THANKSGIVING AT THE OLD HOME.
By Good Housekeeper
Out from the good old country town,
Far o'er hills with gorgeous crown,—
The frost-touched trees and verdure sere,—
Out where the magic atmosphere
Quickens the blood and paints the cheek,
Over the bridge at Crooked Creek,
The long steep hill, the winding lane—
And then, the dear old home again. Feast for the eyes! 'Gainst autumn skies
The quaint old rustic gables rise;
The chimney wide—the yeoman's pride—
Standeth guard o'er the fireside
Wherein the oak-hewn logs ablaze
Kindle the fire of memories.
Again the creak of the old well sweep,
The moss-lined bucket from out the deep. O artist, paint, for words grow faint!
With recollections dear acquaint,
Tell of the home, the vine-clad well,
The drooping flowers, the asphodel,
The golden-rod, bright vigils keep;
That sacred acre where loved ones sleep,
While golden leaf and golden sheaf
Shall typify life's story brief. 'Tis a hallowed spot,—this sacred nook.
Merrily flowing, the little brook
Murmurs and gurgles a symphony:
"This is a happy Thanksgiving day."
Happy indeed, and full of cheer;
Father and mother and children here.
A song and a story of home and love,
And the Father is watching from above.
—Good Housekeeper.