An Illustrated Monthly Rural Magazine 
2/5-FOR EVERY ONE WHO PLANTS A SEED OR TILLS A PLANT.-^ 
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VOL. 5. 
£> £ 
NO. X! 
VOL. 5, 
Thanksgiving. 
-:o:- 
HEN the grapes have been gathered, the fields 
have been shorn, 
And the wealth of the land has been garner¬ 
ed with joy, 
For the glow of the vintage, the gold of the corn, 
What tribute of praise shall we fondly employ? 
O what shall we render, what gifts shall we bring, 
To the Lord of the harvest, our Maker and King? 
His sunshine was poured over orchard and plain, . 
Alike on the ground of the evil and good: 
All softly descended his bountiful rain, 
On the churl who had often his kindness withstood; 
And the grace of the flowers, the sheaves of the 
wheat. 
Were sent from the hand that rules bitter and 
sweet. 
Not less than to thank Him, not more may we do, 
He needs not our praise ’mid the worship of heaven; 
Tet haply its minor steals tenderly through 
Some rift in the chorals, if truly ’tis given. 
Bfcy'i hush, little faith! If he stoop to our prayer, 
For the psalm of our gladness, he surely shall care. 
And we thank Him, not only for blessings bestowed, 
For the gains we have counted with triumph and 
pride, 
We thank Him for conflicts midway on the road, 
For fair things withholden, for pleadings denied, 
For trial and hinderance; He saw from above, 
And all he gave or withheld was in love. 
Ah ! sometimes the cloud has been murky and thick, 
And wearily kneeling, at close of the day, 
“Lord, listen, for one whom thou lovest is sick, 
And one whom we love, -1 has been ours to say. 
Ah! sometimes the cross has been heavy; the pain 
Has silenced earth’s music, again and again. 
Still, never defeated, though often o’erbome,, 
Still, conquering ever, our songs shall arise 
To Him who has dowered us evening and mom 
With mercies uncounted, like stars in the skies. 
Oh! what shall we render, what strains shall we 
bring. 
To our Maker, Defender, our Captain, our King? 
We thank Him for freedom, for peace in our land, 
For the voices of children, for purity’s reign, 
For the millions of homes that so sturdily stand, 
Where mothers in honor their sceptres maintain. 
For virtues transmitted from father to son, 
For all of renown that our country has won. 
When have been gathered, when uelds have 
been shorn. 
And the wealth of the earth is in gamer and bin, 
Ere the bugles of tempest their message have borne, 
Or the storms of the winter their fury begin, 
To the Giver of Good let our anthems ascend, 
For the Lord of the harvest is alway our Friend. 
—Margaret E. Sangster in Demorest's Mo:, thly. 
