424 A Sketch from Life. [Se])temher^ 



At five o'clock upon Thanksgiving morning, Deacon Wilson arose 

 as he was wont, no holiday making any change in his hours. Yet 

 now he no longer sprang from his bed with the alacrity which changed 

 duty into pleasure ; he rose because imperious necessity com- 

 manded it. There were the cattle to be fed and watered, and the 

 poultry to receive the same attention, and there was, moreover, a j&re 

 to be made in the huge old kitchen fire-place, for the deacon had now 

 no servant or helper, and in the grey winter of his life, the whole 

 burden of managing his place had fallen on his shoulders. Fortun- 

 ately they were broad and strong — fortunately, his constitution was 

 good, his spirits elastic, and his piety sincere, for his burdens and 

 trials were indeed weighty. He had been comparatively rich — he was 

 now in embarrassed circumstances. He had looked forward to the 

 time when a son should relieve him of the most laborious of his toils, 

 while a daughter performed the same kind office for his wife. Both 

 had been disappointed — and now the old couple were the solitary 

 tenants of that old farm house. 



The deacon went mechanically about his morning labors ; he drove 

 the cattle to the water tank ; he supplied them with fresh fodder, and 

 after seeing that they were comfortable, returned to the old kitchen. 

 By this time the good wife had prepared a breakfast, and a genial fire 

 was diff'using its heat through the apartment. 



The old couple sat down to breakfast, after a blessing by the old 

 farmer, but the meal passed by in silence. It was followed by a fer- 

 vent prayer and the reading of a portion of the Scripture. After this 

 they adjourned to the sitting-room, where a good fire was burning, and 

 where the old dame assumes her knitting, one of those incomprehen- 

 sible pieces of female industry, which seems to have neither beginning 

 nor end. 



''Well," said she with a sigh, "This is Thanksgiving day. It 

 doesn't seem like old times at all. We used to have a house full of com- 

 pany, frolicksome young folks, and cheerful old people ; and now we 

 are alone, alone." 



" Last Thanksgiving day," said the old man, '' there was one with 

 us who seemed to my old eyes like an angel of light, with her fiiiry golden 

 hair floating like a halo of glory on her shoulders, and her little foot 

 making music as she moved about the old house. But even then there 



