Children of all ages--to the toddling
darling, the last babe of the youngest daughter--fill up the interstices,
while the few books in the house are barely sufficient to bring the
little ones in their low chairs to an effective level with the table.
Incredible stowage having been effected, the sleepy after-dinner hours are
somewhat heavily passed; but with the lamps and the tea-board, sociability
revives. The evening passes among the old people, with chequers and
back-gammon. Puss-in-the-corner, the game of forfeits--blind-man's-buff
entertain the young folks. Apples, nuts and cider come in at nine o'clock,
and perhaps a mug of flip--but it is rather for form's sake than for
appetite. At ten o'clock the fire is raked up, and the household is a-bed.
Excepting some bad-dreams, Thanksgiving day is over.
SONG OF THE ARCHANGELS
(FROM GOETHE'S FAUST.)
BY GEORGE P. MARSH.
RAPHAEL.
E'en as at first, in rival song
Of brother orbs, still chimes the SUN,
And his appointed path along
Rolls with harmonious thundertone;
With strength the sight doth Angels fill,
Though none can solve its law divine;
Creation's wonders glorious still,
As erst they shone, eternal shine.
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