An Illustrated Monthly Rural Magazine 
-FOR EVERY 
ONE WHO PLANTS A SEED OR TILLS A PLANT 
Subscriptions 50 cents per year. -:o: ■ ■■■ Advertising space $5.40 per inch. 
Vol. 6. NOVEMBER, 1885. No. 11. 
Miss Lucinda’s Thanksgiving. 
But why do I keep Thanksgiving, 
Do I hear you aright, my dear? 
Why? When I’m all alone in life, 
Not a chick nor a child to be near, 
John s folks, all away in the West, 
Lucy’s, across the sea, 
And not a soul in the dear old home 
Save a little bound girl and me! 
It does look lonesome, I grant it; 
Yet, strange as the thing may sound. 
I’m seldom in want of company 
The whole of the merry year round— 
There’s spring when the lilac blossoms, 
And the apple trees blush to bloom, 
There’s summer when great moths flit and 
glance. 
Through the twilight’s star-lit gloom. 
Then comes the beautiful autumn, 
When every fragrant brier, 
Flingiag its garlands on fence and wall, 
Is bright as a living fire; 
And then the white, still winter time, 
When the snow lies warm on the wheat, 
And I think of the days that have passed away, 
When my life was young and sweet. 
I’m a very happy woman. 
To- day, though my hair is white. 
For some of my troubles I’ve overlived, 
And some I keep out of sight. 
I’m a busy old woman, you see, dear, 
As I travel along life’s road, 
I’m always trying as best I can 
To lighten my neighbor’s load. 
That child? you should think she’d try me, 
Does she earn her bread and salt? 
You’ve noticed she's sometimes indolent, 
And indolence is a fault; 
Of course it is, but the orphan girl 
Is growing as fast as she can, 
And to make her work from dawn till dark 
Was never a part of my plan. 
I like to see the dimples 
Flash out in the little face. 
That was wan enough, and still enough 
When first she came to the place. 
I think she’ll do, when she's older; 
A kitten is not a cat. 
And now that I look at the thing, my dear, 
I hope she’ll never be that. 
I am thankful that life is peaceful; 
I should just be sick of strife, 
If, for instance, I had to live along 
Like poor Job Slocum’s wife, 
I am thankful I didn’t say “yes,” my dear— 
What saved me, I do not see— 
When Job, with a sprig in his button-hole, 
Once came a-courting me. 
I’m thankful, I’m neither poor nor rich. 
Glad that I’m not in debt; 
That I owe no money I cannot pay, 
And so have no call to fret. 
I'm thankful so many love me. 
And that I’ve so many to love, 
Though my dearest and nearest are all at home. 
In the beautiful land above. 
I shall always keep Thanksgiving 
In the good old-fashioned way, 
And think of the reasons for gratitude, 
In December, and June, and May, 
In August, November, and April, 
And the months that come between; 
For God is good, and my heart is light, 
And I’d not change place with a queen, 
—Margaret E. Sangster, in Demorevt's Monthly. 
