, and she drank the light and rain, Till the sun-lit heaven lay mirrored in her waving fields of grain. O'er the wave the white-winged vessels came, as went the ships of Greece Happy Argonauts, returning with the prairies' golden fleece. O'er the land the song of Labor, in the workshop and the field, Forth, from ocean unto ocean, in a choral wave has pealed. Therefore, wake, in all your turrets — in your windy prison cells — Ring the morning in with anthems of Thanksgiving, O ye bells!

— David Gray.


A THANKSGIVING STORY.

The pudding and pies on the pantry shelf (I know it was so, I saw it myself) Had a falling out on Thanksgiving day, And I heard every word they had to say. I think I was just about six years old, And shut in the house with a horrid cold. The rice pudding began counting his plums, And calling, "Children, come, put in your thumbs, My face is some blistered and burned, I know, But my heart is as sweet and as white as snow." Then the Indian pudding cried, "I am chief," And he shouted as though they all were deaf. "I'm as full of suet as I can hold,

And all the way through as yellow as gold." "Yellow, are you? Well, then, sir, so am I," Quoth a grave and motherly pumpkin pie, "And just as happy as a pie can be, For every one chuckles who looks at me." "It's me they're looking at," quoth the squash, “Beside a squash pie a pumpkin is bosh." "I shall not last for a very great while," The mince pie said, with a broad, winning smile, "Lucky for me it's Thanksgiving day, For I'm so rich I should soon melt away." "Rich!" cried the apple pie, wagging her head, "You'll lie in the stomach as heavy as lead, So I heard it said, but all say of me, That pie is as wholesome as wholesome can be." The custard pie shook, attempting to speak, But the chicken pie crowed — an awful shriek — "We all looked quite well, till our faces to pick That girl took a notion — she ought to be sick." At that I awoke, beginning to cry, And heard mamma say, “She's had too much pie."

— Christian Register.


A THANKSGIVING PIE.

COLD wind was blowing, the morning was drear; But within the old kitchen there was naught but cheer. At the window, a yellow rose held queenly sway, As it blossomed and climbed in its own regal way; And Bess — mother's sunbeam — with hair golden bright As the big yellow rose, was at work with her might. She was baking a wonderful Thanksgiving pie For dear Mr. Grumpy, their neighbor, close by. At first the poor widow had said " no, my dear." But Bess had plead, with smile, kiss and tear And conquered; for her mother had made a shrewd guess That Grumpy — himself — couldn't snarl at her Bess. After much care and labor, at last it was done — The cutest dried apple pie under the sun! The crust, short and flaky, was notched on the rim, In a manner to ravish an epicure — grim. And Bess laughed aloud at the thought of his pleasure As she crossed o'er the street with her hot, juicy treasure. In his big lonely palace, by the tiled fireplace Sat Grumpy — alone — with a frown on his face. There were rheumatic twinges in every limb; His liver was torpid, his sight getting dim. The "Morning News" so full of Thanksgiving lore, He crumpled and threw with a scowl to the floor. "Thanksgiving! Pray, what's that to me;" growled he. "I care for no one, and no one for me." A light tap is heard, then the door opens wide And Bess flushed and smiling stands at the man's side. I's brought you a fanksgiving pie," she said, With a confident nod of her bright yellow head. "It's dot lots o' sugar," continued the elf, "An' its awful nice pie, 'tause I made it myself." How tired of waiting the little hands got, For the pink palms were tender and the plate was hot. The man at last motioned the child to a chair, And stared at the dazzle of eyes, cheek and hair. What, sit on that lonesome, big arm-chair? Not she, Bess put her pie down and climbed up on his knee, "Now let's play you's Drampa," she coaxingly said, As close on his shoulder she pillowed her head, "Must hear your watch tick," was the first sharp command. It was held to her ear by the man's clumsy hand. "Must wear your spec's now," and without a demur He bent his gray head while she made the transfer. Through the big rims she blinked with such shy, roguish eyes

The old fellow laughed, to his sudden surprise. "Drampa always kissed me," the little one cooed. Was ever a cynic more artfully woed? With a grim smile at being so quickly beguiled He pressed a soft kiss on the cheek of the child. "My Drampa's in Heaven," she said, with a sigh, "Is you doin' to Heaven some day when you die?" "Oh, I don't know, my dear," he replied with a frown, But his cheek paled a little and his eye glanced down." Let's cut the pie, baby. Here, you take a bite And I'll take another'' — what queer sudden blight Robbed speech of its power, brought dullness to ears, And carried him backward full sixty-five years? In the old farmhouse kitchen, in the days gone by Mother baked for him often, just such a wee pie, Made of apples home dried with brown sugar and spice Ah nothing again ever tasted so nice! Would that he were once more that child of the past, With mother's arms holding him so sure and fast. What a soldier was mother! How bravely she bore All the sorrows and ills of those days of yore. The fires that burned from her nature the dross, Had made him suspicious, and bitter, and cross. Was it too late to try —though his years might be few — Was there something good — yet that an old man might do? Here Bess gave his shoulders an impatient shake, "Say Drampa," she grumbled, "tant you keep awake?" The old fellow came to himself with a start And silently stared at his pouting sweetheart. He noticed the hole in the little worn shoe, Where a red stockinged toe peeped plain enough through; He noted the jacket, so patched up and thin, With its faded pink ribbon tied under the chin, How handsome she'd look in a warm velvet cloak, With those yellow curls capped by a tassel decked toque; What a mean man he was! What a stingy old cad To be thinking of self, and his baby — half clad! He pressed the pink palms to his eyes wet and dim — Those dear little hands that had labored for him With a half sob he lifted the child to the floor And led her with stately grace out to the door. "Now run home my dear: say to mamma for me That you and she dine with old Grumpy at three. There'll be turkey, cranberry, cakes, candies and cream, And a drive at five back of my new double team" The day was still murky; low hung every cloud, But the gloom was dispelled from a spirit long bowed, His baby! the sweet thought kept coming; forsooth — He felt quite in touch with the pleasure of youth. Ah, she painted with rose tint his life's somber sky, When she came with her love and her Thanksgiving pie. — Gertrude Manley Jones in Aunt Charity's "’Ligious ‘Speriences"


A THANKSGIVING HYMN. Now unto Him whose hand Bestows upon our Land Peace and prosperity, Thanksgiving be! Let every heart rejoice, And gratitude find voice To sing to Him above A nation's love. Grateful for blessings sure Alike to rich and poor, Let all remembering Unite to sing! For the year's Harvest yield, Plenty from tree and field, His be the joyful praise Our people raise! God bless each bounty sent! God bless our President! God bless our country long! Be this our song. His be our strength, our lives, Children and men and wives! His be the glory then Ever! — Amen!

— Frank Dempster Sherman.


A THANKSGIVING LETTER TO GRANDMA. "Dear Dranma, I finked I would rite you a letter To tell how I love you — a bushel or more; Mamma hopes that now your sore foot is all better; And we'll come to Fanksgiving as we did before. "Please make us some pies and some pudding and jelly, A turkey wit stuffing and onions, and then Please don't you forget that I like stuffing smelly Of sage. From your 'fectionate Charlie. Amen." And grandma, dear soul, as she pores o'er the letter, With a smile on her lips and such mist in her eyes That she wipes off her glasses to see through them better, Plans out a whole shelfful of puddings and pies — Of tarts and of cookies; of custards and jelly; A goodly battalion of gingerbread men; And last, but not least, a fat turkey cooked "smelly" Of sage for the youngster who wrote her "Amen."

— Mary Clarke Huntington.


THANKSGIVING SONG.

Whence comes this song of Harvest cheer, This hymn of praise unto the sky; So strong, that all the world may hear It rise on high? 'Tis grateful people thanking Him Whose hand hath led their steps aright, A faithful Guide, however dim And dark the night. What is the song of praise they sing, In which the people all take part; So full that in its strength they bring A nation's heart? 'Tis the Thanksgiving Harvest prayer Of gratitude for ample yield, For tender love and watchful care O' er home and field.

— Frank H. Sweet


Wishing you aWishing you aWishing you aWishing you a WoWoWoWonderful and Sanderful and Sanderful and Sanderful and Saffffeeee Thanksgiving!Thanksgiving!Thanksgiving!Thanksgiving!

From Victorian Embroidery and Crafts

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