She's Real to Me

Doctor and the Doll  Norman Rockwell

Bessie's Song to her Doll

by Lewis Carroll (Charles Dodgson)

Matilda Jane, you never look 

At any toy or picture-book. 

I show you pretty things in vain-- 

You must be blind, Matilda Jane! 

I ask you riddles, tell you tales, 

But all our conversation fails. 

You never answer me again-- 

I fear you're dumb, Matilda Jane! 

Matilda darling, when I call, 

You never seem to hear at all. 

I shout with all my might and main-- 

But you're so deaf, Matilda Jane! 

Matilda Jane, you needn't mind, 

For, though you're deaf and dumb and blind, 

There's some one loves you, it is plain-- 

And that is me, Matilda Jane!

Sleigh Ride

Central Park Winter Skating Pond    Currier and Ives

The First Sleigh-Ride

by Evaleen Stein

O happy time of fleecy rime 

And falling flakes, and O 

The glad surprise in baby eyes 

That never saw the snow!

Down shining ways the flying sleighs 

Go jingling by, and see! 

Beside the gate the horses wait 

And neigh for you and me!

Thanksgiving Day

Freedom from Want  Norman Rockwell

Giving Thanks
by an Unknown Poet
For the hay and the corn and the wheat that is reaped,
For the labor well done, and the barns that are heaped,
For the sun and the dew and the sweet honeycomb,
For the rose and the song and the harvest brought home--
Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving!

For the trade and the skill and the wealth in our land,
For the cunning and strength of the workingman's hand,
For the good that our artists and poets have taught,
For the friendship that hope and affection have brought--
Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving!

For the homes that with purest affection are blest,
For the season of plenty and well-deserved rest,
For our country extending from sea unto sea;
The land that is known as the "Land of the Free" --
Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving!
~anonymous

Olden Days

Horse and Buggy Days  Paul Detlefsen

The Village Blacksmith
                               by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.