THANKSGIVING.

Within a garret, cold and forlorn,

A group is gathered Thanksgiving morn:

Father and mother, with children three—

One but a babe on the mother's knee.

Haggard and pale is the father's face,

Where lingering sickness has left its trace;

While the careworn look on the mother's brow

Tells of the sorrow upon her now.

Hungry and faint from the lack of food,

With scanty clothing, no coal nor wood;

A broken table, a bare pine floor—

What have they to be thankful for?

Thoughts like these to the parents come,

While sitting here in their cheerless home.

The children, nestled upon the bed,

A fragment of carpet over them spread,

Are blind to their parents' mute despair;

And the little girl, with a pitying air,

Says, "What do poor children do, I wonder,

With no warm carpet to cuddle under;

"No papa and mamma to give 'em bread,

And tuck 'em up when they go to bed?"

Tear-drops start from the father's eyes;

Prayers from the mother's lips arise.

Footsteps fall on the creaking floor;

A knock is heard on the chamber door.

A bluff " Good-morning" their query brings,

And, "Sambo, you rascal, fetch up the things!"

While the squire's darkey, with cheerful grin,

Food and clothing brings quickly in.

"Lord bless you, ma'am! why, who'd a knowed

That folks lived up in this 'ere abode?

"'Tain't fit for a barn, 'n', ez I'm a sinner,

I'll take you all to my house to dinner.

"I'll find you work when you're strong and well,

'N' a better place than this 'ere to dwell—"

And the squire paused, while a tear arose,

And dropped unseen on his ruby nose,

As the baby boy, with a happy look,

A rosy apple from Sambo took.

And the children gathered, with hungry eyes,

'Round the platter of doughnuts and pumpkin pies;

While the grateful mother could only say,

"Truly, this is Thanksgiving Day!"