Within a garret, cold and forlorn, A group is gathered Thanksgiving morn:
Father and mother, with children three—
One but a babe on the mother's knee.
Haggard and pale is the father's face, Where lingering sickness has left its trace;
While the careworn look on the mother's brow
Tells of the sorrow upon her now.
Hungry and faint from the lack of food, With scanty clothing, no coal nor wood;
A broken table, a bare pine floor—
What have they to be thankful for?
Thoughts like these to the parents come, While sitting here in their cheerless home.
The children, nestled upon the bed, A fragment of carpet over them spread,
Are blind to their parents' mute despair; And the little girl, with a pitying air,
Says, "What do poor children do, I wonder, With no warm carpet to cuddle under;
"No papa and mamma to give 'em bread, And tuck 'em up when they go to bed?"
Tear-drops start from the father's eyes; Prayers from the mother's lips arise.
Footsteps fall on the creaking floor; A knock is heard on the chamber door.
A bluff " Good-morning" their query brings, And, "Sambo, you rascal, fetch up the things!"
While the squire's darkey, with cheerful grin, Food and clothing brings quickly in.
"Lord bless you, ma'am! why, who'd a knowed
That folks lived up in this 'ere abode?
"'Tain't fit for a barn, 'n', ez I'm a sinner, I'll take you all to my house to dinner.
"I'll find you work when you're strong and well, 'N' a better place than this 'ere to dwell—"
And the squire paused, while a tear arose, And dropped unseen on his ruby nose,
As the baby boy, with a happy look, A rosy apple from Sambo took.
And the children gathered, with hungry eyes, 'Round the platter of doughnuts and pumpkin pies;
While the grateful mother could only say, "Truly, this is Thanksgiving Day!"