Connecticut western news., 1879-11-12
THE TVINTER'S FIRE.
A RHYME OF THANKSGIVING.

The grain IS threshed and slowed away,
 The barn filled to it's caves with hay,
 And blazing logs are heaped up higher
 To form the farmers winter fire.
 The years abundance gathered in,
 Glad Plenty reigns in barn and bin,
 And cheerful faces by the hearth
 Reflect the cheerful things of earth.
 No more the farmer drives a-field
 To gather in the harvest yield;
 No more the happy farn-boys go
 From field to farmhouse. to and fro.
 Thrown open is the cellar-door, With brown potatoes on the floor
 While heap on heap, and pile on pile,
 The ruddy winter apples smile. Long rows of barrels. elder filled,
 From the clean, straw-packed press distilled With loosened bpngs, for working free, Give hints of lasciousness to be, When apple bees are heldat night,
 And<ty tho faEmer,s firesiae-brlghf, The rosy lads and 1asses meet
 With added sweetness to tLe sweet,
 And out upon the barn-floor wide,
 By the great barn-doors, just inside, The unhusked corn, wondrous store,
 Tells that the husking is not o'er
 An! how shall turn the maidens head. As, startled by the ear of red,
 She darts away, as to forsake
 The coming kiss she longs to take. Just by the corn, in row on TOW, The golden-sided pumpkins glow, Containing hints to youthful eyes Of mothers golden pumpkin-pies.
 Within the fields, unchecked and free, The turkeys gobble past each tree: Oh, luckless turkeys, yet to learn They must be gobbled in their turn! The apples drying in the sun, Hang on their strings, and nearly done; The brown nuts scattered on the rack Are almost dried, and fit to crack; The sleek, fat cattle seek the now; The meek-eyed OK, the patient COW, Within the barn-yard all the day Are loitering their time away. Home from the various spots of earth, To seek the farmers cheerful hearth, Relations gather in the land For now Thanksgiving is at hand, Mary, whose mission is to teach, And John, who has a call to preach; Jacob, who, born a farmer. now Upon his own farm guides the blow. And such a lot of little folks, So full of nonsense and of jokes That grandma says, with happy eyes, She has no chance to cut the pies. And now the neighbors, dropping in, Help on the merriment and din, And happy lads and girls, at play, Are thankful, this Thanksgiving Day. The dinner groans upon the board, The foaming cider forth is poured, The roasted turkey, plump and brown, Is nicely carved and hurried down. Preserves and jellies, pies and cakes An! just to think how many aches The good things of this life inspire Beside the farmers cheerful fre And now the afternoon is gone, The shades of night come slowly on, And gathered by the cracking flames, The happy group indulge in games: Fuss in the Corner,' "Blind Mans Buff. :" And < Hunt the Slipper mot so rough And, oh, the overwhelming bliss Of games whose forfeit is kissI The fire has fickered slowly down, The corners changed to Vandyke brown; And here and there, pair apart Converse of matters of the heart. A smack, a fair girl turns her head, :. Her Vandyke brown has changed to rcd. Is it tho dying frelight's flush, Or can it be the maiden's blush? As home the happy couple go, Across the fields just touched with snow. Beneath his tread the frost's sharp crack Repeats that surreptitious smack. Her eyes are looking in his face, With tender trust and girllsh grace; When next Thanksgiving Day draws higher. Her hands shall build his winters fire,