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Our First Thanksgiving

As the autumn leaves turn red and gold
And away on the breezes are flown,
I begin to think of an old, old story
Which we never have outgrown.

In sixteen-twenty the Pilgrims
Landed at Plymouth Rock;
They had come for religious freedom,
Which in England they never got.

But then their very first winter
Was very long and cold;
There was much sickness and not much food,
At least this is what I was told.

But then, at last, the spring came 
And the weather was fine and warm,
The Indians came and taught them all
How to raise very good corn.

When harvest time came round that year
The Pilgrims had plenty of meat,
And they had plenty of golden corn,
More than they ever could eat.

So Governor Bradford gathered the Indians
While the Pilgrims spread the board,
And they had a feast because this was their way
Of giving their thanks to the Lord.

Though this wasn’t the world’s first Thanksgiving,
For this is what people say,
This really was, in America,
The first Thanksgiving Day.
 

(I wrote this when I was 11 or 12 years old.)

© Linda E. Newman 

All rights reserved.
Read more of Linda's poetry  here