THE LAST OF THE THANKSGIVING FEAST.
WHAT AM I?
I am brown or gray. I may be painted any color. Under some circumstances, I am very annoying to sensitive ears. As I make no sound, and am a fixture, so I can not annoy any one. My swift motion may give uneasiness to those unaccustomed to me, but as I am an act of mutilation performed by a person, which I am not, of course I can not stir. When in rapid motion, with all my equipments, I am a very pretty sight. To some, seeing me only suggests sickness and bitterness. I can't be seen, for I am intangible, and can only be heard. I can't be heard, for when I am done, no sound is heard, because I am an act, not a thing. I make no sound when in motion. Poems have been written in my honor. Many anathemas also have I excited, particularly from the sleepless. Yet I don't see how it is possible for me—colorless, brown, soundless, sharp, rasping, tasteless, bitter, motionless, vibrating, quiescent, gliding—to excite either pleasurable or the contrary emotions in any one. Absolutely valueless, save to my owner, I play an important part in commerce. I am an article of merchandise, and very expensive. A little of me goes a great way, and costs a great deal. I take up very little space. In spacious quarters I require a large amount of leeway. Large revenues are derived from me. I can be had for the taking, and generally am regarded as a nuisance. No one can like me, I am so disagreeable; yet to many I am the dearest thing they own. No owner would willingly part with me. I am a protection, a home, and, to crown all, I am vegetable, mineral, and medicinal.
ENIGMA.
The lady treads her lofty halls,
Her robes are long and fine,
And because of my first their velvet folds
With softest, lustre shine.
And when the revel and rout are done,
And the robes are laid away,
Again my first the lady takes
Through half the livelong day.
Through every land beneath the sun
Where Nature's touch we find,
It's never my last that's "more than kin."
Though always "less than kind."
The sweetest lips that e'er were kissed
Have to my whole been pressed:
It rests on the knees of feeble age,
On the infant's tender breast.
