Age, on whose hoary head the almond-blossom formed a crown of glory; middle age, in smiles and the full fruition of happiness; infancy, exuberant with joy, — ranged side by side. The sober-suited grandmother, rich in experience, had seen sunshine and shadow fall upon ninety-six years. Four generations sat at that dinner-table. The rich viands made busy many appetites; but, what of the poor! Willingly — though I take no stock in spirit-rappings — would I have had the table give a spiritual groan for the unfeasted ones.
Under the skilful carving of the generous host, the mammoth turkey grew beautifully less. His was the glory to vie with guests in the dexterous use of knife and fork, until delicious pie, pudding, and fruit caused unconditional surrender.
And the baby! Why, he made a big hole, with two incisors, in a big pippin, and bit the finger presumptuously poked into the little mouth to arrest the peel! Then he was caught walking! one, two, three steps, — and papa knew that he could walk, but grandpa was taken napping. Now! baby has tumbled, soft as thistle-down, on the floor; and instead of a real set-to at crying, a look of cheer and a toy from mamma bring the soft little palms patting together, and pucker the rosebud mouth into saying, “Oh, pretty!” That was a scientific baby; and his first sitting-at-table on Thanksgiving Day — yes, and his little rainbowy life — brought sunshine to every heart. How many homes echo such tones of heartfelt joy on Thanksgiving Day! But, alas! for the desolate home; for the tear-filled eyes looking longingly at the portal through which the loved one comes not, or gazing silently on the vacant seat at fireside and board —
