By Art Buchwald

In 1951, during my tour of duty with the French Foreign Legion in the
Sahara, my tough sergeant from Marseilles said to me, "Why do all the
American recruits refuse to eat anything but turkey on this day?"

I told him I was sorry but my lips were sealed. He then poured honey on my
head so the ants would get me. That's when I broke down and talked.]

One of the most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as
le Jour de Merci Donnant.

Le Jour de Merci Donnant was first started by a group of pilgrims (Pelerins)
who fled from l'Angleterre before the McCarran Act to found a colony in the
New World (le Nouveau Monde), where they could shoot Indians (les
Peaux-Rouges) and eat turkey (dinde) to their hearts' content.

They landed at a place called Plymouth (now a famous voiture Americaine) in
a wooden sailing ship named the Mayflower, or Fleur de Mai, in 1620. But
while the Pelerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing
the Pelerins, and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them.
The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pelerins was when they taught them
how to grow corn (mais). They did this because they liked corn with their
Pelerins.

In 1623, after another harsh year, the Pelerins' crops were so good they
decided to have a celebration and because more mais was raised by the
Pelerins than Pelerins were killed by the Peaux-Rouges.

Every year on le Jour de Merci Donnant, parents tell their children an
amusing story about the first celebration.

It concerns a brave capitaine named Miles Standish (known in France as
Kilometres Deboutish) and a shy young lieutenant named Jean Alden. Both of
them were in love with a flower of Plymouth called Priscilla Mullens (no
translation). The vieux capitaine said to the jeune lieutenant:

"Go to the damsel Priscilla (Allez tres vite chez Priscilla), the loveliest
maiden of Plymouth (la plus jolie demoiselle de Plymouth). Say that a blunt
old captain, a man not of words but of action (un vieux Fanfan la Tulipe),
offers his hand and his heart -- the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in
these words, you understand, but this, in short, is my meaning.

"I am a maker of war (Je suis un fabricant de la guerre) and not a maker of
phrases. You, bred as a scholar (Vous, qui étes pain comme un etudiant),
can say it in elegant language, such as you read in your books of the
pleadings and wooings of lovers, such as you think best suited to win the
heart of the maiden."

Although Jean was fit to be tied (convenable a être emballé), friendship
prevailed over love and went to his duty. But instead of using elegant
language, he blurted out his mission. Priscilla was muted with amazement and
sorrow (rendue muette par l'etonnement et la tristesse).

At length she exclaimed, breaking the ominous silence, "If the great captain
of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and
take the trouble to woo me?" ("Ou est-il, le vieux Kilometres? Pourquoi ne
vient-il pas aupres de moi pour tenter sa chance?")

Jean said that Kilometres Deboutish was very busy and didn't have time for
such things. He staggered on, telling her what a wonderful husband
Kilometres would make. Finally, Priscilla arched her eyebrows and said in a
tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, Jean?" ("Chacun a son
gout.")

And so, on the fourth Thursday in November, American families sit down at a
large table brimming with tasty dishes, and for the only time during the
year eat better than the French do.

No one can deny that le Jour de Merci Donnant is a grand fête, and no
matter how well fed American families are, they never forget to give thanks
to Kilometres Deboutish, who made this great day possible.