The
king and high priest of all the festivals was the autumn Thanksgiving.
When the apples were all gathered and the cider was all made, and the
yellow pumpkins were rolled in from many a hill in billows of gold, and
the corn was husked, and the labors of the season were done, and the
warm, late days of Indian Summer came in, dreamy, and calm, and still,
with just enough frost to crisp the ground of a morning, but with warm
traces of benignant, sunny hours at noon, there came over the community
a sort of genial repose of spirit - a sense of something accomplished.