Part 14 (2/2)

So come! It is time for the s.h.i.+p to go To this wonderful land so fair, And gently the summer breezes blow To carry you safely there.

So come! Set sail on this golden sea, To the land that is free from dread!

”I know what you mean,” she said to me, ”An' I don't wanna go to bed.”

The Old-Fas.h.i.+oned Thanksgiving

It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well; But thinking of them now I wish somehow that I could know A simple old Thanksgiving Day, like those of long ago, When all the family gathered round a table richly spread, With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at the head, The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile, With mother running in and out and laughing all the while.

It may be I'm old-fas.h.i.+oned, but it seems to me to-day We're too much bent on having fun to take the time to pray; Each little family grows up with fas.h.i.+ons of its own; It lives within a world itself and wants to be alone.

It has its special pleasures, its circle, too, of friends; There are no get-together days; each one his journey wends, Pursuing what he likes the best in his particular way, Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving Day.

I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad To meet the way they used to do when I was but a lad; The old home was a rendezvous for all our kith and kin, And whether living far or near they all came trooping in With shouts of ”h.e.l.lo, daddy!” as they fairly stormed the place And made a rush for mother, who would stop to wipe her face Upon her gingham ap.r.o.n before she kissed them all, Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small.

Then laughter rang throughout the home, and, Oh, the jokes they told; From Boston, Frank brought new ones, but father sprang the old; All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do, The struggles we were making and the hards.h.i.+ps we'd gone through; We gathered round the fireside. How fast the hours would fly-- It seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye.

Those were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew When relatives could still be friends and every heart was true.

The Old-Fas.h.i.+oned Pair

'Tis a little old house with a squeak in the stairs, And a porch that seems made for just two easy chairs; In the yard is a group of geraniums red, And a glorious old-fas.h.i.+oned peony bed.

Petunias and pansies and larkspurs are there Proclaiming their love for the old-fas.h.i.+oned pair.

Oh, it's hard now to picture the peace of the place!

Never lovelier smile lit a fair woman's face Than the smile of the little old lady who sits On the porch through the bright days of summer and knits.

And a courtlier manner no prince ever had Than the little old man that she speaks of as ”dad.”

In that little old house there is nothing of hate; There are old-fas.h.i.+oned things by an old-fas.h.i.+oned grate; On the walls there are pictures of fine looking men And beautiful ladies to look at, and then Time has placed on the mantel to comfort them there The pictures of grandchildren, radiantly fair.

Every part of the house seems to whisper of joy, Save the trinkets that speak of a lost little boy.

Yet Time has long since soothed the hurt and the pain, And his glorious memories only remain: The laughter of children the old walls have known, And the joy of it stays, though the babies have flown.

I am fond of that house and that old-fas.h.i.+oned pair And the glorious calm that is hovering there.

The riches of life are not silver and gold But fine sons and daughters when we are grown old, And I pray when the years shall have silvered our hair We shall know the delights of that old-fas.h.i.+oned pair.

At Pelletier's

We've been out to Pelletier's Brus.h.i.+ng off the stain of years, Quitting all the moods of men And been boys and girls again.

We have romped through orchards blazing, Petted ponies gently grazing, Hidden in the hayloft's s.p.a.ces, And the queerest sort of places That are lost (and it's a pity!) To the youngsters in the city.

And the hired men have let us Drive their teams, and stopped to get us Apples from the trees, and lingered While a cow's cool nose we fingered; And they told us all about her And her grandpa who was stouter.

We've been out to Pelletier's Watching horses raise their ears, And their joyous whinnies hearing When the man with oats was nearing.

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