It was a cold day in November; the wind was twirling and whistling through the trees on the Common; the dead leaves were dropping seared and yellow to the earth, admonishing the old gentleman whom we left drumming upon the window, that—
"Such was life!"
The old gentleman thumped and thumped the window pane with a dreary sotto voce accompaniment for some minutes, when he was interrupted by an aged, pious-looking matron, who dropped her spectacles across the book in her lap, as she sat in her chair by the fireside, and said—
"Joel."
"Umph?" responded the old gentleman.
"The Lord has spared us to see another Thanksgiving day, should we live to see to-morrow."
"He has," responded Mr. Newschool.
"I've been thinking, Joel, that how ungrateful to God we are, for the blessings, and prosperity, and long life vouchsafed to us, by a good and benevolent Almighty."
"Rebecca," said the faltering voice of the rich man, "I know, I feel all this as sensitive as you can possibly feel it."
"I was thinking, Joel," continued the good woman, "to-morrow we shall, God permitting, be with our children and friends once again, together."