“‘Well, if ever I see the beat of that!’ cried the Father. ‘It did seem as if that turkey was sent a-purpose, and here you are cutting up like this!’
“But the children would not listen to any objections. Chusey was their turkey, they said; they loved him, and he should not be eaten.
“‘He’s just as much right to Thanksgiving as we have,’ asserted Zeke. ‘He’s “a citizen,” and we mean to give him some of the pie.’
“So the programme was suddenly changed. Instead of making a figure on the table, Massachusetts came to the table, and was one of the company. Tied to Pop’s chair, he was regaled with all sorts of choice morsels. The family dined on salt pork and venison, with cranberry sauce and pumpkin porridge; but, though the fare was rather queer, few happier dinners were eaten that day anywhere. Even Mrs. Fiske came out of her clouds, and was jolly. As for ‘Chusey,’ he gobbled and clucked and chuckled, enjoyed the jokes as much as any one, and seemed to enter fully into the spirit of the occasion.”
“How nice that was!” said warm-hearted Thekla, as November ended. “I love the children for not eating Chusey.”
“So do I,” replied November, heartily; “and this year I mean they shall have something very nice. It’s getting to be a little less frontier-like out there, and I think I see my way.”
“Oh, tell us what!” cried Max.
But November shook his head. “Never spoil your eggs by chipping the shells too soon,” said he. “I know how to keep a secret. And now let’s have that can of yours, and I’ll take my moments; for I’m late, and must be off.”
He tied the moments in the red bandanna handkerchief, shook hands in a friendly way, and without another word was gone.
“Oh, isn’t he nice!” said Thekla.