N the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden; And the creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through the orange leaves shining the broad spheres of
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where the crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving Day when from East and from
West,
From North and from South come pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past like the rich pumpkin pie?
Oh,-fruit loved of boyhood!-the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were
falling!
When wild ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap with hearts all in
Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a pumpkin shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present!-none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking than thine!
And the prayer which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and thy last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thine own pumpkin-pie.
JAMES GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
NAY, only look what I have found!
A sparrow's nest upon the ground;
A sparrow's nest as you may see,
Blown out of yonder old elm-tree.
And what a medley thing it is!
I never saw a nest like this,
So neatly wove with decent care,
Of silvery moss and shining hair.
But put together, odds and ends,
Picked up from enemies and friends;
See, bits of thread and bits of rag,
Just like a little rubbish bag!
See, hair of dog and fur of cat,
And rav'lings of a worsted mat,
And shreds of silk, and many a feather
Compacted cunningly together.
Well, here has hoarding been and living
And a little good contriving,
Before a home of peace and ease
Was fashioned out of things like these!
Think, had these odds and ends been brought
To some wise man renowned for thought,
Some man, of men the very gem,
Pray, what could he have done with them?
If we had said: "Here, sir, we bring
You many a worthless little thing,
Just bits and scraps, so very small
That they have scarcely size at all;
And out of these you must contrive
A dwelling large enough for five;
Neat, warm, and snug; with comfort stored;
Where five small things may lodge and board."
How would the man of learning vast
Have been astonished and aghast,
And vow that such a thing had been
Ne'er heard of, thought of, much less seen!
Ah! man of learning, you are wrong;
Instinct is, more than wisdom, strong;
And he who made the sparrow, taught
This skill beyond your reach of thought.
And here in this uncostly nest,
These little creatures have been blest;
Nor have kings known in palaces
Half their contentedness in this-
Poor simple dwelling as it is!
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children, coming home from school, Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
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