A Time of Homecoming

Art & Literature

Painters, engravers, poets, novelists, composers, and creators in a variety of other artistic fields have found inspiration and ideas in Thanksgiving generally, and the theme of homecoming in particular.

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Home for Thanksgiving (Currier and Ives, mid 19th century)
The prints produced by the partnership of businessman Nathaniel Currier (1813-1888), a Roxbury, Mass. native, and James Merritt Ives a New York City-born artist, have acquired iconic status, documenting as well as idealizing a picture of the 19th-century New England and American pasts. Home for Thanksgiving, shown here in detail on the left and in its entirety on the right, has provided a visual emblem of the holiday's family-reunion aspect for generations of Americans. To go to a Web site of Currier and Ives prints, click here.



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"Over the River and Through the Wood" (Lydia Maria Child, 1844)
One of the best-loved songs of many generations of children, written by author and abolitionist Lydia Maria Francis Child (1802-1880), a native of Medford, Massachusetts, evokes a joyous Thanksgiving-Day sleigh ride to grandparents' house. The original title was "The New-England Boy's Song About Thanksgiving."

Over the river, and through the wood, to Grandfather's house we go; the horse knows the way to carry the [sleigh through the white and drifted snow. Over the river, and through the wood, to Grandfather's house away! We would not stop for doll or top, for 'tis Thanksgiving Day. Over the river, and through the wood— oh, how the wind does blow! It stings the toes and bites the nose, as over the ground we go. Over the river, and through the wood. with a clear blue winter sky, The dogs do bark and the children as we go jingling by. [hark Over the river, and through the wood, to have a first-rate play. Hear the bells ring, "Ting a ling ding!" Hurray for Thanskgiving Day! Over the river, and through the wood— no matter for winds that blow; Or if we get the sleigh upset into a bank of snow.

Over the river, and through the wood, to see little John and Ann; We will kiss them all, and play snowball and stay as long as we can. Over the river, and through the wood, trot fast my dapple gray! Spring over the ground like a hunting- For 'tis Thanksgiving Day. [hound Over the river, and through the wood and straight through the barnyard gate. We seem to go extremely slow— it is so hard to wait! Over the river, and through the wood— Old Jowler hears our bells; He shakes his paw with a loud bow-wow, and thus the news he tells. Over the river, and through the wood- when Grandmother sees us come, She will say, "O, dear, the children are bring pie for everyone." [here Over the river, and through the wood— now Grandmother's cap I spy! Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

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"The Pumpkin" (John Greenleaf Whittier, 19th century)
Poet and political reformer John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892), a Quaker, was born near Haverhill, Mass.. What follows is the third of the poem's five stanzas. For the entire poem, an ode to the pumpkin in various of its associations (including childhood memories generally, its place in fairy tales, and others), click here.

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
From North and South, come the pilgrim and guest,
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before.
What moistens the lips and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?

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A family gathers for Thanksgiving dinner in wartime
Photographer Howard R. Hollem captures a scene from a the Thanksgiving table of a Maryland family in 1942. The four servicemen are brothers, all in the US Coast Guard. This photograph, part of the Office of War Information's Overseas Picture Division collection, is accessible via the US Library of Congress's American Memory Web site, and is also featured at the Library of Congress's Learning Page, "Primary Source Set for Thanksgiving." The caption on the photograph reads: "Thanksgiving, 1942. Turkey, pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes--nothing is too good for Uncle Sam's fighting nephews when they come home to Silver Spring, Maryland. The four Coast Guardsmen, eyes riveted on the juicy turkey, watch their father, Wayman Fincham, as he carves. Seated next to him is Mrs. Fincham . . ."



From "John Inglefield's Thanksgiving" (Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1840)
Family reunions at Thanksgiving time can be, and often are, fraught with conflicting emotions. Hawthorne's story of the return of a "sinful daughter," excerpted briefly here, tells such a tale. For the full text of the story, click here.

On the evening of Thanksgiving Day, John Inglefield, the blacksmith, sat in his elbow-chair, among those who had been keeping festival at his board. Being the central figure of the domestic circle, the fire threw its strongest light on his massive and sturdy frame, reddening his rough visage, so that it looked like the head of an iron statue, all aglow from his own forge, and with its features rudely fashioned on his own anvil. At John Inglefield's right hand was an empty chair. The other places round the hearth were filled by the members of the family, who all sat quietly, while, with a semblance of fantastic merriment, their shadows danced on the wall behind them. One of the group was John Inglefield's son, who had been bred at college, and was now a student of theology at Andover. There was also a daughter of sixteen, whom nobody could look at without thinking of a rose-bud almost blossomed. The only other person at the fireside was Robert Moore, formerly an apprentice of the blacksmith, but now his journeyman, and who seemed more like an own son of John Inglefield than did the pale and slender student.

Only these four had kept New England's festival beneath that roof. The vacant chair at John Inglefield's right hand was in memory of his wife, whom death had snatched from him since the previous Thanksgiving. With a feeling that few would have looked for in his rough nature, the bereaved husband had himself set the chair in its place next his own; and often did his eye glance thitherward, as if he deemed it possible that the cold grave might send back its tenant to the cheerful fireside, at least for that one evening. Thus did he cherish the grief that was dear to him. But there was another grief which he would fain have torn from his heart; or, since that could never be, have buried it too deep for others to behold, or for his own remembrance. Within the past year another member of his household had gone from him, but not to the grave. Yet they kept no vacant chair for her.

While John Inglefield and his family were sitting round the hearth with the shadows dancing behind them on the wall, the outer door was opened, and a light footstep came along the passage. The latch of the inner door was lifted by some familiar hand, and a young girl came in, wearing a cloak and hood, which she took off, and laid on the table beneath the looking- glass. Then, after gazing a moment at the fireside circle, she approached, and took the seat at John Inglefield's right hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her.

"Here I am at last, father," said she. "You ate your Thanksgiving dinner without me, but I have come back to spend the evening with you."

From Leaves of Grass (Walt Whitman, 1855)
One of the long listings so dear to the poetic style of Walt Whitman (1819-1892) includes a reference to Thanksgiving homecomings. The verses come from the beginning of section 15 of his book-length collection of verse, Leaves of Grass. For the complete text of the final version of the entire work (1900), click here.

The pure contralto sings in the organ loft;
The carpenter dresses his plank—the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild [ascending lisp;
The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner;
The pilot seizes the king-pin—he heaves down with a strong arm;
The mate stands braced in the whale-boat—lance and harpoon are ready;
The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches;
The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar;
The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel;
. . .

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