SECOND EDITION.
Shall the glorious festival of Thanksgiving, now yearly celebrated allover the American Union, (said the author to himself one day,) beushered in with no other trumpet than the proclamations ofState-Governors? May we not have a little holiday-book of our own, inharmony with that cherished Anniversary, which, while it pleases yourfellow-countrymen, should it have that good fortune, may acquaintdistant strangers with the observance of that happy custom of ourcountry? With the hope that it may be so received, and as a kindly wordspoken to all classes and sections of his fellow citizens, awakening afeeling of union and fraternal friendship at this genial season, thewriter presents this little volume of home characters and incidents.
November, 1850.
I see old Sylvester Peabody—the head of the Peabody family—seated inthe porch of his country dwelling, like an ancient patriarch, in thecalm of the morning. His broad-brimmed hat lies on the bench at hisside, and his venerable white locks flow down his shoulders, which timein one hundred seasons of battle and sorrow, of harvest and drouth, oftoil and death, in all his hardy wrestlings with old Sylvester, has notbeen able to bend. The old man's form is erect and tall, and lifting uphis head to its height, he looks afar, down the country road which leadsfrom his rural door, towards the city. He has kept his gaze in thatdirection for better than an hour, and a mist has gradually crept uponhis vision;[10] objects begin to lose their distinctness; they grow dim orsoften away like ghosts or spirits; the whole landscape melts gentlyinto a pictured dew before him. Is old Sylvester, who has kept it clearand bright so long, losing his sight at last, or is our common world,already changing under the old patriarch's pure regard, into thatbetter, heavenly land?
It seemed indeed, on this very calm morning in November, as if angelswere busy about the Old Homestead,