So he got his gun in haste,
In his mouth the muzzle placed,
Turned his eyes aloft as if in prayer;
On the trigger set his toes—
As the illustration shows—
Then up to the ceiling went his hair!
THE LAST OF HIS RACE.
While passing through the market this morning, I saw the old turkey that had escaped the ravages of Christmas. He is said to be the sole remnant of the turkey tribe—living or dead—at present to be found. Though the door of his coop was open he seemed to have no desire to escape. Evidently, like Byron’s “Prisoner of Chillon,” he has been so long an inmate he has become attached to it, and would rather remain there than take his chances in the busy world outside.