This is a history and post card column, and the paper has another section reserved for poetry. However, last Saturday at the flea market held monthly at the Exposition Center I bought an old letter including an unpublished poem. Though poetry, it is quite old history worthy to be published but difficult to illustrate with postcards, so I am sacrificing the latter to feature the former today. I hope you like it as much as I.

This is a history and post card column, and the paper has another section reserved for poetry. However, last Saturday at the flea market held monthly at the Exposition Center I bought an old letter including an unpublished poem. Though poetry, it is quite old history worthy to be published but difficult to illustrate with postcards, so I am sacrificing the latter to feature the former today. I hope you like it as much as I.

“LITTLE RUTH”

It was to have been a glad Thanksgiving Day

For the harvest safely stored in barn and cellar

A time to feast and pray.

Alike in cot[tage] and mansion

Was a hurring [sic] here and there

And the scent of the browning turkey

Filled like incense all the air

Dear little Puritan Ruthie

Looked on in grave surprise

Her small hands gently folded

Her blue eyes grave and wise

A host of eager questions

Flitting [?] from brain to tongue

To puzzle the busy workers [?]

Their savory tasks taming[?]

At last the mother lost patience

Ruth do thee go out and play

I will call thee when I need thee

Then silently Little Ruth

Tripped out of the noisy kitchen

Though in truth she rather not

But without the sun shone brightly

And it seemed [to] Ruth

Thanksgiving was the best of all the year.

Still letting her idle footsteps

Just where they were wanted stray

She wandered on in the brightness

All that glad Thanksgiving day!

Then dinner at last was ready.

The haste and bustle were o’er,

And the mother flushed with toiling

Flung open the cottage door.

“Ruth, Ruth,” I want thee”

But only the echo her frightened voice replied

“I want thee child,

Does thee hear?”

Where was she her little daughter

The forest was wide and deep.

She went back into the cottage

The child she’s lost” She said.

And then to arouse the neighbors

Down the woodland trail she sped

The dinner was left untasted

The search went bravely on

Till the stars pale light shone in heaven

And the daylight all had gone.

“Have you tidings of the lost one?

To one and another searcher

“Not yet”—was the low reply,

“There soon must be, be hopeful.”

All through the darksome night

The torches flamed and flickered.

Neath the stars pale light.

Till at last in the East a glimmer

Told of a day begun.

And the startled band of hunters heard

Thanks to God for his gracious goodness.

Bang, Bang, and the joyful signals

Seemed would rend the skys

Found!, Found! ,In a sheltered nook

In a hollow snug and deep.

But the joyous clamor

Of [?] a sudden died on air.

For the golden hair was nestling

On a great black shaggy bear.

He growled at the flaming torch lights

Ruth—Blue eyes opened wide

She glanced at the leveled muskets,

Half dozen all around,

And then with a cry of terror

She sprang at a single bound.

“Don’t shoot the dog!” she pleaded

Here wee hands, clasping tight

“For he has kept me warm and safely

All through this dark cold night.”

“So be it,” cried her father

As he clasped her in his arm.

“Not a hair of his shaggy head

Through us shall come to harm.”

Then home went the glad procession

Through the morning growing ,

To the cottage in the forest,

To the mother waiting there.

And the tears she could not stay,

“I thank thee Lord” she murmured,

“For this glad Thanksgiving day,”4

Mabelle Knowlton

March 24, 1896