Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems/Thanksgiving


 * Within a garret, cold and forlorn,
 * A group is gathered Thanksgiving morn:


 * Father and mother, with children three—
 * One but a babe on the mother's knee.


 * Haggard and pale is the father's face,
 * Where lingering sickness has left its trace;


 * While the careworn look on the mother's brow
 * Tells of the sorrow upon her now.


 * Hungry and faint from the lack of food,
 * With scanty clothing, no coal nor wood;


 * A broken table, a bare pine floor—
 * What have they to be thankful for?


 * Thoughts like these to the parents come,
 * While sitting here in their cheerless home.


 * The children, nestled upon the bed,
 * A fragment of carpet over them spread,


 * Are blind to their parents' mute despair;
 * And the little girl, with a pitying air,


 * Says, "What do poor children do, I wonder,
 * With no warm carpet to cuddle under;


 * "No papa and mamma to give 'em bread,
 * And tuck 'em up when they go to bed?"


 * Tear-drops start from the father's eyes;
 * Prayers from the mother's lips arise.


 * Footsteps fall on the creaking floor;
 * A knock is heard on the chamber door.


 * A bluff " Good-morning" their query brings,
 * And, "Sambo, you rascal, fetch up the things!"


 * While the squire's darkey, with cheerful grin,
 * Food and clothing brings quickly in.


 * "Lord bless you, ma'am! why, who'd a knowed
 * That folks lived up in this 'ere abode?


 * "'Tain't fit for a barn, 'n', ez I'm a sinner,
 * I'll take you all to my house to dinner.


 * "I'll find you work when you're strong and well,
 * 'N' a better place than this 'ere to dwell—"


 * And the squire paused, while a tear arose,
 * And dropped unseen on his ruby nose,


 * As the baby boy, with a happy look,
 * A rosy apple from Sambo took.


 * And the children gathered, with hungry eyes,
 * 'Round the platter of doughnuts and pumpkin pies;


 * While the grateful mother could only say,
 * "Truly, this is Thanksgiving Day!"