The Florida agriculturist. [volume] (DeLand, Fla.) 1878-1911, 1879-12-03
THANKSGIVING DAY.
Memoir.


Editor of The Florida Agriculturist
AS the years roll onward and the
festivals, or holidays embraced in the
two closing months approach, thought,
in trackless: traceless flight, retreats
to the inevitable past, searching for
the old tide marks over which the
rippling stream of time has borne us
in its swift, unerring course far, FAR
from the dear old home where we
were born. Beloved parents, dear
brothers and precious sisters, loved
companions with whom we played in
childhood's happy days, where are ye
now? Every tender heart will bear
through life, despite the resistless
movements of time, certain incidents,
certain figures of the past that are
forever stamped upon the tablet of
memory, that faithful register that
never deceives, and many bitter les
son is recorded there, that can never
be effected, or ignored, though from
the same store-house we gather prec-
ious honey-dew that serves as heavenly
balm to assuage the wounds, that
time, 20 which we owe so much, is
powerless to heal. AS day by day
we pursue the journey onward, sun.
light and shadow alternate, so in the
past, on memory's page they rest,
never to be removed until the celes-
tial light, that illumes the skies be.
yond earth's shore, shall pour it's un-
sullied rays along the path we tread,
and by its glory pale the dark tracks
that sin and sorrow have marked.
We will rejoice that memory has
sweet dreams, though not unmixed
with regret and sad remembrance
of lowly graves in distant church
yards, that we often visit, as we re.
turn in fancy, united with fact, to the
neve--to. be-torgotten home OF child
hood, where our fathers observed
Thanksgiving day religionsly, az in
the eye Of the law.
.n Frienos from New England, who
have adopted this, once foreign State,
as new and permanent home, let
us return hand in hand, for a time, to
the dear old homestead-the old
fashioned comforts the long,plain din
ing room with its deep, broad hearth.
stone, its immense, chimney-place suf-
ticiently ample to accommodate half
dozen boys and girls; let us sit there
as Of yore on the painted wooden
benches, and look about the familiar
room. There are the two great yell
low cane-bottom arm chairs occu-
pied, by right, by the dearest friends
Of helpless infancy, and best coun-
cellors Of matured years. Great pre-
parations have been made for our
coming Did not we always return
to the house place to partake with
our dear ones the annual Thanksgiv.
ing dinner? For two weeks hands
have been busy in their work of pride
and love. for all who could were to
be present at the family gathering be.
meath the sacred root tree that had
sheltered our babyhood, and now as
we pass over the threshold are not
our hearts brimming with joy, as we
close the heavy door between the
pure atmosphere within and the busy,
restless world without, as we thank
God, softly that this exclusive, sacred
retreat may still be claimed while
memory lasts? The young children
cluster about the room, whispering,
and dancing, and laughing among
themselves. They look wise and glad,
They have secrets. They know how
the evenings have been occupied for
a fortnight past, as each with allotted
task gathered around the long
table pairing apples, seeding raisins
slicing citron, washing currants to
compound the delicious miuce pies
and fruit cake in quantities to reach
through the holidays. Had they not
! trudged in line, up and down the Gel
lar stairs, counting as they went, the
plates that held the treasured store
They knew of the rich and dainty
things the white napkins hid on The
swing shelves, and they laughed glee
fully as they pictured our surprise
when the pantry should reveal the
jelly cakes and delicious preserves
The hickory and butternuts with oily
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