[Written for the Sentinel.]

THANKSGIVING

The sweet-brier boasts nor voice nor speech,No tongue the clover hath;Mute is the garden's rainbow reach;Yet perfumed joy each breathes to each,From June to aftermath.

The brown thrush knows nor chord nor scale,The sparrow none hath taught;No method guides the nightingale;Yet doth not rhythmic rapture fail,For bounties all unbought.

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FROM OUR EXCHANGES
November 23, 1907
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