This being completed, the trap is ready for work, and only requires baiting.
This is done by laying a train of maize (Indian corn), a hundred yards or so in length—commencing at any point in the woods, and carried along a line until it enters the hollowed way to the enclosure. Inside, a larger quantity of the corn is scattered, lying conspicuously upon the floor of the gigantic cage.
The gang of turkeys, taking their morning stroll, chance to come upon the train of scattered maize. They soon gobble up the few grains sparsely distributed outside; and step by step approach the enclosure. They are not shy of the rude structure; for often have they wandered along the side of a rail-fence, or flopped over it, to commit devastation on the maize-crops of the planter. Even his corn-bins have not deterred them from pilfering his garnered crops. What else can this penn be, but a remote corn-bin in the middle of the woods, with the unhusked maize removed from it, leaving a few scattered grains upon the ground?
The little ravine conducts them under the lowermost rail. They enter without hesitation—without fear; and it is only after they have “gobbled” up the grains that seduced them inside, that they begin to think of continuing their stroll through the forest.
Then, for the first time, does the thought occur to any of them, that they are in a trap. It soon occurs, not only to one, but to all: and a fearful fluttering and screaming takes place, with a confusion of ideas, that prevents the oldest and wisest gobbler of the gang from finding his way out again.
With their eyes elevated far above the level of the excavated trench, they never think of looking downward; and after spending hours, sometimes even days, inside the cunningly-contrived trap, they are at length released by the arrival of the trapper—but only to be transferred to the spit or the market-stall, with the dinner-table as their ultimate destination.
In America, as in England, turkey is the chosen dish of the Christmas dinner-table—in America even more than in England. There, whatever else there may be of nick-nacks, entrées, and hors d’oeuvres, turkey, roast or boiled, holds the prominent place—is the pièce de résistance of the banquet. He is but a poor man indeed in that once great—to be hoped still great—republic, who could not have a turkey for his Christmas dinner.
Upon that most interesting holiday, the humblest artisan in America may dine upon tame turkey; but the greater luxury—the wild bird, with its dark flesh and game flavour—the true meleagris, trapped or taken from his remote forest feeding-ground—smokes only on the table of the citizen who has been more than ordinarily successful in the pursuits of life.
There may the wild turkey be seen, in all the perfection of size, succulence, and savour.
If old Buffon, the charlatan naturalist of France, could have but eaten a slice of the meleagris under such circumstances, he might, perhaps, have conceded to the birds of America some of the good qualities which he has so recklessly denied them.