Old-fashioned Thanksgiving Poems

11/23/11 Chatterbox

Betty Kaiser

I have always loved the traditional songs and stories of Thanksgiving.  As a child, I remember being fascinated with the Pilgrims who crossed the stormy seas seeking religious tolerance. They landed at Plymouth Rock in December 1620 and would not have survived that first year without help from the Native Americans who taught them necessary survival skills: how to plant Indian corn and wheat; how to use fish as manure to grow crops plus hunting and fishing skills.

The following year, the first American Thanksgiving was celebrated in 1621, after a harsh winter. Governor William Bradford, in gratitude for the harvest reaped by the Plymouth Colony, proclaimed a day of thanksgiving. In turn, the colonists invited the Wampanoag Indians who, it is believed, brought the majority of the food for the feast.

It’s been nearly 400 years since that first Thanksgiving but we are still gathering together and giving thanks for the harvest and the privilege to live in freedom. This quintessential American holiday is embodied in song, poetry and prose that speaks to our hearts and reminds us of our many blessings.

Today I’m sharing two poems in the Thanksgiving spirit. The first is by Indiana’s famous poet, James Whitcomb Riley. Riley (in a Hoosier dialect) liked to praise what he called the “olden, golden glory of the days gone by.” His poem and “The Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving” by the prolific poet Edgar-Albert Guest would make good reading for all ages at tomorrow’s dinner table.

Happy Thanksgiving—to one and all!

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)

WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,

And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,

and the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,

 With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

 

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here--

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;

But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock--

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

 

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still

A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover over-head!--

O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

 

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps

Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;

And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through

With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...

I don't know how to tell it--but ef sich a thing could be

As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me--

I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock--

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

THE OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING

Edgar Albert Guest, (1881-1959)

It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell
Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well;
But thinking of them now I wish somehow that I could know
A simple old Thanksgiving Day, like those of long ago,
When all the family gathered round a table richly spread,
With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at the head,
The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile,
With mother running in and out and laughing all the while.

It may be I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me to-day
We're too much bent on having fun to take the time to pray;
Each little family grows up with fashions of its own;
It lives within a world itself and wants to be alone.
It has its special pleasures, its circle, too, of friends;
There are no get-together days; each one his journey wends,
Pursuing what he likes the best in his particular way,
Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving Day.

I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad
To meet the way they used to do when I was but a lad;
The old home was a rendezvous for all our kith and kin,
And whether living far or near they all came trooping in
With shouts of "Hello, daddy!" as they fairly stormed the place
And made a rush for mother, who would stop to wipe her face
Upon her gingham apron before she kissed them all,
Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small.

Then laughter rang throughout the home…

All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do,
The struggles we were making and the hardships we'd gone through;
We gathered round the fireside. How fast the hours would fly—
It seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye.
Those were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew
When relatives could still be friends and every heart was true.

Betty Kaiser’s Chatterbox is about people, places, family, and other matters of the heart.