THANKSGIVING.
To-morrow is Thanksgiving.
No joyful clapping of hands when this was said, and the newspaper laid down in which the Thanksgiving proclamation had just been read. No little eyes brightened, or rosy lips said, “How nice—how glad I am!” and yet the little group, gathered there around the warm fire, were well fed and well clothed; there would be the usual turkey, and mince-pie, and plum-pudding at the Thanksgiving dinner; but grandpapa would not be there. Grandpapa was “gone!” What was Thanksgiving, without grandpapa’s silver head at the table? Little curly heads would miss the trembling hands of blessing; little ears would listen vainly for the faltering kindly voice; little eyes would watch when the hall door opened, but hear no tottering footstep; there would be no loving strife now, who should put away his “staff.” Grandpapa has a surer Staff now.
Dear old grandpa! who ever heard him speak a fretful, unkind word? No need to say Hush, children, grandpa is coming—no need to put away the humming-top, marbles, or ball; no need to draw down the merry little faces; no need for little chests to heave the half-stifled, disappointed sigh; no, indeed; grandpa’s hands trembled, grandpa’s feet tottered, grandpa’s forehead was seamed with wrinkles, and his hair was snow-white; but grandpa’s heart was fresh and green, and the sparkle in his eye was as merry as when he was a little boy himself.
Oh, what will Thanksgiving be without grandpa? Did grandpa ever think his children were not his children, because they were grown up, and had married, and left their old home? Did grandpa ever scowl at them when trouble and poverty came, as if it were a crime to be sick or poor? Was grandpa only glad to see them when they were rich and prosperous, and did he love them only when the world noticed them? No—no—else they would not all say to-day,
“Oh, what will Thanksgiving be without grandpa?” Dear old grandpa—there will be no sorrow mixed with his Thanksgiving to-morrow. You will all, I am sure, give thanks for that; his eyes are no longer dim, but the glorious things he sees, neither you or I may know, till our earthly Thanksgivings are over. No pillow to place for the feeble head, there is no sickness there; no cooling draught for the parched lips, for there is no more thirst; neither does he hunger any more; no need to trim the watcher’s midnight lamp, there is no night there. Oh, happy, blessed, sainted grandpapa. Surely the memory of Thanksgiving we will keep, and it shall not be without thee!
- Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.
- Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.