The Cass County Republican. [volume] (Dowagiac, Mich.) 18??-1880, 1859-11-24
The Story of Thanksgiving.

Thursday of next week will be ga
white day. for Thursday of next week
will be Thanksgiving. 1t is breath
too soon to write of the humamizing
tendency there is in Thanksgivings,
but we may perhaps give part of the
story of the day.
When the second winter came.upon
the New England Pilgrims, unawares
by night, and the sower went forth to
sow while they were sleeping, and the
morning was white with winnowed
snow, as-if an almond tree had shed its
blossoms on the world, those brave old
farmers looked not appalled,: the har-
vest psalm they had begun to sing, was
ended with dying fall, for over brown
October, the hem of Winter was lying
like shroud.
The lines of corn yet shivered in the
field, the drifts lay strong about the lin
gering flowers, the Lady Arabella
might have brought across the sea.
Then came the Fast-daY, plant and
prayer, and on those granite hearts
the rain froze as it fell.
But by and by, there dawned another
day; the sun shonc with gentle CLEAN
along New England's red and golden
woods; the snow went up in mists,
and hung in wells rs soft as breath of
rivulcts in Spring. The grass grew
green at touch of snow; the cabin
doors swung wide again, and birds re-
newed their song.
Departed Summer had returned,
and her last days were glorious; re-
turned,
''To mark how many shcaves they bind,
And see if all are ripened we'll
With balmy breath she whispers low
The dying flowers look up and give
Their sweetest incense ere they go,
For her who made their beauties live.
She enters meath the woodlands shade;
Her zephers lift the lingering leaf
And bear it gently where are laid
The loved and lost ones of its grief''
And this was double
land. And so, they began to plan,
again, for winters white leaf had fallen
out of time! And so they gave thank.
and sang a song, ond SO like n lily
THANKsGivINGs might have been.
That was a cloudy day when John
Winthrop was dividing his last hand
ful of meal with the starving, and the
Lady Arabella Johnson, that fair flower
of the noble house of Lincoln, was dying
in the wilderness. Meagre famine
looked in at the door, and the Autumn
wind sighed at the window, but even
then, that God had brought them safely
over the sea. and had girded up their
hearts to be strong, and had driven
them together with His winters, and
had made them strong with His hills
might they have raised the voice and
hallowed the day of Thanksgiving
and so might it have been like star
in the night; and so would it even
seem to us, like the sunshine on far
off hill, made doubly beautiful through
the cloud and the mist of rainy day
But such is not the story of this No
vember Festival, the brightest Thurs
day in the calendar.
Two hundred and thirty-six years
ago, young Edward Winslow, who
married the the mother of New Eng
lands first-born son, was writing let
ter to his dear old home.
After the harvest had been gathered
wrote Winslow, that sterling man
Governor William Bradford, dis
patched company for game, that they
might have luxuries for feast, and re-
joice together after the fruits Of theil
labors were earned. $780," as the re
cords runs, "they ate of it, and they
feasted Massasoit and ninety of his
Indians, and they thanked God with
all their hearts for the good world and
the good things in it. And so they
kept their first Thanksgiving"
A quarter Of century elapsed, wher
Governor Bradford declared, that since
that day, no man had wanted food.
Suchis the soon-told story of Thanks
giving-a sunny thought; some Pilgrim
heart throbbed out and sent rejoicing
sparkling down the stray November.
of all time to come Chicago Journal
J 18th inst.