The great patriotic song of those times was entitled “Ode on Science.” This was the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Independence days and Thanksgivings, and Hannah had once sung _countre_ in the performance of it before Daniel Webster. Two years after my interview with Hannah she responded to the Governor’s Proclamation, and, faithful to the old traditions, resolved to celebrate the approaching Thanksgiving on the church steps. On the morning of that day she took her music book, which contained the famous “Ode on Science,” put her spectacles into her ample pocket, and, followed by her cat, went to the steps of the old meeting-house. It was a mild Indian summer day, of melting frosts, dropping nuts, and lingering splendors. The woods were crimson, with an odor of decay in the leaves, and the orchards red, with a cidery scent. The call of the lively bluejay was heard here and there, and the whir of the partridge wings on the margin of the woods. The farmers were busy husking their stacks of corn, and the cellar doors were heaped with squashes and pumpkins of enormous size, taking a last mellowing in the sun. Just as Hannah arose on the church steps to give thanks for all these blessings of plenty, Deacon Goodwin approached in his cart, that was loaded with corn and pumpkins. He took the _Christian_ view, as the word was pronounced, in the great theological discussion. His heart was touched at the sight of the white hair of old Hannah, and he stopped to hear her sing. It was a striking picture that she presented, on that bright morning, in her straight gown, poke bonnet, Rob-Roy shawl, and white hair, which filled the dark cavern over her forehead. She stood with her hymn book in one hand, and beating time with her other hand, she began:— “The morning sun shines from the east, And spreads his glories in the west. All nations with his beams are blest.” Her voice was high. Her free hand waved vigorously to tell how— “Freedom her attendant waits To bless the portals of her gates, To crown the young and rising States With laurels of immortal day. “The British yoke, the Gallic chain, Was urged upon our necks in vain. All haughty tyrants we disdain, And shout, Long live Ameri_ca_.” The last word rang out with a long sound of _ca_ at the end. She stopped, removed her spectacles, and looked down upon Deacon Goodwin, inquiringly. “I declare it’s too bad,” said the Deacon, “that you have to be the Thanksgiving for the hull town. Two or three people have had their own heads here about long enough, it’s my opinion. If I could have my way, Hannah, we’d not be ruled as we are. I’ll see what can be done. Somethin’ ’ll have to be done, and I’ll do it.