COMMUTER'S THANKSGIVIN i 



acres has become a city street; the generout 

 farmhouse has become a speaking-tube, kitchen- 

 ette and bath — all the "modern convenient 

 the cows have evaporated into convenient cai 

 condensed " milk " ; the ten-barrel box of potatoes 

 has changed into a convenient ten-pound bag, the 

 wood-pile into a convenient five-cent bundle of 

 blocks tied up with a tarred string, the fireplace 

 into a convenient moss-and-flame-painted gas-log, 

 the seven children into one, or none, or into a 

 convenient bull-terrier pup. Still, we may give 

 thanks, for convenient as life has become to-day, 

 it has not yet all gone to the dogs. 



It is true, however, that there might be fewer 

 dogs and more children, possibly ; fewer flats and 

 more farms ; less canned milk (or whatever the 

 paste is) and more real cream. Surely we might 

 buy less and raise more, hire less and make more, 

 travel less and see more, hear less and think more. 

 Life might be quieter for some of us ; profoumler, 

 perhaps, for others of us, — more inconvenient 

 indeed, for all of us, and yet a thing to be thank- 

 ful for] 



It might, but most of us doubt it. It is not tor 

 the things we possess, but only for the things we 



