The third turkey joined his fellows.
“Better put these stockings on before you start, or father will track you to the camp,” said Jack. “And pa told ma never to give you anything of his any more.”
Never was weighty burden more cheerfully borne than the bag Jack helped to hoist over the soldier’s shoulder as soon as the stockings had been drawn over the bleeding feet.
“Now I’m going. Thank you, and good night. If you, little girl, would give me a kiss, I’d take it—as from my little Bessy in Connecticut.”
“That’s for Bessy in Connecticut,” said the little girl, giving him one kiss, “and now I’ll give you one for Becca in Pennsylvania. Hurry home and roast the turkeys quick.”
They watched him go over the hill.
“Jack,” said Becca, “if I’d told a lie to the turkeys where would they have been to-night, and Joseph? There are eight more. I wish I’d told him to come again. Pa’s rheumatism came just right to-night, didn’t it?”
“I reckon next year you won’t have all the turkeys to give away to the soldiers,” said Jack, adding quite loftily, “I shall go to raising turkeys in the Spring myself, and when Winter comes we shall see.”
“Now, Jacky,” said Becca, half-crying, “there are eight left, and you take half.”