Thanksgiving Day would be here in a week.
Now, if Bessie had been like some little girls, she would have told her trouble to her uncle. But she never mentioned it to any one, although she cried herself to sleep several nights before Thanksgiving Day.
At last the day came, and Bessie, instead of going out to the fowlyard as usual, kept in the house all the morning. She was afraid that, if she went, she would not find her beloved friend. Dinner-time came, and, with a heavy heart, she seated herself at the table. Her uncle and aunt noticed her sober face, and thought that she missed her father and mother.
“Come, come,” said her uncle, “we must cheer up; no sad looks on Thanksgiving Day. Maria, BRING IN THE TURKEY.”
Poor Bessie! she could not look up as the door opened, and something was brought in on a big platter. But, as the platter was placed on the table, she saw that it did indeed hold her turkey, but he was alive and well.
She looked so astonished that suddenly her uncle understood all her past troubles.
“Why, Bessie,” he said, “did you think I would kill your pet? No, indeed, but I told you he should be on the table Thanksgiving Day, so here he is.”
Then Bessie’s uncle struck the turkey gently with his carving-knife, the way the queen strikes a man with a sword when she makes him a knight.
“Behold!” said Bessie’s uncle, “I dub you ‘Sir Gobble;’ you shall never be killed, but die a natural death, and never be parted from Bessie.”