[XLV.—His Cares]
The big gobbler is a changed bird these days. The cares of fatherhood are weighing heavily upon him. A few days ago he came across a Plymouth Rock hen that had hatched out a clutch of turkeys. Although they are barely able to toddle around, the gobbler recognised them at once as part of his family and took up his duties as parent in a most commendable manner. With a subdued and responsible air he follows the old hen and the little poults wherever they go, stepping softly and refraining from noisy gobbling. But I am afraid he is not entirely satisfied with the foster mother of his family. After the last big thunderstorm he came up to the door where I was sitting and was evidently very much put out about something. He was wet to his last feather and I have seldom known him to be in such a bad humour. Possibly the old Plymouth Rock didn't act as a turkey mother should during a thunderstorm. Anyway, he seemed to hold me responsible for whatever went wrong, for he stood out on the lawn and swore at me for half an hour. When I began to get tired of the rumpus and was reaching for a copy of Hansard to throw at him Sheppy came around the corner of the house. The bubblyjock discreetly sidestepped behind the lilac bushes, for one thing that Sheppy can't endure is a hen, turkey or other fowl on the lawn. In spite of his complaints the gobbler is still looking after his duties as a father. A little while ago when the sun was hot I saw him standing beside his flock tail down, head pulled in like a turtle's and his wings spread out. He had converted himself into a sort of feathered pergola, under which his children might have taken shelter. But they paid no attention to him. Under the busy and clucking guidance of the old hen they were pursuing the elusive fly and other appetising insects.
[XLVI.—His Prussianism]
I don't see how the children failed to name the turkey gobbler. He is the most distinct character on the farm just now, but they have not given him a name. Perhaps they felt that they were not equal to the task. He is in a constant state of belligerency. As he is a super-turkey, weighing at least forty pounds, he is able to make quite a stir. Apparently he has laid to heart Nietzsche's advice and proposes to "Live dangerously." His mildest moments are threatening, and when he gobbles and rubs his wings on the ground he is an embodied offensive. This morning he renewed a trick that was a favourite with him last summer. At daybreak he began to air his grandeurs under my bedroom window and there was no more sleeping from that time. But as it is necessary to be up betimes in this spring weather I did not object. But if he keeps it up in the summer, when daybreak comes shortly after 3 o'clock, there will be trouble.
