And it came to pass that in their second year in the New Land, the Pilgrims enjoyed a bountiful harvest. Some said that it was the Savage Indians who taught the Pilgrims which crops would flourish in the New Land’s Strange Soil, though others disputed that (see-eth below).
And it came to pass that to celebrate the harvest, the Leader of the Pilgrims, Venerable Donald, also known to his Pilgrim Brothers as “the Shining Hairpiece on the Hill,” decreed a Feast of Thanksgiving. And both the Pilgrims and the Savage Indians brought heaping portions of food to Venerable Donald to distribute for the Feast.
“Cook it well,” Venerable Donald commanded. “When I eat-eth turkey, I like it well cooked.”
“And when thou grab-eth pussy, thou likest it rare?” piped up Goody Wiseacre, whom the Pilgrims burned for her Witchery the following day.
“Heretical. Sad!” Venerable Donald replied. And he sat-eth down at the table with his wife and children and began to consume the feast.
“The seeds which the Savage Indians gave us have borne fine cranberries,” one daughter observed.
“That was Me,” said Venerable Donald. “I am widely reckoned the Greatest Cranberry Sage in All Christendom. Sagacious!”
The Feast continued, with great Chewing and Digesting, and in time, the Noise of Hubbub arose from without.
“What is that Hubbub?” asked Venerable Donald.
“It is the Pilgrims and the Savage Indians,” answered a Sentinel, whose calling was to provide the Earthly Security to Venerable Donald that predestined the Divine Security he would receive when he had passed on to the Lord’s own Pussy-Paradise in the Heavens. “They are asking when they get to eat. Their hunger grow-eth, or so they say.”
“Call me Paul Ryan, the Scrawny Youth,” Venerable Donald commanded. “Bring him hither.”
When Ryan the Scrawny appeared, Venerable Donald did address him. “Scrawny,” he said, “calm that Rabble. Tell them the remains of the Feast—methinks there is yet some stuffing—shall be theirs shortly.”
“Shall there be some gravy?” Ryan the Scrawny inquired.
“Some,” replied Venerable Donald. “It shall trickle down.”
“Such blessings!” exclaimed Ryan the Scrawny. “Thy generosity wouldst gladden the prophets!”
“The profits?” asked Quizzacle Venerable Donald. “The profits shall remain right hither.”
When this Confusion was Happily Resolved, and Venerable Donald had devoured all the Turkey that yet remained, Ryan the Scrawny left to convey the Glad Tidings to the Crowd. Yet a few minutes later, he returned, vexed.
“There yet is Hubbub in the Rabble,” said Ryan the Scrawny. “They seeketh thy Thanksgiving Menu, for they wish to know how much Thou Thyself consumed of the General Feast.”
“I shall not reveal my Menu,” replied Venerable Donald. “It is yet under Audit by Master Chefs and Grammarians. The Rabble may yet see my menu when the Audit is complete, though my Grammarians tell me their labors may not be completed in this life.”
“Revelations cometh in the next life!” Ryan the Scrawny assented.
“And dessert in this,” said Venerable Donald. “Passeth that pie.”