THANKSGIVING.

It was not until the late civil war that this day became in any sense a National one. Until that time its observance was confined almost exclusively to New England. But the proclamation of President Johnson, Nov. 2, 1865, appointing a day for national thanksgiving, was indorsed by similar proclamations from the governors of all the States not of the late Confederacy, and since then the festival has steadily increased in popular favor, though many Southern States have been slow in its observance. Now that its appointment comes from a Democratic President,—the first one ever issued from such a source,—it is probable that it will be more generally regarded than ever before in our history. And this is one of the good signs of the times. It is well that one day of the year be given to the reunion of families, to the gathering together of scattered friends, and to rejoicing over the bounties of Providence.—The Advance.

The Greeks held the grandest feast of all the year in honor of Demeter, the goddess of the harvest; and the Romans, who borrowed most of their customs from the Grecians, also held a grand celebration in honor of the same goddess, whose name they changed to Ceres. Theywent in long processions to the fields, where they engaged in rustic sports, and crowned all of their household gods with flowers. Both of these feasts were held in September.

Three thousand years ago witnessed the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles, with its magnificent rituals, melodious choirs, and picturesque festivities. For eight days the people ceased their work, to “eat, drink, and be merry.” During the time millions gathered in and around Jerusalem, for several days, living in booths formed of the branches of the olive, pine, myrtle, and palm, and decorated with fruits and flowers. Grand public pageants were held, and in addition to these every household had its worship, its sacrifice, and its banquet.

But the Dutch went, and the English came—and they came to stay. On the possession of New Netherland by the English, Edmund Andros being Governor, the Council sitting on June 7, 1675, ordered:

“That Wednesday ye 23d of this Instant month, be appointed throughout ye government a day of Thanksgiving and Prayers to Almighty God for all His Past Deliverances and Blessings and Present Mercies to us, and to Pray ye continuance and Encrease thereof.”

The Pilgrim Fathers, after ten months of sickness and suffering, gathered in their first harvest, which consisted of twenty acres of corn, and six of barley and peas—enough to keep them supplied with food for the coming year. For this they devoutly thanked God, and made preparations for a feast. Hunters were sent out to procure the thanksgiving dinner, and returned with waterfowl, wild turkey, and venison. Then the feast was prepared, and Massasoit and ninety of his warriors were present. On the following year there was such a long drought that the corn and barley were stunted, and famine seemed to stare them in the face. A day of fasting and prayer was appointed, and for nine hours the people prayed unceasingly. At evening the sun set in clouds, a breeze sprang up, and in the morning the rain was pouring down. The crops revived, and there was a bounteous harvest. For this a day of thanksgiving was ordered by Governor Bradford.

The history of this first thanksgiving is recorded as follows:

“Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men out a-fowling that we might, after a special manner, rejoice together after we had the fruit of our labor. They four, in one day, killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At that time, among other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming among us, and among the rest, their greatest king, Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor and upon the captain and others. And although it benot always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.”

The immediate occasion of the first thanksgiving was the surrender of General Burgoyne to General Gates, in the fall of 1777. Thursday, the 18th of December, was designated, and, in compliance with the order of Congress, the army at Valley Forge duly observed the day—the army that had tracked its way in blood. It was ordered by the Continental Congress.

Washington, as President of the United States, issued his first proclamation for the observance of a day of thanksgiving at the city of New York on the 3d of October, 1789, setting apart Thursday, the 26th day of November of that year, “to be devoted by the people of these States to the service of that great and glorious Being who is the beneficent Author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be,” etc. His second proclamation, dated at the city of Philadelphia, January 1, 1795, designated Thursday, November 26, as a day to be observed for a general thanksgiving by the people of the United States.

Governor John Jay, of New York, thought so well of Thanksgiving Day, that he determined to have one of his own, and accordingly designated Thursday, November 26, 1795.

[For Concert and Solo Recitation.]

Hezekiah Butterworth.

Solo.“Praise ye the Lord!” The psalm to-dayThat rises on our earsRolls from the hills of Boston BayThrough five times fifty years—When Winthrop’s fleet from Yarmouth creptOut to the open main,And through the widening waters sweptIn April sun and rain,Concert.“Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”The leader shouted, “pray;”And prayer arose from all the ships,As fadeth Yarmouth Bay.Solo.They passed the Scilly Isles that day,And May days came, and June,And thrice upon the ocean layThe full orb of the moon.And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay,Ere England sunk from view,While yet the rippling Solent layIn April skies of blue,Concert.“Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”Each morn was shouted, “pray;”And prayer arose from all the ships,As first in Yarmouth Bay.Solo.Blew warm the breeze o’er Western seas,Through Maytime morns and June,Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals,Low, ’neath the summer moon;And as Cape Ann arose to view,And Norman’s Woe they passed,The wood-doves came the white mist throughAnd circled round each mast.Concert.“Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”Then called the leader, “pray;”And prayer arose from all the ships,As first in Yarmouth Bay.Solo.The white wings folded, anchors down,The sea-worn fleet in line;Fair rose the hills where Boston townShould rise from clouds of pine;Fair was the harbor, summit-walled,And placid lay the sea.“Praise ye the Lord,” the leader called;“Praise ye the Lord,” spake he.Concert.“Give thanks to God with fervent lips,Give thanks to God to-day.”The anthem rose from all the ships,Safe moored in Boston Bay.Solo.That psalm our fathers sung we sing,That psalm of peace and wars,While o’er our heads unfolds its wing,The flag of forty stars;And while the nation finds a tongueFor nobler gifts to pray,’Twill ever sing the song they sungThat first Thanksgiving Day:Concert.“Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,Praise ye the Lord to-day.”So rose the song from all the ships,Safe moored in Boston Bay.Concert.Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth’s tide,Ho! ships of Boston Bay,Your prayers have crossed the centuries wideTo this Thanksgiving Day!We pray to God with fervent lips,We praise the Lord to-day,As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships,But psalms from Boston Bay.

Solo.“Praise ye the Lord!” The psalm to-day

That rises on our ears

Rolls from the hills of Boston Bay

Through five times fifty years—

When Winthrop’s fleet from Yarmouth crept

Out to the open main,

And through the widening waters swept

In April sun and rain,

Concert.“Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”

The leader shouted, “pray;”

And prayer arose from all the ships,

As fadeth Yarmouth Bay.

Solo.They passed the Scilly Isles that day,And May days came, and June,And thrice upon the ocean layThe full orb of the moon.And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay,Ere England sunk from view,While yet the rippling Solent layIn April skies of blue,Concert.“Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”Each morn was shouted, “pray;”And prayer arose from all the ships,As first in Yarmouth Bay.

Solo.They passed the Scilly Isles that day,

And May days came, and June,

And thrice upon the ocean lay

The full orb of the moon.

And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay,

Ere England sunk from view,

While yet the rippling Solent lay

In April skies of blue,

Concert.“Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”

Each morn was shouted, “pray;”

And prayer arose from all the ships,

As first in Yarmouth Bay.

Solo.Blew warm the breeze o’er Western seas,Through Maytime morns and June,Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals,Low, ’neath the summer moon;And as Cape Ann arose to view,And Norman’s Woe they passed,The wood-doves came the white mist throughAnd circled round each mast.Concert.“Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”Then called the leader, “pray;”And prayer arose from all the ships,As first in Yarmouth Bay.

Solo.Blew warm the breeze o’er Western seas,

Through Maytime morns and June,

Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals,

Low, ’neath the summer moon;

And as Cape Ann arose to view,

And Norman’s Woe they passed,

The wood-doves came the white mist through

And circled round each mast.

Concert.“Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”

Then called the leader, “pray;”

And prayer arose from all the ships,

As first in Yarmouth Bay.

Solo.The white wings folded, anchors down,The sea-worn fleet in line;Fair rose the hills where Boston townShould rise from clouds of pine;Fair was the harbor, summit-walled,And placid lay the sea.“Praise ye the Lord,” the leader called;“Praise ye the Lord,” spake he.Concert.“Give thanks to God with fervent lips,Give thanks to God to-day.”The anthem rose from all the ships,Safe moored in Boston Bay.

Solo.The white wings folded, anchors down,

The sea-worn fleet in line;

Fair rose the hills where Boston town

Should rise from clouds of pine;

Fair was the harbor, summit-walled,

And placid lay the sea.

“Praise ye the Lord,” the leader called;

“Praise ye the Lord,” spake he.

Concert.“Give thanks to God with fervent lips,

Give thanks to God to-day.”

The anthem rose from all the ships,

Safe moored in Boston Bay.

Solo.That psalm our fathers sung we sing,That psalm of peace and wars,While o’er our heads unfolds its wing,The flag of forty stars;And while the nation finds a tongueFor nobler gifts to pray,’Twill ever sing the song they sungThat first Thanksgiving Day:Concert.“Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,Praise ye the Lord to-day.”So rose the song from all the ships,Safe moored in Boston Bay.

Solo.That psalm our fathers sung we sing,

That psalm of peace and wars,

While o’er our heads unfolds its wing,

The flag of forty stars;

And while the nation finds a tongue

For nobler gifts to pray,

’Twill ever sing the song they sung

That first Thanksgiving Day:

Concert.“Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,

Praise ye the Lord to-day.”

So rose the song from all the ships,

Safe moored in Boston Bay.

Concert.Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth’s tide,Ho! ships of Boston Bay,Your prayers have crossed the centuries wideTo this Thanksgiving Day!We pray to God with fervent lips,We praise the Lord to-day,As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships,But psalms from Boston Bay.

Concert.Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth’s tide,

Ho! ships of Boston Bay,

Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide

To this Thanksgiving Day!

We pray to God with fervent lips,

We praise the Lord to-day,

As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships,

But psalms from Boston Bay.

Robert Herrick(1591-1674).

Lord, thou hast given me a cellWherein to dwell,A little house whose humble roofIs weather-proof;Under the sparres of which I lieBoth soft and dry;Where thou, my chamber for to ward,Hast set a guardOf harmless thoughts to watch and keepMe, while I sleep.Low is my porch, as is my fate,Both void of state;And yet the threshold of my dooreIs worn by th’ poore,Who hither come, and freely getGood words, or meat.’Tis thou that crownest my glittering hearthWith guiltlesse mirthe,And givest me wassaile bowls to drink,Spiced to the brink.Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping handThat soiles my landAnd givest me for my bushel sownTwice ten for one;Thou makest my teeming hen to layHer egg each day.All these, and better, thou dost sendMe, to this end,That I should render, for my part,A thankful heart;Which, fired with incense, I resigneAs wholly Thine:But the acceptance, that must be,O Lord, by Thee.

Lord, thou hast given me a cell

Wherein to dwell,

A little house whose humble roof

Is weather-proof;

Under the sparres of which I lie

Both soft and dry;

Where thou, my chamber for to ward,

Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts to watch and keep

Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,

Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my doore

Is worn by th’ poore,

Who hither come, and freely get

Good words, or meat.

’Tis thou that crownest my glittering hearthWith guiltlesse mirthe,And givest me wassaile bowls to drink,Spiced to the brink.Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping handThat soiles my landAnd givest me for my bushel sownTwice ten for one;Thou makest my teeming hen to layHer egg each day.All these, and better, thou dost sendMe, to this end,That I should render, for my part,A thankful heart;Which, fired with incense, I resigneAs wholly Thine:But the acceptance, that must be,O Lord, by Thee.

’Tis thou that crownest my glittering hearth

With guiltlesse mirthe,

And givest me wassaile bowls to drink,

Spiced to the brink.

Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand

That soiles my land

And givest me for my bushel sown

Twice ten for one;

Thou makest my teeming hen to lay

Her egg each day.

All these, and better, thou dost send

Me, to this end,

That I should render, for my part,

A thankful heart;

Which, fired with incense, I resigne

As wholly Thine:

But the acceptance, that must be,

O Lord, by Thee.

William D. Howells.

Lord, for the erring thoughtNot into evil wrought!Lord, for the wicked willBetrayed and baffled still!For the heart from itself kept,Our thanksgiving accept.For ignorant hopes that wereBroken to our blind prayer;For pain, death, sorrow, sentUnto our chastisement;For all loss of seeming good,Quicken our gratitude.Harper’s Magazine.

Lord, for the erring thought

Not into evil wrought!

Lord, for the wicked will

Betrayed and baffled still!

For the heart from itself kept,

Our thanksgiving accept.

For ignorant hopes that were

Broken to our blind prayer;

For pain, death, sorrow, sent

Unto our chastisement;

For all loss of seeming good,

Quicken our gratitude.

Harper’s Magazine.

John G. Whittier.

Once more the liberal year laughs outO’er richer stores than gems or gold;Once more with harvest-song and shoutIs nature’s bloodless triumph told.Our common mother rests and sings,Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves;Her lap is full of goodly things,Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.O favors every year made new!O gifts with rain and sunshine sent!The bounty overruns our due;The fullness shames our discontent.We shut our eyes, and flowers bloom on;We murmur, but the corn-ears fill;We choose the shadow, but the sunThat casts it shines behind us still.God gives us with our rugged soilThe power to make it Eden-fair,And richer fruits to crown our toilThan summer-wedded islands bear.Who murmurs at his lot to-day?Who scorns his native fruit and bloom?Or sighs for dainties far away,Beside the bounteous board of home?Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom’s armCan change a rocky soil to gold;That brave and generous lives can warmA clime with Northern ices cold.And let these altars, wreathed with flowersAnd piled with fruits, awake againThanksgivings for the golden hours,The early and the latter rain!

Once more the liberal year laughs outO’er richer stores than gems or gold;Once more with harvest-song and shoutIs nature’s bloodless triumph told.

Once more the liberal year laughs out

O’er richer stores than gems or gold;

Once more with harvest-song and shout

Is nature’s bloodless triumph told.

Our common mother rests and sings,Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves;Her lap is full of goodly things,Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.

Our common mother rests and sings,

Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves;

Her lap is full of goodly things,

Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.

O favors every year made new!O gifts with rain and sunshine sent!The bounty overruns our due;The fullness shames our discontent.

O favors every year made new!

O gifts with rain and sunshine sent!

The bounty overruns our due;

The fullness shames our discontent.

We shut our eyes, and flowers bloom on;We murmur, but the corn-ears fill;We choose the shadow, but the sunThat casts it shines behind us still.

We shut our eyes, and flowers bloom on;

We murmur, but the corn-ears fill;

We choose the shadow, but the sun

That casts it shines behind us still.

God gives us with our rugged soilThe power to make it Eden-fair,And richer fruits to crown our toilThan summer-wedded islands bear.

God gives us with our rugged soil

The power to make it Eden-fair,

And richer fruits to crown our toil

Than summer-wedded islands bear.

Who murmurs at his lot to-day?Who scorns his native fruit and bloom?Or sighs for dainties far away,Beside the bounteous board of home?

Who murmurs at his lot to-day?

Who scorns his native fruit and bloom?

Or sighs for dainties far away,

Beside the bounteous board of home?

Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom’s armCan change a rocky soil to gold;That brave and generous lives can warmA clime with Northern ices cold.

Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom’s arm

Can change a rocky soil to gold;

That brave and generous lives can warm

A clime with Northern ices cold.

And let these altars, wreathed with flowersAnd piled with fruits, awake againThanksgivings for the golden hours,The early and the latter rain!

And let these altars, wreathed with flowers

And piled with fruits, awake again

Thanksgivings for the golden hours,

The early and the latter rain!

Margaret E. Sangster.

Dolly, it’s almost Thanksgiving; do you know what that means, my dear?No? Well, I couldn’t expect it; you haven’t been with us a year,And you came with my auntie from Paris, far over the wide blue sea,And you’ll keep your first Thanksgiving, my beautiful Dolly, with me.I’ll tell you about it, my darling, for grandma’s explained it all,So that I understand why Thanksgiving always comes late in the fall,When the nuts and the apples are gathered, and the work in the field is done,And the fields, all reaped and silent, are asleep in the autumn sun.It is then that we praise Our Father who sends the rain and the dew,Whose wonderful loving-kindness is every morning new;Unless we’d be heathen, Dolly, or worse, we must sing and pray,And think about good things, Dolly, when we keep Thanksgiving Day.But I like it very much better when from church we all go home,And the married brothers and sisters and the troops of cousins come,And we’re ever so long at the table, and dance and shout and play,In the merry evening, Dolly, that ends Thanksgiving day.

Dolly, it’s almost Thanksgiving; do you know what that means, my dear?

No? Well, I couldn’t expect it; you haven’t been with us a year,

And you came with my auntie from Paris, far over the wide blue sea,

And you’ll keep your first Thanksgiving, my beautiful Dolly, with me.

I’ll tell you about it, my darling, for grandma’s explained it all,So that I understand why Thanksgiving always comes late in the fall,When the nuts and the apples are gathered, and the work in the field is done,And the fields, all reaped and silent, are asleep in the autumn sun.

I’ll tell you about it, my darling, for grandma’s explained it all,

So that I understand why Thanksgiving always comes late in the fall,

When the nuts and the apples are gathered, and the work in the field is done,

And the fields, all reaped and silent, are asleep in the autumn sun.

It is then that we praise Our Father who sends the rain and the dew,Whose wonderful loving-kindness is every morning new;Unless we’d be heathen, Dolly, or worse, we must sing and pray,And think about good things, Dolly, when we keep Thanksgiving Day.

It is then that we praise Our Father who sends the rain and the dew,

Whose wonderful loving-kindness is every morning new;

Unless we’d be heathen, Dolly, or worse, we must sing and pray,

And think about good things, Dolly, when we keep Thanksgiving Day.

But I like it very much better when from church we all go home,And the married brothers and sisters and the troops of cousins come,And we’re ever so long at the table, and dance and shout and play,In the merry evening, Dolly, that ends Thanksgiving day.

But I like it very much better when from church we all go home,

And the married brothers and sisters and the troops of cousins come,

And we’re ever so long at the table, and dance and shout and play,

In the merry evening, Dolly, that ends Thanksgiving day.

E. A. Smuller.

Oh, the glorious ThanksgivingsOf the days that are no more!How, with each recurring season,Wakes their mem’ry o’er and o’er!When the hearts of men were simpler,And the needs of life were less,And its mercies were not reckonedBy the measure of excess.Heaven send the glad ThanksgivingOf that older, simpler time!Tarry with us, not in fancy,Not in retrospective rhyme;But in true and living earnestMay the spirit of that day,Artless, plain, and unpretending,Once again resume its sway!

Oh, the glorious Thanksgivings

Of the days that are no more!

How, with each recurring season,

Wakes their mem’ry o’er and o’er!

When the hearts of men were simpler,

And the needs of life were less,

And its mercies were not reckoned

By the measure of excess.

Heaven send the glad ThanksgivingOf that older, simpler time!Tarry with us, not in fancy,Not in retrospective rhyme;But in true and living earnestMay the spirit of that day,Artless, plain, and unpretending,Once again resume its sway!

Heaven send the glad Thanksgiving

Of that older, simpler time!

Tarry with us, not in fancy,

Not in retrospective rhyme;

But in true and living earnest

May the spirit of that day,

Artless, plain, and unpretending,

Once again resume its sway!

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