Two days before Thanksgiving, Homer, in his blue overalls and faded sweater, was busy at work. The gray of the dawn was just creeping into the east, while the boy went hurrying through his chores. There was still a man’s work to be done before he took the ten o’clock train to town; besides, he had promised to help his mother about the house. His grandfather, an uncle, an aunt, and three small cousins were coming to eat their Thanksgiving feast at the old farmhouse. Homer whistled gaily, while he bedded the creatures with fresh straw. The whistle trailed into an indistinct trill; the boy felt a pang of loneliness as he glanced into the turkey-pen. There was nobody there but old Mother Salvia. Homer tossed her a handful of corn. “Poor old lady, I s’pose you’re lonesome, ain’t you, now? Never mind; when spring comes you’ll be scratchin’ around with a hull raft of nice little chickies at your heels. We’ll teach them a fine trick or two, won’t we, old Salvia?”
Salvia clucked over the corn appreciatively.
“Homer, Homer, come here quick.”
Down the frozen path through the yard came Mrs. Tidd, with the little brown shawl wrapped tightly about her head. She fluttered a yellow envelope in her hand.
“Homer boy, it’s a telegraph come. I can’t read it; I’ve mislaid my glasses.”
Homer was by her side in a minute, tearing open the flimsy envelope.
“It’s from Finch & Richards, Mother,” he cried excitedly. “They say, ‘Take the first train to town without fail.’”
“What do you s’pose they want you for?” asked Mrs. Tidd, with a very anxious face.
“P’r’aps the store’s burned down,” gasped Homer. He brushed one rough hand across his eyes. “Poor Dan’l Webster an’ Gettysburg! I didn’t know anybody could set so much store by turkeys.”
“Maybe ’t ain’t nothin’ bad, Homer,” Mrs. Tidd laid her hand upon his shoulder. “Maybe they want you to give an extra early show or somethin’.” She suggested it cheerfully.