heavy loads, my wind broken by hard 

 driving, my skin scarred by cruel blows. 

 Life has been all hard work, with scanty 

 food and little rest. What have I to be 

 thankful for? I do not know, unless it 

 is that my cruel master died last night, 

 and can never beat and curse and starve 

 me any more. This is scanty pasture 

 here among the sandhills, but it is better 

 than a full manger, and curses and abuse 

 therewith. Often the best thing that 

 can happen to a horse is to have his mas- 

 ter die. And so I am duly thankful." 



As all had now been represented, the 

 jackrabbit said : 



"My friends, the reports have now all 

 been made. We have heard many pleas- 

 ant things, and many things which make 

 us sad. I think, however, that each one 

 has found some cause for thanksgiving, 

 even though his life is hard and' filled 



with danger. All of us have learned that 

 there are troubles and difficulties in the 

 lives of others, many of which do not 

 afflict us, and for this we should be duly 

 thankful. From lions to lizards is a 

 long step in the animal world, but there 

 is a chain of common experience all the 

 way through, binding us together. 



"Let us remember through all the year 

 to come, that there is no life without trial 

 and privation, without hope and blessing, 

 without cause for thanksgiving. Let us 

 sympathize more with one another, think 

 less of our own trials, and look oftener 

 at the bright spots that come into our 

 lives. 



"The Thanksgiving Assembly for the 

 year Nineteen Hundred and One is now 

 adjourned." 



Mary McCrae Culter. 



Wildly round our woodland quarters, 



Sad-voiced Autumn grieves; 

 Thickly down these swelling waters 



Float his fallen leaves. 

 Through the tall and naked timber, 



Column-like and old, 

 Gleam the sunsets of November, 



From their skies of gold. 



O'er us, to the southland heading, 



Screams the gray wild-goost; 

 On the night-frost sounds the treading 



Of the brindled moose. 

 Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping, 



Frost his task-work plies; 

 Soon, his icy bridges heaping, 



Shall our log-piles rise. 



— John Greenleaf Whittier, "The Lumberman." 



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