And Sister learned a few things before she had raised “that raft of poults,” as Mother Atterson called them. Turkeys are certainly calculated to breed patience—especially if one expects to have a flock of young Toms and hens fit for killing at Thanksgiving-time.
She hatched the turkeys under motherly hens belonging to Mother Atterson, striving to breed poults that would not trail so far from the house; but as soon as the youngsters began to feel their wings they had their foster-mothers pretty well worn out. One flock tolled the old hen off at least a mile from the house and Hiram had some work enticing the poults back again.
There was no raid made upon her turkey coops this year, however. Pete Dickerson was not much in evidence during the spring and early summer. Mrs. Atterson went back and forth to the neighbors; but although whenever Hiram saw the farmer the latter put forth an effort to be pleasant to him, the two households did not well “mix”.
Besides, during this busiest time of the year, when the crops were getting started, there seemed to be little opportunity for social intercourse. At least, so it seemed on the Atterson place.
They were a busy and well contented crew, and everything seemed to be running like clockwork, when suddenly “another dish of trouble”, as Mother Atterson called it, was served them in a most unexpected manner.
Hiram was coming up from the barn one evening, long after dark, and had just caught sight of Sister standing on the porch waiting for him, when a sudden glow against the dark sky, made him turn.
The flash of fire passed on the instant, and Sister called to him:
“Oh, Hiram! did you see that shooting-star?”
“You never wished on it, Sis,” said the young farmer.
“Oh, yes I did!” she returned, dancing down the steps to meet him.