Age, on whose hoary head the almond-blossom formed a [1]

crown of glory; middle age, in smiles and the full fruition

of happiness; infancy, exuberant with joy,—ranged side

by side. The sober-suited grandmother, rich in ex-

perience, had seen sunshine and shadow fall upon ninety- [5]

six years. Four generations sat at that dinner-table.

The rich viands made busy many appetites; but, what

of the poor! Willingly—though I take no stock in

spirit-rappings—would I have had the table give a

spiritual groan for the unfeasted ones. [10]

Under the skilful carving of the generous host, the

mammoth turkey grew beautifully less. His was the

glory to vie with guests in the dexterous use of knife and

fork, until delicious pie, pudding, and fruit caused un-

conditional surrender. [15]

And the baby! Why, he made a big hole, with two

incisors, in a big pippin, and bit the finger presump-

tuously poked into the little mouth to arrest the peel!

Then he was caught walking! one, two, three steps,—

and papa knew that he could walk, but grandpa was [20]

taken napping. Now! baby has tumbled, soft as thistle-

down, on the floor; and instead of a real set-to at crying,

a look of cheer and a toy from mamma bring the soft

little palms patting together, and pucker the rosebud

mouth into saying, “Oh, pretty!” That was a scientific [25]

baby; and his first sitting-at-table on Thanksgiving Day—

yes, and his little rainbowy life—brought sunshine

to every heart. How many homes echo such tones of

heartfelt joy on Thanksgiving Day! But, alas! for the

desolate home; for the tear-filled eyes looking longingly [30]

at the portal through which the loved one comes not, or

gazing silently on the vacant seat at fireside and board—