BY A. W. TOZER
T h a n k s g i v i n g is an American institution However deep into antiquity its roots may strike, Thanksgiv ing as we know it in this country is as American as base ball, hominy grits, or the hot dog stand. It comes as a glorious climax to that melancholy time which begins deceptively enough with the first bright noddings of the goldenrod, and passes through progressive stages of degeneration where the leaves turn from green to red and gold and on to a soiled and ugly brown. As the mellow radiance fades out of the days, and the nights grow increasingly sharper, we Americans begin to feel a sentimental stirring within us. The farmer glances toward his flock, lets his eyes rest approv ingly on the proudest old gobbler, and smiles. The city wife pauses outside the neighborhood market, notes prices chalked in large figures on the plate glass, and makes a few mental calculations. About this time, the churches become vocally grateful for a lot of things they had somehow overlooked the rest of the year. The Sunday morning prayer, which for months had
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