THE DAY WE LOVE.
M. J. B.
Of all the glad days of the year
Thanksgiving Day's the best;
Then fun and joy run riot
And sorrow is at rest.
We keep the day with feasting
And enjoy it with a will,
From the poor man in the valley
To the rich man on the hill.
What though the wind be chilly
And clouds the sky may fill,
And all without be dreary.
If the heart is happy still!
Then let us keep Thanksgiving
And, looking through the years,
We'll labor ever onward.
Unharmed by doubts or fears.
PEN PICTURE OF THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY.
'Tis the morn of the first Thanksgiving,
The air it is crisp and cold.
The snow lies in drifts in the highways,
The wind is cutting and bold.
From each lowly hut and cottage
Unto the house of prayer.
With rifles upon their shoulders
The pilgrims assemble there.
The dark, dreary winter is ended.
The spring with its soft, gentle rain.
And the warm sunny days of the summer
Had ripened the much needed grain.
Now each garner is bursting with plenty,
Each heart, too, is filled with great joy.
This winter no famine will haunt them.
No terror their thoughts will employ.
In the bleak little church in the village
Are gathered stern men and fair maids.
Their praises are joyfully ringing
And echo o'er high hills and glades.
Thus passed the first day of Thanksgiving,
With thanks that e'er came from the heart;
And no matter how humble his station,
Each person in them took his part.
—From American History Stories.