The Northern Star, And Farmers' And Mechanics' Advocate

THANKSGIVING.

The season of Thanksgiving is again near at hand, and what matters it that we have before made mention of its annual return? That we have said it was the holiday of our Pilgrim Fathers--the time when they knelt beside the full garner, and thanked Almighty God that he had not sent starvation instead of Plenty?-- That we have said, ever since the white-man first gathered his harvest upon the wild shores of New England--it has been the signal for scattered kindred to gather once more beneath the roof where they were born--for the mother to welcome her daughter--or the father to grasp the hand of his son--for brethren and sisters, long separated upon the broad ocean of life, to gather once more around the hearth stones of their sires, and recall by association, pleasures sweeter than they were short, brighter than they were transient, dearer in the enjoyment than they are bitter in the remembrance! What matters it that we have said all this? Because we have once, or twice, or thrice, spoken of this Christian holiday, shall we do so no more? Are our seasons less bright, or our harvests less plenteous, or our homes less dear, or our hearts less thankful than they were in years gone by? Have we not, on the contrary, as one year is added to another of our sojourn in this pleasant land, greater and still greater cause, to all bow before the Omnipotent Eternal, the All Wise Disposer of Events, from whose hand comes every gift that is good and perfect--at whose mandate Autumn retraces her yellow steps--and Spring wreathes again her rosy brow-- and Summer respreads her dew-bespangled mantle? Have we not renewed cause for love and gratitude, and every other feeling that finite beings are capable of rendering to one Supremely Infinite?

Had we the power of eloquence--could we conjure the heart's blood up from its deepest well spring, to give a new pulsation to the feelings, to cause them to beat with our own--we would do it on the recurrence of this truly New-England Holiday!--when there is nought for show but the full eye, and the full heart--when the memory goes back from old age and manhood to infancy, and brings up dead pleasures and dead kindred to the habitations of the living--when the Christian sons of Christian fathers, do fall down and worship their Creator in Sincerity and Truth.

Pawtucket Chronicle.