TURKEYS TURNING THE TABLES.
TURKEYS TURNING THE TABLES.
“Well, you see,” the papa began, on Christmas morning, when the little girl had snuggled in his lap into just the right shape for listening, “it was the night after Thanksgiving, and you know how everybody feels the night after Thanksgiving.”
“Yes; but you needn't begin that way, papa,” said the little girl; “I'm not going to have any moral to it this time.”
“No, indeed! But it can be a true story, can't it?”
“I don't know,” said the little girl; “I like made-up ones.”
“Well, this is going to be a true one, anyway, and it's no use talking.”
All the relations in the neighborhood had come to dinner, and then gone back to their own houses, but some of the relations had come from a distance, and these had to stay all night at the grandfather's. But whether they went or whether they stayed, they all told the grandmother that they did believe it was the best Thanksgiving dinner they had ever eaten in their born days. They had had cranberry sauce, and they'd had mashed potato, and they'd had mince-pie and pandowdy, and they'd had celery, and they'd had Hubbard squash, and they'd had tea and coffee both, and they'd had apple-dumpling with hard sauce, and they'd had hot biscuit and sweet pickle, and mangoes, and frosted cake, and nuts, and cauliflower—