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Text from North Vernon Plain Dealer - November 27, 1889

    It is not necessary that the Thanksgiving feast should be sumptuous. There need not be turkey on the table, nor mince pie, nor plum pudding, nor ice cream. The plates and dishes need not be of fine porcelain, nor the spoons and forks of solid silver.
    All may be very plain, cheap and simple. Last Thanksgiving a father who was in pecuniary straits took home for his boys' dessert two quarts of hot peanuts, and they were received with shouts of laughter and applause. He says they were the pleasantest Thanksgiving hit he ever made in his life.
    But there are some things which are essential to the success of a Thanksgiving festival. Every one must be present or ought to be there=the whole family circle within reasonable reach; the unpopular members of it, as well as the popular; the ill favored and the handsome; the unfortunate and the fortunate; those whom nobody particularly wants to see, as well as those whom everybody delights to see; welcome all on this glad day!
    There is a strange pleasure in the occasional meeting of the most incongruous people, provided the spirit of innocent gayety gets into the ascendant, and remains there. Everyone says, "Who could have thought that old Cousin Dick and cranky Aunt Abigail could have been so agreeable!"
    Each person must, of course, leave his troubles at home with his old clothes, or button them up close and tight in his innermost pocket. We all have troubles, and there are times when it is proper to tell them; but on occasions of Family festivity it is good to forget, for a few brief hours, that there is such a thing as trouble in the world.     Family affection is a source of so much happiness and help to us that no fair opportunity of strengthening and increasing it should be allowed to pass unimproved.
From the Magazine Youths' Companion.

Menu Idea for the Day

Stewed Oysters
Broiled Quail,        Currant Jelly
Baked Sweet Potatoes
Lambs Liver,         Tomato Sauce

Consoumme Royale
Broiled Smelts,         Sauce Tartare
Duchess Potatoes
Ragout of Mallard Duck
Cauliflower,        Canned Peas
Roast Turkey,        Cranberry Sauce
Escarole Salad
Plum Pudding
Chocolate        Fruits        Nuts


Thanksgiving Poem

The little brown house by the road,
With vines running up to the eaves,
Where the summer long there were bursts of song,
And a flutter of wings in the leaves;
Oh! The little brown house was merry
In the 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
Is lonely now and still,
For Robin is dead, and Alice is wed,
And Louie must bide at the mill;
Father is gray and silent,
And the mother's foot is slow,
And you hear the clock with its faint tick-tock,
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 falling leaves,
From the time of seed to the waving mead,
And the flush of the ripening sheaves,

The little brown house by the road,
When I passed it yester o'rn,
Sudden and sweet it laughed to greet
My eyes with a dazzling sheen;
There were lamps in the twinkling windows,
I knew 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 felt it there,
Had the tender warmth of May,
The father's tongue was loosened,
And the mother's laugh was clear,
For the chrism of love was poured above
The home to 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 army,
And Archie, afar on the sea,
Never forget the tasks they were set,
At home by the mother's knee,

From little brown homes by the road,
The strength of our land is brought,
Paying their way from day to day,
Simple and pure in thought,
The chord of a grand Thanksgiving
From homes like this ascends,
To the glory of One beyond the sun,
Whose kingdom never ends,
Margaret E. Sangster - in Demorests's Monthly Magazine

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