| We thank Thee, Lord, for all things good, | We thank Thee for our spacious skies, |
| And for the chance to share them. | Unclouded by death planes. - |
| When hardships come - and they will come - | For peaceful days and bomb-less nights; |
| May we be strong, to bear them | For hope that never wanes.
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| We thank Thee for our temples here, | We thank Thee for America - |
| Which Thy love consecrates | True Land of Liberty. |
| No racial hatred touches them, | Keep our hearts strong, and our faith high, |
| Nor war lust desecrates. | As we look up to Thee. |
Since everything in the world is relative, I doubt if we have ever been more conscious of our blessings than at this Thanksgiving. When we consider how that little band of Pilgrims, in a strange new country, after burying over half their number, found cause for thankfulness, then we, in this, our home - this free land, founded upon their courage, have reason indeed, for profound gratitude. One cannot sit down to a sumptuous Thanksgiving dinner without being acutely aware that millions of people will have meager fare - and little cause for thanksgiving. We are grateful that the new member of our family - our soldier-son - could be with us for Thanksgiving dinner, along with his father and mother (Ohio celebrated on the 20th); but he had to leave that afternoon. Our hearts go out to the soldiers who could not be home for that special day. Our morning paper, the Cleveland Plain Dealer, secured and printed the names of all the Cleveland boys stationed at Camp Shelby, Miss., and urged us Clevelanders to write them for Thanksgiving. Every man there received some mail, - and some of them were deluged. (Such a nice kind of deluge!)
I was and am thoroughly dissatisfied with my letter, printed last week. There were so many nice things I might have told you. For instance, the happy bride and groom, as soon as they had cut the wedding cake, slipped away for fifteen minutes that Estelle's invalid auntie (Aunt Margery) might see her niece in her wedding gown, with the lovely cornet of fresh white rose-buds in her hair. Estelle offered to have the ceremony performed in Aunt Margery's living room, but this bravest of soldiers is not strong enough even for that. Speaking of the wedding gown, a fine bit of sentiment goes with it - for it is a gift of the groom's mother. She took Estelle to her heart as soon as Tommy confided to his mother his intentions - eleven months ago. She wanted to buy the wedding dress, and Mother Taylor advised me not to deny her that pleasure. It is a simple but beautiful white net, floor length, with square neck, short sleeves, close-fitting bodice, very full skirt, with what seems like scores of lace insertion panels the full length of the skirt. (This society reporting is certainly not in my line; I find it the hardest kind of work).
This past week I went to two lectures, to gather material for my patient and long-suffering readers. The first lecturer was Sir Philip Gibbs, one of the world's great war correspondents, knighted for his courage and bravery in securing first-hand information during the first World War. Equally brave was his lone pronouncement that the so-called discovery of the North Pole by Captain Frederick Albert Cook was a hoax; this in the face of a wildly cheering populace (in Copenhagen, I believe) who were ready to mob Gibbs for his heresy. He is a truly great writer; in my opinion his pen is more eloquent than his tongue. I strained so hard to catch his broad British accent that I soon fell, exhausted, into slumber. But I still got my 55 cents worth. Several interruptions, coupled with a dull brain, have consumed all available time - and I must close.
Better reporting (we hope) next week.
Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor