PART III. Programmes for Special Occasions (continued 2)

The looks of yer, ma’am, rather suits me— The wages ye offer ’ill do; But thin I can’t inter yer sarvice Without a condition or two. And now, to begin, is the kitchen, Commodgeous, with plenty of light, And fit, ye know, fur entertainin’ Sech fri’nds as I’m like to invite? And nixt, are yous regular at male-times? Because ’taint convainyent, ye see, To wait, and if I behaves punkshul, It’s no more than yous ought to be. And thin is your gurrels good-natured? The rayson I lift my last place, The French nuss was sich a high lady, I sint a dish-cloth at her face. And have yer the laste objection To min droppin’ in when they choose? I’ve got some enlivinin’ fust cousins That frayquently brings me the news. I must have thim trayted powlitely; I give yer fair warnin’ ma’am, now, If the airy gate be closed agin thim, You’ll find me commincin’ a row. These matters agrayed on between us, I’d try yer a wake, so I would. (She looks like the kind I can manage, A thin thing without any blood!) But mind, if I comes for a wake, ma’am, I comes for that time, and no liss; And so, thin, purvidin’ ye’d want me, Just give me your name and addriss.

Have you ever been to see the busy Bee-Hive Town, With its funny little wooden houses square and brown? Hear the bees from clover-fields come flying swiftly down All enter one little doorway. CHORUS. Hurrah, hurrah, for busy Bee-Hive Town, With funny little houses square and brown; Here the bees from clover fields come flying swiftly down Bringing the sweet golden honey. Oh, there are so many rooms with thin and waxen wall, Packed so close together that you could not count them all, Here the small bee babies sleep until they learn to crawl, And fly to find the golden honey. Mother bee is called the queen, her children love her well, And she lives within a warm and cosy little cell; While her children search in garden, meadow-land and dell, Helpful and happy in working. All the merry sister bees do many a helpful thing— Tend their little sisters and the golden honey bring: But the lazy brother bees do naught but hum and sing, All through the long golden summer.

Honor the Mayflower’s band, Who left their native land And home so bright; Honor the bravery That crossed the winter sea, For worship, fearless, free, In cause of right. Oh, they had much to fear, Sickness and death was near To many a one; Foes did them cruel wrong, Winter was dark and long, Ere came the Springtime’s song And burst of sun. Honor those valiant sons, Honor those fearless ones, The Mayflower’s band. Honor the bravery That scorned all tyranny, And crossed the stormy sea To this fair land!

I’m thankful that I’m six years old, And that I’ve left off dresses; And that I’ve had my curls cut off,— Some people call them tresses. Such things were never meant for boys;— Horrid dangling, tangling curls— They go quite well with dress and sash; They are just the thing for girls. I’m thankful I have pockets four, Tho’ they’re almost too small, To hold the things I want to keep;— Some strings, knife, top and ball. I’m thankful that we’re going to have, All my folks and I, Just a jolly dinner to-day, With turkey and mince pie. O, one thing more, my mamma says, And what she says is true; ’Tis God who gives us everything, And keeps and loves us too. And so I thank Him very much For all that I enjoy; And promise that next New Year’s day Will find a better boy.

Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West, From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, When the grey-haired New Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, What moistens the lip, and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie? O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling; When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! When wild, ugly faces were carved in its skin, Glaring out through the dark with a candle within! When we laughed round the corn heap, with hearts all in tune, Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon, Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! Then thanks for thy present!—none sweeter or better E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking than thine! And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky Gold-tinted and fair as thine own pumpkin-pie! J. G. Whittier.

What matters it the cold wind’s blast, What matters though ’tis snowing, Thanksgiving Day has come at last; To grandmamma’s we’re going. Wrapped in furs as warm as toast, O’er the hills we’re fleeting; To welcome friends, a merry host And grandma’s smile of greeting. The sleigh bells jingle merrily, And though the flakes are flying, At last beyond the hills we see A little mansion lying. I’m sure we’ll find sweet cakes and fruit And pumpkin pies so yellow; For grandma knows just how to suit Each hungry little fellow.

Just outside the window, Through the cold night air, Snowflakes falling softly, Dropping here and there, Covering like a blanket All the ground below, Where the flowers are sleeping, Tucked in by the snow. They are dreaming sweetly, Through the winter’s night, Of the summer’s morning Coming sure and bright. 2. Just inside the window Firelight ruddy gleams; On the walls and ceiling Dance its merry beams. White as outside snowflakes Is the little bed; On the downy pillow Rests a curly head. Like the flowers the child is dreaming Of the long, bright hours of play Coming as the darkness melteth Into sunny day. 3. And above the sleepers,— Be they child or flower,— Our loving Father bendeth Watching hour by hour. ’Tis his love which giveth Blessings great or small; ’Tis his sun which shineth, Making day for all.

For the wealth of pathless forests, Whereon no axe may fall; For the winds that haunt the branches; The young bird’s timid call; For the red leaves dropped like rubies Upon the dark green sod; For the waving of the forests I thank thee, O my God! For the sound of water gushing In the bubbling beads of light; For the fleets of snow-white lilies Firm anchored out of sight; For the reeds among the eddies; The crystal on the clod; For the flowing of the rivers, I thank thee, O my God! For the rosebud’s break of beauty Along the toiler’s way; For the violet’s eye that opens To bless the new-born day; For the bare twigs that in summer Bloom like the prophet’s rod; For the blossoming of flowers, I thank thee, O my God! For the lifting up of mountains, In brightness and in dread; For the peaks where snow and sunshine Alone have dared to tread; For the dark and silent gorges, Whence mighty cedars nod; For the majesty of mountains, I thank thee, O my God! For the splendor of the sunsets, Vast mirrored on the sea; For the gold-fringed clouds that curtain Heaven’s inner mystery; For the molten bars of twilight, Where thought leans glad yet awed; For the glory of the sunsets, I thank thee, O my God! For the earth and all its beauty; The sky and all its light; For the dim and soothing shadow That rest the dazzled sight; For unfading fields and prairies, Where sense in vain has trod; For the world’s exhaustless beauty, I thank thee, O my God! Lucy Larcom.

Long ago, To our land Came the Mayflower’s little band, Long ago To our land Came the Mayflower’s band. O, they came across the sea, For the heart’s devotion free. Long ago To our land Came the Mayflower’s band. Winter, spring, Slowly passed, And the harvest came at last. Winter, spring, Slowly passed Harvest came at last. Then for all the blessings given, Thanks they rendered unto heaven, From that day Came to stay, Glad Thanksgiving Day.

Let us with nature sing, And floral tributes bring, On this glad day; Violets white and blue, Daisies and lilies too, Pansies of purple hue, And roses gay. O’er this fair land of ours, Blossom the golden flowers In loveliness; From Maine to Washington, Wherever smiles the sun, Their fairy footsteps run To cheer and bless. When winter’s curtains gray, From skies are pushed away By nature’s hand; We gladly welcome you, Blossoms of red and blue, Blossoms of every hue, To our fair land.

Once ’tis said, gay, flaunting poppies, And the humble mignonette, Side by side grew in a garden Where one day their glances met. Cried a Poppy: “Of your presence, In this spot we have no need, You are sadly out of place, You are nothing but a weed.” Meekly bowed the Mignonette And ashamed in silence stood, When there came a gentle murmur, Like a whisper from the wood: “Henceforth, gay and flaunting poppies, Proud and stately in thy bloom, Shall be taken half thy beauty— All thy wealth of sweet perfume. It is thine, O mignonette, Flower of sweet and lowly grace; Thou shalt win the hearts of others, Though thou hast a humble face.” And the magic of that whisper. Holds its mystic power yet; Poppies lure us with their beauty, But we love the mignonette.

Wordsworth wrote: The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare. Waters on a starry night, Are beautiful and fair. Longfellow wrote: O flower de luce, bloom on, and let the river Linger to kiss thy feet. O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever The world more fair and sweet. Lowell wrote: The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there’s never a blade or a flower too mean, To be some happy creature’s palace. Leigh Hunt wrote: We are violets blue, For our sweetness found Careless in the mossy shades, Looking on the ground. Love-dropped eye-lids, and a kiss, Such our breath and blueness is. John Wolcott wrote: The daisies peep from every field, And violets sweet their odors yield, The purple blossom paints the thorn, And streams reflect the blush of morn Then lads and lasses, all be gay, For this is Nature’s holiday. Horace Smith wrote: Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living teachers, Each cup a pulpit and each leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, From loveliest nook. Lowell wrote: Winds wander, and dews drip earthward, Rains fall, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet.

When winter o’er the hills afar, Has vanished from the land, And glad and welcome signs of Spring Are seen on every hand, Then Robin in his vest of red, And sober suit of brown, From out his sunny, southern home, Flies gaily into town. The blossoms smile to hear him sing, And see him build his nest; For of all merry summer birds Dear Robin, they love best. He chirps and twitters at his work, While skies forget to frown, And all the world is glad and gay When Robin lives in town. The summer softly fades away Into the winter drear, Then Robin gayly sings, “good-bye, I’ll come another year.” So when the woodland trees are bare, And snowy flakes fall down; In little suit of brown and red, Dear Robin leaves the town.

A harebell hung its willful head: “I am so tired, so tired! I wish I was dead.” She hung her head in the mossy dell: “If all were over, then all were well.” The wind he heard, and was pitiful; He waved her about to make her cool. “Wind, you are rough,” said the dainty bell; “Leave me alone—I am not well.” And the wind, at the voice of the drooping dame, Sank in his heart, and ceased for shame. “I am hot, so hot!” she sighed and said; “I am withering up; I wish I was dead.” Then the sun, he pitied her pitiful case, And drew a thick veil over his face. “Cloud, go away, and don’t be rude; I am not—I don’t see why you should.” The cloud withdrew, and the harebell cried, “I am faint, so faint! and no water beside!” And the dew came down its million-fold path; But she murmured, “I did not want a bath.” A boy came by in the morning gray; He plucked the harebell, and threw it away. The harebell shivered, and cried, “Oh! oh! I am faint, so faint! Come, dear wind, blow.” The wind blew softly, and did not speak. She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak. “Sun, dear sun, I am cold,” she said. He rose; but lower she drooped her head. “O rain! I am withering; all the blue Is fading out of me;—come, please do.” The rain came down as fast as it could, But for all its will it did her no good. She shuddered and shriveled, and moaning said; “Thank you all kindly;” and then she was dead. Let us hope, let us hope, when she comes next year, She’ll be simple and sweet. But I fear, I fear. George Macdonald.

We had climbed to the top of the old Gray Peak, And viewed the valley o’er; And we started off on our homeward tramp, A good three miles or more. The road lay curved like a ribbon of gold, Around the base of the hill, And the brook gleamed out with a silver sheen, From thickets near the mill. But the sun shone warm on the dusty road, Until by heat oppressed, We wearily stopped at a cottage gate; The matron bade us rest. How cool was the shade of the trumpet-vine, A spring ran fresh and clear? The flash and whirr of a jeweled thing, A humming-bird was near. We were sauntering down the garden path, Repeating kind good-byes, When suddenly now were our footsteps stayed, New beauties met our eyes. “Will you have some pansies?” the hostess asks, “O, thank you, on!” we say; But the matron is culling the purple blooms, We let her have her way. Purple and blue and russet and gold Those fragrant rich bouquets; “Ah!” she explains, “of my violets sweet, You have not learned the ways. “There is something good about pansies That’s worth your while to know; The more they are picked and given away The more they’re sure to grow.” Mary A. McClelland.

O where do you come from, berries red, Nuts, apples and plums, that hang ripe overhead, Sweet, juicy grapes, with your rich purple hue, Saying, “Pick us and eat us; we’re growing for you?” O, where do you come from, bright flower and fair, That please with your colors and fragrance so rare, Glowing with sunshine or sparkling with dew? “We are blooming for dear little children like you.” “Our roots are our mouths, taking food from the ground, Our leaves are our lungs, breathing air all around, Our sap, like your blood, our veins courses through— Don’t you think, little children, we’re somewhat like you? “Your hearts are the soil, your thoughts are the seeds; Your lives may become useful plants or foul weeds; If thou think but good thoughts your lives will be true, For good women and men were once children like you.” Nellie M. Brown.

We would hail thee, joyous summer, We would welcome thee to-day, With thy skies so blue and cloudless And thy song-birds, glad and gay. Oh, the blossoms hear thee calling, Hear thy voice that ne’er deceives, And they waken from their slumbers Far beneath the withered leaves. Little brooks with merry laughter, Run to greet their lovely guest; For of all the happy seasons Summer dear, they love thee best. So we hail thee, joyous summer, We would welcome thee to-day; With thy skies so blue and cloudless, And thy song-birds, glad and gay.

Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o’er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may follow, When friendships decay, And from love’s shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone? Thomas Moore.