ll the blessings thou hast sent,--
For paths that led us far from wrong,--
For holy joys and sweet content,
We praise thee with our hearts of song.

From thy rich treasuries above
Thy freest bounties full have come
To swell the laughters of our love
Around the happy hearths of home.

The fields have borne abundant store;
The roses and the lilies white
Have crowned the prairies and the shore
With raptures of their love and light.

The orchards bend with fruitage tall,
And plenty rules from sea to sea,
And at the Harvest Home we call,
Dear Lord, in thankfulness to thee!

Through mingled ways of shine and shade
Thou hast our foot-steps guided far,
And all our pilgrimages made
Glad journeys under sun and star.

Our sacrifice, O Lord, we bring!
Thou hast sufficed for every need;
Bless thou the meager offering
Of vagrant heart, imperfect deed!

And be our Keeper through the night,
And through the long years of our quest,
Till thou shalt welcome to delight
And lead us in the ways of rest!

Duly Thankful.

"Lawd, we am mighty thankful foh all dat we hab receibed fum thy
bounteefu' han's!" prayed the reverent darkey; "en above all, we am
thankful dat de sheriff nebber got erroun' to take de ole mule erway
'foh de cotton crop got tended to!"

"When Pa Puts Up the Stove."

'Long in the fall when it gits cold
An' Ma takes on the shakes,
Then Ma at Pa will talk an' scold,
"The kids'll freeze, my sakes!"
Then Pa he ties a aprun on
An' mittens double wove,
An' we kids know we'll have some fun
When Pa puts up the stove!

He grabs the pipe he laid away
There in the attic high,
An' jumps aroun' jes' lively! Say,
My Pa is orful spry!
He dumps the soot upon the stairs,
An' gits blacked like a cove,
An' what he talks ain't sayin' prayers
When Pa puts up the stove!

He cuts his fingers some, an' grows
All black an' white in turn,
An' that bald place his old head knows
Gits red ernough to burn;
An' when we laugh, he snaps his eyes
No matter where we rove,--
An' say! Ma gits so mad she cries
When Pa puts up the stove!

An' Ma she jaws erround an says
He hain't no sense, an' we
Hide out behind the barn a-ways
To miss the jamboree.
I tell ye, fellers, they're a sight!