Chapter XVII

Thanksgiving Day was drawing near
With memories of a happy year.
The children to the woodshed went
And to the axe their backs they bent,

In golden crescents cut their prize
To make it into pumpkin pies;
Yet saved the seeds to plant next spring,
That these might other pumpkins bring.

A smaller pumpkin had they still,
And carved it out with wondrous skill.
Made eyes and mouth, put in a light,
A funny lantern ’twas at night!