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Thanksgiving morning dawned at last, golden and clear and fair,
With the autumn scent of frosted brakes and ripe fruits in the air.
The village was up with robin and wren ahead of the morning sun,
Captain Standish had climbed the hill to fire the sunrise gun,
When suddenly on the clearing burst a tumult of wild cries,
And a most appalling spectacle appeared before our eyes:
With hands upon their muskets, the Pilgrim Fathers stood
As a band of painted red men came dashing from the wood—

Ten and ninety red men came screaming from the wood!

Clad in skins of gray wolf, and fox and deer and bear,
With horns of beasts upon their heads, and feathers in their hair,
Their long, lean arms in threatening guise gesturing in the air.

But hold! they bore no tomahawks, no gleaming battle-ax,
And only empty quivers hung across their copper backs.-
Ah, these, then, were the friendly tribes who had the treaty signed,
Who, entering the settlement, had left their arms behind.
And then we saw that Squanto and Samoset were there,
And Massasoit, with eagle plumes braided in his hair.
As we looked on, the Great Red Chief came forward, bowing low.
And that was how the guests arrived three hundred years ago.

Now there was great commotion: the morning prayers were said,
A fire was kindled by the brook, the tables quickly spread,
And Massasoit, the chieftain, was seated at the head.
Why, never in three centuries has been a grander sight
Than when they sat together there, the red men and the white,
Beside the long pine tables in silent, friendly rows—
Governor Bradford, dignified, in doublet and in hose;
Massasoit in deerskin and shells and shining quills;
And over there the ocean, and here the high, green hills.

Bring on the chowder now, my dears, and fill the wooden bowls;
Here is a motley gathering of hungry human souls;
Heap high the pewter platters with pudding and with meat,
For men may talk and men may laugh, but men must also eat.
So flank the beef and mustard with the turnips, piping hot,
And pour the good plum porridge out a-steaming from the pot.
With oysters in the scallop-shells, with barley loaves and corn,
We'll launch the good Thanksgiving feast on this November morn,
The feast that shall remembered be far longer that you know.
And that 's the way they did it three hundred years ago.

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Then came the games. And think you, was anybody sad?
Were not those solemn Pilgrims just great boys running mad—

Throwing balls and pitching quoits and racing down the street, *s o o
Moccasins, and buckled shoes, and bare, swift-running feet? so so
And then the sudden fanfare of trumpets, loud and shrill, or

The roll of drums, and music, and soldiers down the hill
Marching in stately order, by their doughty captain led,
And the banner of Old England floating overhead.
“Ugh!” murmured Quadequina, at the muskets' loud report
And an answering roar that sounded from the cannon at the fort, *
“Have they lured us here to kill us?” Said his chieftain, “Dost not know
There's a difference 'twixt the eagle and the thievish carrion'crow?
Peace, my brother; they would teach us in the ways the white men know."

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Three days Thanksgiving lasted. Three days the red men stayed
And feasted with the Pilgrims and listened when they prayed,
And learned to trust the white man's voice, and like the games he played.
But ah! we have n’t told you half of what was said and done,
The things we heard—the things we saw—in 1621.
The five deer that the brawny braves came bringing on their backs,
The corn that they had learned to pop, and fetched in leathern sacks;
And all the Pilgrims freely gave from out their scanty hoard,
The very best of everything the colony did afford,
With native flowers and fruits and nuts to grace the festal board.
And how, upon the last day, after the feast was done,
The red men to their wigwams returned at set of sun,
And the little band at Plymouth did up their evening chores,
And said their prayers, and thanked the Lord, and closed their cabin doors.

Now as for me, since traveling back to 1621,
I'm sure our good forefathers had their honest share of fun;
And if the neighbors doubt it, speak up, and let them know
How the Pilgrims kept Thanksgiving three hundred years ago.

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"THEY SAT TOGETHER THERE, THE RED MEN AND THE WHITE”

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By WILLIAM T. TILDEN, 2D

World's Tennis Champion

IN tennis, 1921 has been a Tilden year, and the World's Champion of 1920 defended his title successfully at home, in England, and on the hard courts at St. Cloud, France. More than ordinary credit should be given this great player for his work abroad, for he fought his games there on nerve, the kind of nerve which he described in his article in ST. NICHOLAS on “Nerve in the Pinch,” for he was far from being in good physical trim. - - - - - - Upon his return home, he defended his title in the American singles against a field of 108 competitors. Paired with Vincent Richards, he won the doubles championship, thus placing himself in that limited group who have won and held the American titles in singles and doubles in the same year. “Cross Court,” tennis expert of the “New York Evening Post,” says in respect to the showing made by Tilden this year: “It is impossible to argue, in face of the evidence this genius of the lawn-tennis courts has piled up, that he is anything other than the greatest player of the game the world has ever known.” Then, speaking of his spectacular winning of the all-comers' singles at the Germantown Cricket Club on September 19, the “Post” writer continues: “It is here that Tilden first learned to play the game, at the tender age of seven years, . He has won, as he wanted to do, upon the field that to him represents the cradle of his youthful ambitions.”—EDITOR.

DURING the past summer, we have crested court is reminiscent of Maurice McLoughlin the greatest tennis season America has ever in his palmy days. Richards' service is a known. The leading representatives of Eng- fine slice, which he places with great skill. land, Australia, India, Denmark, and Japan The boy's only weakness is a lack of a good struggled on our courts to challenge America top-spin drive. He uses a peculiar slicefor that trophy, the Davis Cup. stroke, which might be described as a “spoon Tennis interest was at the boiling point; drive,” with the result that his shot lacks and the hopes for the ultimate success of both speed and short drop.

American racquet wielders were justified. Vinnie is equipped with a determination to Now we must look to it that we protect the win and with an unfailing courage that carDavis Cup in years to come. ries him over many a dark spot in his tourna

The great stars of to-day, William M. ment play. He is the most remarkable player Johnston, R. N. Williams, Watson M. Wash- of his age in the world, and this year will be burn, and the rest must, within a few short placed in America's first five representatives. years, pass from the game as Davis Cup Closely following Richards is Arnold W. players. Age takes its toll, and the star of Jones of Providence, Rhode Island. Arnold to-day must face the fact that he must give is seventeen, of medium height, and someway to youth, who will take the places left what heavier than Richards. He is the son vacant by the retirement of these men. of J. D. E. Jones, for the past twenty years

America is fortunate in having a large one of the leading figures in American tennis number of young players between the ages of and one of the finest sportsmen of whom we fourteen and twenty-two, from which to boast. develop the champion of to-morrow. The Arnold is a typical “chip of the old block.” outstanding figure in this group is the mar- He plays a more orthodox game than Richvelous, tow-headed New York lad, Vincent ards. His ground strokes are beautifully proRichards. Vinnie is just eighteen and to- duced top-spin drives of remarkable speed day has held, or is holding, not less than nine for so young a player. He volleys well, but national championships. without the certainty of Richards. His ser

Richards has a distinct personality. Slight vice is severe, but erratic. Overhead, young of build, of medium height, Vinnie combines Jones has a pronounced weakness, but is a lightning speed of movement with an rapidly overcoming it. equally quick thinking brain. It is a remark- Arnold is a fine court general, planning his able game that Richards has developed. He attack cleverly and carrying it out to its is without question the finest volleyer in the ultimate conclusion. He is a game fighter world to-day. His remarkable sense of and never so dangerous as when behind. His anticipation and crisp killing punch at the delightfully modest and attractive court mannet will allow this stripling to take the net ner make him a favorite wherever he plays. position against the greatest base-liners in On his recent trip abroad with me, he was the game. The boy is deadly overhead, and a popular figure at St. Cloud, Paris, and his terrific smashing from any position in the Wimbledon, England. His younger brother,

Meredith W. Jones, who is just fifteen, is rapidly developing into as fine a player as

Photo by Edwin Lewick
VINCENT RICHARDS

“In that furiously fought five-set match with William M. Johnston at Germantown in September, Richards proved that he must be considered as one of the real leaders of the game. Only three points stood between him and victory on that occasion, with Johnstom fighting with every ounce of strength and every atom of playing skill that he could command.”—Fred Hawthorne in the “New York Tribune.”

Arnold, and I look to see him one of the leading stars of the next ten years. There is another remarkable family from Rhode Island—the Ingraham family, sons of Arthur Ingraham, one of the leading tennis figures in the district for many years. The eldest boy, William W. Ingraham, was runner-up to Richards in last year's Junior Championship. Billy has just returned from a most successful tour of the Pacific Northwest, during which he won the Oregon State Championship. His attractive personality and cleancut game gave him a wonderful popularity in the cities in which he played. He, too, plays an all-court game on the type of Richards and Jones, but lacks the superlative features of either. On the other hand, he has not the weakness off the ground of Richards nor the uncertainty overhead of Jones. It is a well

rounded, well-conceived game, coupled with determination, that succeeds for Ingraham. His younger brother, Arthur, Junior, is following in Billy's footsteps and developing as fine a stroke game as I have seen in a boy of fifteen. The youngest member of the family, Andrew Clark Ingraham, aged eleven, is also a remarkable tennis figure. He is already possessed of many of the strokes of his older brothers, which he uses with remarkable judgment for so young a lad. One of the most attractive personalities in the game, and a player of the utmost promise, is Charles Watson, 3rd, of Philadelphia. Young Watson, aged seventeen, is a miniature edition of the famous Chuck Garland of the 1920 American Davis Cup Team. Charlie Watson is a real student of the game. His strokes, beautiful in execution, are scientifically studied, and he is improving rapidly every year. He is one of the cleverest tacticians that I have ever met. There is little doubt in my mind but that Charlie will loom

Photo by Keystone view Co.
ARNOLD W. JONES

large in American tennis in the next decade.

New York boasts of another promising player in Charles Wood, Junior. This brilliant youngster, who is now seventeen and a student at De Witt Clinton High School,

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