Part 96 (2/2)

{269}

”Once more the glorious day is here, The day that saw Him rise, When Love was victor over fear, And glory filled the skies.

”Who comes to greet our risen King?

Not birds and flowers alone, Our loyal hearts to Him we bring, And wors.h.i.+p at His throne.”

{270}

THE STORY OF THE FIRST THANKSGIVING

Harold and Margaret had been hoping for a snowy Thanksgiving, and they were very happy when, two days before Thanksgiving, the snow began to fall in great flakes. The sun shone again on Thanksgiving morning, and at nine o'clock the sleigh with the two dapple gray horses was ready to take all the family to Grandpa Emerson's over the river and away four miles across the snowy fields in the country. How they enjoyed the ride in the fresh cold air! What a merry tune was sung by the jingling of the sleighbells! And how happy they were after they reached the big old farmhouse! First, of course, they were kissed and hugged by Grandpa Emerson and Grandma Emerson. Then they went out to the barn to see the horses and cows. Then they went sliding down the hill behind the barn. Then they made a beautiful snow man, and by that time they were ready for Grandma Emerson's Thanksgiving dinner. They were to stay at the farm for a few days, and toward evening as they sat before the roaring fire in the big fireplace they asked mamma for a story. ”I will tell you,” she said,

THE STORY OF THE FIRST THANKSGIVING.

”The first settlers of New England were the Pilgrims who came across the sea from England in the s.h.i.+p Mayfower.”

{271}

”Oh, yes,” said Harold, ”I remember when we went to Plymouth and saw the Plymouth Rock and the old houses and the monument on the hill.”

”Yes,” said mamma, ”that is where they landed and built their log houses. I will recite a poem which I learned when I was a girl and went to school like Margaret.”

”The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rockbound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;

”And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England sh.o.r.e.

”Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came, Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;

”Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear,-- They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

”Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea!

And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang To the anthem of the free!

{272}

”The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared-- This was their welcome home!

”There were men with h.o.a.ry hair Amidst that pilgrim band-- Why had they come to wither there Away from their childhood's land?

”There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow, serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

”What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- They sought a faith's pure shrine.

<script>