Article November 27, 1902 Issue

An Old Thanksgiving Day

Alfred J. Waterhouse

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O'er well remembered paths that lead to fields of long ago,
Although my feet have lost the way nor may its windings know,
My heart turns back, as birds return to summer lands of cheer,
Or as a pilgrim, worn and gray, unto his home draws near;
My heart turns back, the slow years fade, a boy again am I,
Who lacks the wisdom of the world, but also lacks its sigh
The fire burns low, the mists steal out that hide the past away:
Again I am a little boy upon Thanksgiving Day.
No palace was my grandsire's home, a cottage brown and old,
The only wealth it ever knew was sweet contentment's gold;
All homely was our daily fare, but simple, kindly cheer
Gave it a zest that banquets lack through every later year;
Each meal began with spoken words of reverential praise
That He whose love is o'er us all was heeding still our ways.
So passed the days, remote from care, unmindful of the fray,
Till brightly o'er the waiting world there dawned Thanksgiving Day.

A day of praise, a day of love, of gratitude and cheer,
It differed only in degree from others in the year,
For these were but old-fashioned folk, who walked in simple way,
And deemed that every morning brought a new thanksgiving day:
And still in dreams I see the trust that lit my grandsire's face,
The while he bent a reverent knee before the throne of grace;
And, like a song that steals adown from summits far away.
I hear the good man's prayer for me on each Thanksgiving Day.
So may I feel and humbly speak, as best a wanderer may,
The thanks that are no formal words, upon Thanksgiving Day.

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