“‘Why, so we will, old fellow!’ replied Zeke.
“By general consent the turkey was fastened in a corner of the kitchen, by a string round his leg. He thus became a part of the family. The children were very fond of him. They stuffed him all day long with bread-crumbs, doughnuts, bits of meat, and other dainties; so, though he missed his usual exercise, he was a happy and contented turkey, and soon grew so fat that Mrs. Fiske said he would make a splendid dinner.
“‘Massachusetts’ was the name chosen for him, but it was shortened to ‘Chusey’ because that was easier. Before long he had become wonderfully tame. He would run to the end of his string to greet the family, when they came down in the morning; he ate from the children’s hands, and let the baby stroke and ruffle his feathers with her soft fingers as much as she liked.
“Little did the poor fellow guess that the young friends whom he welcomed so gladly were already arranging among themselves how to divide the choice bits of his carcass. Zeke had spoken for one wish-bone, and Polly for the other; Nanny was resolute as to the possession of his tail; and Pop, the baby, was to have a drumstick to suck. All had requested large helps of the breast and plenty of gravy. But, as time went on, the Mother noticed that this savory future was less talked about, and that Nanny and Polly were often to be seen patting the turkey’s back, and calling him ‘Poor Chusey!’ in a pathetic manner.
“At last the great day drew near. The pies were made,—rather singular as to looks, I confess, and a good deal more like porridge than pie, but not at all bad notwithstanding. Mrs. Fiske had picked some wild cranberries, and stewed them with maple sugar. A fine pile of mealy potatoes was chosen and washed. Nothing remained but to kill Massachusetts, and prepare him for the spit.
“‘I’ll attend to it when I come home to-night,’ said Mr. Fiske.
“So, when his work was done, he sharpened a hatchet, and brought it with him ready for the bloody deed. But, lo! and behold, there on the floor were the four children, sitting round their beloved Chusey. They were all crying; and, at the sight of his Father, Pop gave a shriek.
“‘Naughty, naughty!’ he said, and pushed with his little hands. ‘Go ’way, Daddy,—go ’way!’
“‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mr. Fiske, very much astonished.
“‘We don’t want our Chusey killed—we don’t want him for dinner!’ sobbed the children. ‘We love him so much! We don’t like turkeys when they’re d-e-a-d!’ And again the baby broke in with, ‘Go ’way, naughty! go ’way.’”