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