the snow-spirit made haste to whiten its robe as it departed.
Thursday, November 30th.
A little snow this evening, a few hoarse threats from the winds, and then the clouds relented. They would not cast a lasting shade over New England's almost sole festival. For this day is her annual Thanksgiving, set apart by the fathers amid colonial toil and privation, when, amid the scanty harvest, the rude hovel, and the Indian conspiracy,
"They shook the depths of the desert-gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer."
Methinks even the pitiless storm would not willingly blot out the joy of the child, preparing to return to its home, from a distant school, or from service, to brighten, for a brief season, the loved circle around the hearth-stone.
Hark! the steam-engine shrieks, the mellow stage-horn winds, and see, they come. The spruce, young collegian arrives, ready to display new stores of knowledge to his wondering sisters; and the soberly-clad apprentice grasps heartily with his hardened hand that of parent or friend. A carriage stops at the door of a pleasant farm-house. A fair, young woman, who at the last Thanksgiving wore the white robe of the bride, descends, and with her husband enters the home of her nativity.
