'Twas a beautiful group, and needed but the pencil of an artist to have rendered it, on canvas, touching, tender and glorious. Age, on whose hoary head the almond-blossom was a crown of glory, middle age, in smiles and the full fruition of happiness, infancy, exuberant with joy —ranged side by side. The sober suited grandmother, rich in experience, had seen the sunshine and shadow fall upon ninety-six years. Four generations sat at that dinner-table, and the rich viands made me remember the poor, and I would have willingly had the table give a spiritual groan, though I take no stock in Rochester rappings.
The mammoth turkey, under the skilful carving of the generous host, grew beautifully less, while he was engaged in a hand-to-hand encounter with his guests in the dexterous use of knife and fork, Greek meeting Greek. We hope 'tis sufficient to acknowledge that we all kept up the affray, over pies, puddings, etc., after the same fashion. And the baby! why he made a big hole, with two incisors, into a big pippin, and bit the finger that was presumptuously stuck into the little mouth, to arrest the apple peel. Then he was caught walking! one, two, three steps! And papa knew that he could walk, but grandpa was taken napping. Now baby has tumbled like thistle-down on to the carpet; but instead of a real set-to at crying, with a look of cheer and a toy from mamma he brought the soft little palms patting together and puckered the little rose-bud mouth into saying, "Oh! pretty!" that was a scientific baby, and his first sitting-at-the-table on Thanksgiving, and the little rainbowy existence was the sunshine of every heart.
How many homes echo tones of heartfelt joy on Thanksgiving day; and alas! how many tearfilled eyes look at the door made desolate through which the loved one comes not, and gaze at the vacant seat at fireside and board. God help them all we prayed then and there, but the memory was too much,—we turned away and pledged in a bumper of pudding sauce, peace plenty and the union forever.
