Thanksgiving On The Farm

Thanksgiving On The Farm

by Mary D. Brine

"Oh, it surely seems years since the dear children's voices

Rang out on the farm!" - so the old people say.

"Never mind; they are coming, the lads and the lassies,

And e'en the wee babies, with Thanksgiving-day.

So the turkey is fattened, the chickens grow plumper,

The apples are gathered, the larder is filled;

The little white "porker" dines daily on dainties,

Nor dreams of the hour when piggies are killed.

Oh, the hurry, the scurry, in Grandmamma's kitchen,

The well-laden table where good things are piled,

The chairs that are waiting for hungry new-comers,

And e'en the "high chair" for the youngest wee child!

And back to the farm how the steam-cars are rushing,

While Grandpa and Dobbin impatiently wait

At the old depot platform, and Grandma keeps ever

Her spectacles turned toward the wide front-yard gate.

Dear soul! she remembers "the boys" liked to swing there

(And hopes Grandpa mended the last hinge they broke),

And she actually grieves that the streamlet is frozen-

"They had such fun there putting pussy to soak!"

And though she knows well that the raid on her larder

Will keep her hands busy from morning till night,

Yet Grandma thinks only, "I'm glad they are coming,

The dear, happy darlings, with faces so bright!"

Hark! here comes the wagon. Now Grandma goes rushing,

And Grandpa lifts down the wee babies with care,

And out jump the mother, the father, the children,

All ready the Thanksgiving dinner to share.

Oh, the hugs and the kisses, the chatter and laughter,

The merry bright eyes, and the small, eager feet!

Hurrah for Thanksgiving! The old farm is ringing

Once more with the voices of children so sweet.