Upon the silver treasure plate we pile the purple fruit
And Molly swings the heavy oven door;
The air is sweet with spicy things, the kettle hums a tune,
The yellow sun is shining on the floor.
Just out across the river, through the lines of crinkled corn,
A gusty little wind, all up and down,
Plays tag among the melon vines, and then flies off at last,
To tease the smoking chimneys of the town.
Warm Thanksgiving fires are burning, over all the land,
In the kitchens of the houses there is cheer;
And we are very cosy as we watch the little clock;
The hour of merry dinner-time is near.
CRACKER SHIPS
Ships a-sailing in my soup;
See them dip and flutter!
Little cracker ships are they
With a sail of butter;
Nurse has come; I eat them up
As fast as I am able;
She has said ’tis not polite
To fuss with things at table.