The gobbler was puzzled at so lofty a reply, and not understanding it, said:
"I am only the ghost, or spirit, of the gobbler you ate to-day, but still I remember how one day last summer you threw a pan of water on me, and alluded to my wattles as a red necktie, and called me 'Old Harvard,' Now, come along!"
"Where?" asked Donald.
"To Wishbone Valley, where you will see the spirits of my ancestors eaten by your family."
It was now dusk, and Donald didn't like the idea of going to such a place. He was a brave, courageous boy, on most occasions, but the idea of going to Wishbone Valley when the stars were appearing filled him with a dread that he didn't like to acknowledge even to the ghost of a gobbler.
"I can't go with you now, Mr. Gobbler," he said, "because I have a lot of lessons to study for next Monday; wait until to-morrow, and I will gladly go with you."
"Come along," replied the gobbler, with a provoked air, "and let your lessons go until to-morrow, when you will have plenty of light."
Thereupon the gobbler extended his wing and took Donald by the hand, and started on a trot.
"Not so fast," protested Donald.
"Why not?" demanded the gobbler in surprise.