After a long, long trail over the plains, up and down the valleys, she came within sound of their voices. “I hear them, I hear my turkeys.” Faster and faster ran the little girl until she caught sight of her beloved flock hurrying away toward the woods, round the mountain and on up the valley. She could hear them saying something over and over again. As she drew nearer she called and called to them, but it was all of no use. They only quickened their steps and spread their wings to help them along. “She has forgotten us,” they kept saying. “She is not worthy of better things than those she has been accustomed to. Let us go to the mountains. Our Little Mother is not as good and true as we once thought her.” Then they spread their wings and fluttered away over the plains above and were soon lost from sight. The poor little turkey girl put her hands over her face, then she looked down at her dress. Alas! what did she see? Her old clothes, patched and tattered. She was a poor little turkey girl again. Sad at heart she looked toward the valley and gave one loud call, “Oh, my turkeys come back to me, come back.”
“Gobble, gobble, gobble,” she heard beside her. The poor little girl sat up, rubbed her eyes and looked about her. There were her beloved turkeys gathered around her calling “Gobble, gobble, gobble!” They wanted to go home, for the sun was ready to set and the village people were returning from the festival.
“Oh, my beloved turkeys,” said the little girl, when she understood it all. “I would not part with you for all the fine dresses and festivals in the whole world. How glad I am it was only a dream!”
MEADOW FIDDLERS
The red-legged locust. Oh, my, oh, my!
He plays all day. But why? But why?
You rub your legs with your dusty wings;
Your fiddle shrieks till the welkin rings;
On meadow green, through the livelong day,