"And you broke my poor old wishbone with your little sister, didn't you?"
"I did."
"And what did you wish?" asked the gobbler.
"You mustn't ask me that," replied Donald, "because, you know, if I tell you the wish I made it would not come true."
"But it was my wishbone," persisted the gobbler, "and I think I ought to know something about it."
"You have rights, I suppose, and your argument is not without force," replied Donald, with calm dignity.
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."