Then the dancers sang a weird chant, in company with the singers, “Ha-ho!—Ha-ho!—Ha-ho!” they sang; then all present joined in the quick refrain, “Way-ha-ah! Way-ha-ah! Way-ha-ah!” ending in a loud, guttural shout, as the dancers bowed their heads, “Ha-i! Ha-i!”
When the noon hour came, the great Feather Dance was over, and two huge kettles were brought in to the Council House, one full of soup, and the other of succotash. One of the men “Keepers of the Faith,” said a prayer of thanksgiving, in which all joined, and the food was poured into vessels brought by the women. It was then carried to the homes, where the Indians enjoyed eating it by their own firesides.
The feast was over for that day, but it lasted two days more, during which the tribes gambled, danced, ate, and beat their drums. Thevisitor who saw this Green Corn Festival, wrote afterward about the closing scene, the great Snake Dance:
“The nodding plumes, the tinkling bells, the noisy rattles, the beats of the high-strung drums, the shuffling feet and weird cries of the dancers, and the approving shouts of the spectators, all added to the spell of a strangeness that seemed to invest the quaint old Council House with the supernaturalness of a dream!
“As the sun neared its setting, the dancers stopped in a quiet order, and the speaker of the day bade farewell to the clans ... and, after invoking the blessing of the Great Spirit, declared the Green Corn Festival of 1890 ended.”
[2]A prophet of the Indians.
[2]A prophet of the Indians.
“Have you cut the wheat in the blowing fields,The barley, the oats, and the rye,The golden corn and the pearly rice?For the winter days are nigh.”“We have reaped them all from shore to shore,And the grain is safe on the threshing floor.”“Have you gathered the berries from the vine,And the fruit from the orchard trees?The dew and the scent from the roses and thyme,In the hive of the honeybees?”“The peach and the plum and the apple are ours,And the honeycomb from the scented flowers.”“The wealth of the snowy cotton fieldAnd the gift of the sugar cane,The savoury herb and the nourishing root——There has nothing been given in vain.”“We have gathered the harvest from shore to shore,And the measure is full and brimming o’er.”“Then lift up the head with a song!And lift up the hand with a gift!To the ancient Giver of allThe spirit in gratitude lift!For the joy and the promise of spring,For the hay and the clover sweet,The barley, the rye, and the oats,The rice, and the corn, and the wheat,The cotton, and sugar, and fruit,The flowers and the fine honeycomb,The country so fair and so free,The blessings and glory of home.”Amelia E. Barr.
“Have you cut the wheat in the blowing fields,The barley, the oats, and the rye,The golden corn and the pearly rice?For the winter days are nigh.”“We have reaped them all from shore to shore,And the grain is safe on the threshing floor.”“Have you gathered the berries from the vine,And the fruit from the orchard trees?The dew and the scent from the roses and thyme,In the hive of the honeybees?”“The peach and the plum and the apple are ours,And the honeycomb from the scented flowers.”“The wealth of the snowy cotton fieldAnd the gift of the sugar cane,The savoury herb and the nourishing root——There has nothing been given in vain.”“We have gathered the harvest from shore to shore,And the measure is full and brimming o’er.”“Then lift up the head with a song!And lift up the hand with a gift!To the ancient Giver of allThe spirit in gratitude lift!For the joy and the promise of spring,For the hay and the clover sweet,The barley, the rye, and the oats,The rice, and the corn, and the wheat,The cotton, and sugar, and fruit,The flowers and the fine honeycomb,The country so fair and so free,The blessings and glory of home.”Amelia E. Barr.
“Have you cut the wheat in the blowing fields,The barley, the oats, and the rye,The golden corn and the pearly rice?For the winter days are nigh.”
“We have reaped them all from shore to shore,And the grain is safe on the threshing floor.”
“Have you gathered the berries from the vine,And the fruit from the orchard trees?The dew and the scent from the roses and thyme,In the hive of the honeybees?”
“The peach and the plum and the apple are ours,And the honeycomb from the scented flowers.”
“The wealth of the snowy cotton fieldAnd the gift of the sugar cane,The savoury herb and the nourishing root——There has nothing been given in vain.”
“We have gathered the harvest from shore to shore,And the measure is full and brimming o’er.”
“Then lift up the head with a song!And lift up the hand with a gift!To the ancient Giver of allThe spirit in gratitude lift!For the joy and the promise of spring,For the hay and the clover sweet,The barley, the rye, and the oats,The rice, and the corn, and the wheat,The cotton, and sugar, and fruit,The flowers and the fine honeycomb,The country so fair and so free,The blessings and glory of home.”Amelia E. Barr.
Translated by special permission from Guerber’s Contes et Legendes, IèrePartie.Copyright by American Book Company.
Once upon a time a poor old beggar woman stood shivering by the side of a road which led to a prosperous village. She hoped some traveler would be touched by her misery, and would give her a few pennies with which to buy food and fuel.
It had been snowing since early morning, and a sharp east wind made the evening air bitterly cold. At the sound of approaching footsteps the old woman’s face brightened with expectancy, but the next moment her eager expression changed to disappointment, for the traveler passed without giving her anything.
“Poor old woman,” he said to himself. “This is a bitter cold night to be begging on the roadside. It is, indeed. I am truly sorry for her.”
And as his footsteps became fainter, the beggar woman whispered, “I must not give up. Perhaps the next traveler will help me.”
In a little while she heard the sound of wheels. It happened to be the carriage of the mayor, who was on his way to a Thanksgiving banquet. When his excellency saw the miserable old woman, he ordered the carriage to stop, lowered the window, and took a piece of money from his pocket.
“Here you are, he called, holding out a coin.
The woman hurried to the window as fast as she could. Before she reached it, however, the mayor noticed that he had taken a gold piece instead of a silver one out of his pocket.
“Wait a moment,” he said. “I’ve made a mistake.”
He intended to exchange the coin for one of less value, but he caught his sleeve on the window fastening, and dropped the gold piece in the snow. The woman had come up to the carriage window, and he noticed that she was blind.
“I’ve dropped the money, my good woman,” he said, “but it lies near you there in the snow. No doubt you’ll find it.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you,” said the beggar, kneeling down to search for the coin.
On rolled the mayor to the banquet. “It was foolish to give her gold,” he thought, “but I’m a rich man, and I seldom make such a mistake.”
That night after the banquet when the mayor sat before a blazing fire in his comfortable chair, the picture of the beggar woman, kneeling in the snow, and fumbling around for the gold piece, came before his eyes.
“I hope she will make good use of my generous gift,” he mused. “It was entirely too much to give, but no doubt I shall be rewarded for my charity.”
The first traveler hurried on his way until he came to the village inn, where a great wood fire crackled merrily in the cheery dining room. He took off his warm coat, and sat down to wait for dinner to be served. But he could not forget the picture of the old beggar woman standing on the snowy roadside.
Suddenly he rose, put on his coat, and said to the host, “Prepare dinner for two. I shall be back presently.”
He hastened back to the place where he had seen the poor old woman, who was still on her knees in the snow searching for the mayor’s gold piece.
“My good woman, what are you looking for?” he asked.
“A piece of money, sir. The gentleman who gave it to me dropped it in the snow.”
“Do not search any longer,” said the traveler, “but come with me to the village inn. There you may warm yourself before the great fire, and we shall have a good dinner. Come, you shall be my Thanksgiving guest.”
He helped her to her feet, and then, for the first time, he saw that she was blind. Carefully he took her arm, and led her along the road to the inn.
“Sit here and warm yourself,” he said, placing her gently in a comfortable chair. In a few moments he led her to the table, and gave her a good dinner.
On that Thanksgiving Day an angel took up her pen, and struck out all account of the gold piece from the book where the mayor recorded his good deeds. Another angel wrote in the traveler’s book of deeds an account of the old beggar woman’s Thanksgiving dinner at the village inn.—Adapted.
Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.Serve the Lord with gladness:Come unto his presence with singing.Know ye that the Lord heisGod;It is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves;We are his people and the sheep of his pasture.Enter into his gates with thanksgivingAnd into his courts with praise,Be thankful unto him,andbless his name.For the Lord is good; his mercy is everlasting:And his truth endureth to all generations.—Psalm C.
Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.Serve the Lord with gladness:Come unto his presence with singing.Know ye that the Lord heisGod;It is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves;We are his people and the sheep of his pasture.Enter into his gates with thanksgivingAnd into his courts with praise,Be thankful unto him,andbless his name.For the Lord is good; his mercy is everlasting:And his truth endureth to all generations.—Psalm C.
Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.Serve the Lord with gladness:Come unto his presence with singing.
Know ye that the Lord heisGod;It is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves;We are his people and the sheep of his pasture.Enter into his gates with thanksgivingAnd into his courts with praise,Be thankful unto him,andbless his name.
For the Lord is good; his mercy is everlasting:And his truth endureth to all generations.—Psalm C.
Ah, happy morning of autumn sweet,Yet ripe and rich with summer’s heat.
Ah, happy morning of autumn sweet,Yet ripe and rich with summer’s heat.
Ah, happy morning of autumn sweet,Yet ripe and rich with summer’s heat.
Near me each humble flower and weed——The dock’s rich umber, gone to seed,The hawk-bit’s gold, the bayberry’s spice,One late wild rose beyond all price;Each is a friend and all are dear,Pathetic signs of the waning year.The painted rose-leaves, how they glow!Like crimson wine the woodbines show;The wholesome yarrow’s clusters fine,Like frosted silver dimly shine;And who thy quaintest charm shall tell,Thou little scarlet pimpernel?In the mellow, golden autumn days,When the world is zoned in their purple haze,A spirit of beauty walks abroad,That fills the heart with peace of God;The spring and summer may bless and cheer,But autumn brings us the crown o’ the year.Celia Thaxter.
Near me each humble flower and weed——The dock’s rich umber, gone to seed,The hawk-bit’s gold, the bayberry’s spice,One late wild rose beyond all price;Each is a friend and all are dear,Pathetic signs of the waning year.The painted rose-leaves, how they glow!Like crimson wine the woodbines show;The wholesome yarrow’s clusters fine,Like frosted silver dimly shine;And who thy quaintest charm shall tell,Thou little scarlet pimpernel?In the mellow, golden autumn days,When the world is zoned in their purple haze,A spirit of beauty walks abroad,That fills the heart with peace of God;The spring and summer may bless and cheer,But autumn brings us the crown o’ the year.Celia Thaxter.
Near me each humble flower and weed——The dock’s rich umber, gone to seed,The hawk-bit’s gold, the bayberry’s spice,One late wild rose beyond all price;Each is a friend and all are dear,Pathetic signs of the waning year.
The painted rose-leaves, how they glow!Like crimson wine the woodbines show;The wholesome yarrow’s clusters fine,Like frosted silver dimly shine;And who thy quaintest charm shall tell,Thou little scarlet pimpernel?
In the mellow, golden autumn days,When the world is zoned in their purple haze,A spirit of beauty walks abroad,That fills the heart with peace of God;The spring and summer may bless and cheer,But autumn brings us the crown o’ the year.Celia Thaxter.
Transcriber's Notes:Antiquated spellings have been preserved.Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.
Transcriber's Notes:
Antiquated spellings have been preserved.
Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.