paid on the way home to scattered and rickety houses; but by
one o'clock, all the people are beneath their own roofs, never so
attractive as on this glorious day. The married children from the
neighboring towns have come home, and the old house is full.

The great event of the day is at hand. It is dinner-time. The table of
unnatural length, narrower at one end, where it has been eked out for the
occasion, groans with the choicest gifts of the year. There is but one
course, but that possesses infinite variety and reckless profusion. For
one day, at least, the doctrine of an apostle is in full honor. "For every
creature of God is good, and nothing to be refused, if it be received with
thanksgiving." The long grace sanctifies the feast with the word of God
and with prayer. The elders and males are distributed to front the
substantial of the board--the round of _a-la-mode_, the brown crisp pig
with an apple in his mouth, the great turkey who has frightened the little
red-cloaked girls and saucy pugs for months past, the chicken-pie with
infinite crimping and stars and knobs, decorating its snowy face. The
mothers and daughters are placed over against the puddings and pies, which
have exercised their ambition for weeks--vying with rival housekeepers in
the number and variety of sorts--and which, after the faint impression
made on them to-day, shall be found for a month, filling the shelves of
spare-closets and lending a delicious though slightly musty odor to the
best wardrobe of the family. Children of all ages--to the toddling
darling, the last babe of the youngest daughter--fill up the interstices,
while the few books in the house are barely sufficient to bring the
little ones in their low chairs to an effective level with the table.
Incredible stowage having been effected, the sleepy after-dinner hours are
somewhat heavily passed; but with the lamps and the tea-board, sociability
revives. The evening passes among the old people, with chequers and
back-gammon. Puss-in-the-corner, the game of forfeits--blind-man's-buff
entertain the young folks. Apples, nuts and cider come in at nine o'clock,
and perhaps a mug of flip--but it is rather for form's sake than for
appetite. At ten o'clock the fire is raked up, and the household is a-bed.
Excepting some bad-dreams, Thanksgiving day is over.

SONG OF THE ARCHANGELS

(FROM GOETHE'S FAUST.)

BY GEORGE P. MARSH.

RAPHAEL.

E'en as at first, in rival song