Thanksgiving

The little brown house by the road, W'ith vinea running up to the eavea, Where the summer long there were bursts of song, And a flutter of wings in the leaves; Oh! the littlo brown house was merry In tho days that used to be. When the boys and girls, with their sunny curls, Were close at the mother's knee. But the little brown house by the road la lonely now and still, ForRohin is dead, aud Allee is wed. And Ix)uie must bide at the mili ; Father is gray and silent, And the mother'a foot is slow, And you hear the clock with its faint ticktock, As you could not long ago. The little brown house by the road, From the swift train flashing by, I watch it stand in the quiet land, Under the quiet sky ; From the time of the golden daisies To the hour of the f alling leaves, From the time of seed to the waving mead. And the flush of the ripened sheaves. The little brown house by the road, When I passed it yester e'en, Sudden and sweet it laughed to greet My eyes with a dazzling sheen; rhero were lamps in the twinkling windows, I kaew as I rattled past That the fire was bright on the hearth alight, And the children home at last. To the little brown house by the road Had come Thanksgiving day. And the wintry air, if they feit it fchere, Had the tender warmth of May. The father's tongue was loosened. And Lhe mother's laugh was clear, For the chrism of love was poured above The home in the waning year. The little brown house by the road- Oh : mother, old and gray, Honest and true they return to you, The children who went away; And Rev, who is off in the anny, And Archie, afar on the sea, Kever forget the tasks they werc set, At homo, by the mother's knee. From little brown homes by the road, The strength of our land is brought, Payina: their way from day to day, Simple and pure in thought. The chord of a grand Thanksgiving From homes llke this ascends, To the glory of One beyond the sun, Whose kingdom oever enda.