# Suggestive programs for special day exercises/Thanksgiving Day

“The best thanksgiving is thanks-living.”
THANKSGIVING DAY.
Last Thursday of November.
Note—It adds much to the interest of the day if the school room can be decorated with fruits and grains.
THE NUT PARTY.
[Enter six children with decorated plate of nuts.]
Chestnut—
 Old Mistress Chestnut once lived in a burr,
 Padded and lined with the softest of fur;
 Jack Frost split it wide with his keen silver knife,
 And tumbled her out at the risk of her life.
Walnut—
 Here is Sir Walnut, he's English, you know,
 A friend of my Lady and Lord So-and-So.
 Whenever you ask old Sir Walnut to dinner.
 Be sure and make much of the gouty old sinner.
Peanut—
 Little Miss Peanut, from North Carolina,
 She's not 'ristocratic,' but no one is finer.
 Sometimes she's roasted and burnt to a cinder.
 In Georgia they call her Miss Goober or Pinder.
Hazelnut—
 Little Miss Hazelnut, in her best bonnet.
 Is lovely enough to put in a sonnet;
 And young Mr. Filbert has journeyed from Kent
 To ask her to marry him soon after Lent.
Hickory—
 This is old Hickory. Look at him well!
 A general was named for him, so I've heard tell.
 Take care how you hit him, he sometimes hits back,
 This stolid old chap is a hard nut to crack.
Butternut—
 Old Mr. Butternut, just from Brazil,
 Is rugged and rough as the side of a hill.
 But like many a countenance quite as ill-favored.
 He covers a kernel deliciously flavored.
All—
 Now, dearest schoolmates, I'm sure we have told
 All the queer rhymes that nut-shell can hold.
—From Shedd's Special Day Exercises.
WE THANK THEE.
First pupil—
 For gainful hours of pain and loss,
 For strength that grew beneath the cross,
 For gold refined and freed from dross.
We thank thee, Lord.
Second pupil—
 For cheerful ease and calm content.
 For hours in gentle gladness spent,
 So sweet we ask not how they went,
We thank thee, Lord.
Third pupil—
 For hours o'erlived with bated breath,
 For victory in the fight with death.
 For answered prayers that strengthened faith,
We thank thee. Lord.
Fourth, pupil—
 For ties thou hast not torn apart,
 For glimpses of thee as thou art,
 For the "bright weather of our heart,"
We thank thee, Lord.
Fifth pupil—
 And oh! for mercies numberless.
 For succor in our soul's distress
 In perils we but dimly guess.
We thank thee. Lord.
The five together—
 We have no words and little wit
 To frame such thanks as may befit
 Thy grace, and yet—thou knowest it—
We thank thee, Lord.
As children, sometimes sudden
 Run, grateful to a father's knee—
 We dimly feel our debt to thee,
And thank thee, Lord.
—From Pattengill's Special Day Exercises.
THANKSGIVING EXERCISE FOR LITTLE ONES.
(Have the letters of the words "Thanksgiving" made of pasteboard and covered with evergreens, fancy paper, or red berries. Arrange an evergreen arch so that each letter can be hung in place at the conclusion of the verse, letting the pupils group in a semi-circle in front of it.)
T—The little folks will now appear.
 They, too, have thanks to give
 Unto the God whose mercy great.
 Permits them still to live.
H—How many of us are there here,
 With happy hearts and light.
 Now helping to give thanks and cheer
 To our dear friends tonight.
​A—"A" do I bring and put in place,
 Helping a little; see?
 God is well pleased with little thanks
 From little girls like me.
N—"N" comes the next, and here am I,
 Rosy and full of glee;
 I thank our God that through this year
 Good health was given me.
K—"K" is for our King and Lord,
 Who made and clothed the earth;
 To him we offer praise and thanks.
 For aJl that it brings forth.
S—Each one of us must do his part,
 "S" is the letter that I bring.
 Hang it up so all can see
 That I, too, thank the King.
G—"G" comes now to do her part
 And say her little prayer,
 'Tis this: "Oh Lord I thank thee
 For all thy love and care."
I—I am quite small, but you'll agree
 Small boys to great men grow.
 Even now I can thank the Lord
 For grain which we plant and mow.
V—"V" stands for vines, once graceful and green,
 That waved in the summer breeze;
 Now they are yellow, but here is the fruit.
 My prayer is, "I thank Thee for these."
I—Another "I" now doth appear,
 Tenth in the list he ranks.
 Gladly he does his little part,
 In the evening "giving of thanks."
N—Now nearly finished is the word
 That tells why we are here;
 I hope that all, when we are done.
 Will thank our Lord so dear.
G—God our Father, Savior, King,
 Accept our grateful praise,
 For all the good that we have known
 Of life and length of days.
All—"Thanksgiving" is the motto bright.
 We have now made for you;
 Dear friends, lift up your hearts,—
 'Tis what all men should do.
—From Shedd's Special Day Exercises.
(By permission.)
THANKSGIVING HYMN.
(Air—"America.")
O thou, whose eye of love
 Looks on us from above
Low at thy throne
We come to thee and pray
That, gleaning clay by day.
Our grateful hearts alway
 Thy hand may own.
Thine are the waving fields,
Thy hand the harness yields;
 And unto thee
To whom for rain and dew.
And skies of sunny blue,
Our love and praise are due,
 We bend the knee.   And when beneath the trees
In fairer fields than these
 Our glad feet roam,
There where the bright harps ring,
May we our gleanings bring,
And in thy presence sing
 Our harvest home.
—From Song Budget.
THE PUMPKIN.
J. G. WHITTIER.
(On receipt of a pumpkin pie.)
Ah! on Thanksgiving Day when from east and from west,
From north and from south come the 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 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 tune
Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon,—
Telling tales of the fairy who traveled 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 its last sunset sky
Golden tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin pie!
THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY.
Children, do you know the story
 Of the first Thanksgiving Day,
Founded by our Pilgrim Fathers
 In that time so far away?
They had given for religion
Wealth and comfort—yes, and more,— Left their homes and friends and kindred,
 For a bleak and barren shore.
On New England's rugged headlands,
 Now where peaceful Plymouth lies,
There they built their rough log cabins,
 'Neath the cold, forbidding skies.
And too often e'en the bravest
 Felt his blood run cold with dread,
Lest the wild and savage red-man
 Burn the roof above his head.
Want and sickness, death and sorrow,
 Met their eyes on every hand;
And before the spring had reached them
 They had buried half their band.
But their noble, brave endurance
 Was not exercised in vain;
Summer brought them brighter prospects.
 Ripening seed and waving grain.
And the patient Pilgrim mothers,
 As the harvest time drew near.
Looked with happy, thankful faces
 At the full corn in the ear.
So the Governor, William Bradford,
 In the gladness of his heart.
To praise God for all his mercies,
 Set a special day apart.
That was in the autumn, children.
 Sixteen hundred twenty-one;
Scarce a year from when they landed.
 And the colony begun.
And now when in late November,
 Our Thanksgiving feast is spread,
'Tis the same time-honored custom
 Of those Pilgrims long since dead.
We shall never know the terrors
 That they braved years, years ago;
But for all their struggles gave us.
 We our gratitude can show.
And the children of New England,
 If they feast or praise or pray.
Should bless God for those brave Pilgrims,
 And their first Thanksgiving Day.
—Youth's Companion.
THANKSGIVING.
PHOEBE CARY.
O men, grown sick with toil and care,
 Leave for awhile the crowded mart;
'O women, sinking with despair,
 Weary of limb and faint of heart,
Forget your years today and come
 As children back to childhood's home.
Follow again the winding rills.
 Go to the places where you went
When, climbing up the summer hills,
 In their green laps you sat content,
And softly leaned your head to rest
 On Nature's calm and peaceful breast.
Walk through the sere and fading wood,
 So slightly trodden by your feet,
When all you knew of life was good.
 And all you dreamed of life was sweet,
And ever fondly looking back
 O'er youthful love's enchanted track.
Taste the ripe fruits from the orchard boughs,
 Drink from the mossy well once more,
Breathe fragrance from the crowded mows
 With fresh, sweet clover running o'er.
And count the treasures at your feet.
 Of silver rye and golden wheat.
Go sit beside the hearth again.
 Whose circle once was glad and gay;
And if, from out the precious chain.
 Some shining links have dropped away,
Then guard with tender heart and hand
 The remnant of thy household band.
Draw near the board with plenty spread.
 And if, in the accustomed place.
You see the father's reverend head.
 Or mother's patient, loving face,
Whate'er your life may have of ill,
 Thank God that these are left you still.
And though where home has been you stand
 Today in alien loneliness;
Though you may clasp no brother's hand,
 And claim no sister's tender kiss;
Though with no friend nor lover nigh.
 The past is all your company.
Thank God for friends your life has known,
 For every dear, departed day;
The blessed past is safe alone—
 God gives, but does not take away;
He only safely keeps above
 For us the treasures that we love.
THE DAY WE LOVE.
M. J. B.
Of all the glad days of the year
 Thanksgiving Day's the best;
Then fun and joy run riot
 And sorrow is at rest.   We keep the day with feasting
 And enjoy it with a will,
From the poor man in the valley
 To the rich man on the hill.
What though the wind be chilly
 And clouds the sky may fill,
And all without be dreary.
 If the heart is happy still!
Then let us keep Thanksgiving
 And, looking through the years,
We'll labor ever onward.
 Unharmed by doubts or fears.
PEN PICTURE OF THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY.
'Tis the morn of the first Thanksgiving,
 The air it is crisp and cold.
The snow lies in drifts in the highways,
 The wind is cutting and bold.
From each lowly hut and cottage
 Unto the house of prayer.
With rifles upon their shoulders
 The pilgrims assemble there.
The dark, dreary winter is ended.
 The spring with its soft, gentle rain.
And the warm sunny days of the summer
 Had ripened the much needed grain.
Now each garner is bursting with plenty,
 Each heart, too, is filled with great joy.
This winter no famine will haunt them.
 No terror their thoughts will employ.
In the bleak little church in the village
 Are gathered stern men and fair maids.
Their praises are joyfully ringing
 And echo o'er high hills and glades.
Thus passed the first day of Thanksgiving,
 With thanks that e'er came from the heart;
And no matter how humble his station,
 Each person in them took his part.
—From American History Stories.