"He didn't do it," responded Herbert's father, meekly; "he didn't do it. I just met the gobbler, and I admit that while I am not oversuperstitious, the mysterious disappearance of that bird when he was ripe and due for the axe, and his sudden return when the danger had passed, fills me with dire foreboding, and makes me think he'll bring me good luck if I only treat him right. So I am not going to kill him even for Christmas, but intend to feed him on the fat of the farm, and let him die of old age. When I saw him a little while ago he actually winked at me and grinned, and that was too much for my suspicious temperament."
So Uncle Ned was at once restored to his former position, and Absalom thrived and lived to a grand old age, the faithful companion of his devoted little friend and preserver.
[THE REAL DOLL.]
BY H. G. PAINE.
On little Frances's birthday
She had dolls of every size:
Baby dolls and lady dolls,
And dolls in mannish guise.
She had china dolls and rubber dolls,
Wax, worsted, wood, and some
That squeaked when Frances squeezed them hard,
And others that were dumb.
She had a little sailor doll,
A boy doll dressed in blue,
A doll that rode a bicycle,
A colored dolly, too.
But one and all she passed them by,
And cried with glad surprise:
"Oh, look, I've got a real doll!"
'Twas the doll that shuts its eyes.