[THE LAME TURKEY.]
A Story of Thanksgiving-Time.
BY RUTH HALL.
"Childern, childern, come here quick. That 'ere lame turkey's out ag'in."
So called Mrs. Amasa Andrews, in the kitchen doorway, and two shrill trebles answered her from the pumpkin patch.
"Oh, Aunt Polly, where's it gone to? Out in the orchard, or across the fields?"
"Under the hill, down by Uncle Jake's old place," waving away the panting figures who rushed into view from behind the corn-house. "You'd better hurry up, or he'll get clean away this time."
George and Patty needed no second warning. In the missing turkey were bound up delightful visions of "white meat," "wish-bones," and "stuffing," on which they had been dwelling for two months past, and which they had no idea of losing at this late day, only one little week before Thanksgiving. So they tore like small whirlwinds across the kitchen yard, squeezed under the fence, and slid down the steep hill, never stopping to take breath until they had lost sight of home, and had "Uncle Jake's old place" in view.
"Oh, George!" gasped little Patty then, "what if we didn't find it?—what ever would we do?"