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The turkey is deserving of special sympathy inasmuch at it may be re garded fairly as the representative American bird. Its likeness would be more appropriate than that ox the eagle as the national emblem. No species of its genus is a native of the old world. When the Spanish conquerors came to Mexico, (hey saw and wrote home about the turkey. They described it as a kind of peacock. Montezuma had one of the greatest zoological collections ever got together, comprising nearly all the animals of the country, to which were added many brought, from afar. He was very proud of his me nagerie, on which great sums of money were spent. Large numbers of tur keys were furnished alive as food to the carnivorous beasts. At that period turkeys had already been do mesticated for centuries in the land of the Aztecs, and they were reared in much the same way as at present. From Mexico the domesticated tur key was brought to the West Indies as early as 1526. It was carried to Europe by the Spaniards, and the delicacy of its flesh being highly appreciated, it soon spread over the greater part of Europe. In the reign of Francis I. it was imported into France. The first one eaten in that country is said to have been served at a banquet on the occasion of the wedding of Charles IX. This was in 1570. The bird was bred with much care and not long afterward it found its way into Africa and Asia. In 1541 it was introduced into England. Although these facts are beyond dispute, there was question for a long time as to the origin of the turkey. In Great Britain it was pop ularly supposed to have come from Turkey, and hence the name given to it. The most remarkable event in the history of the turkey, however, re mains to be told. From Europe it was brought to the United States, and it is the descendants of these imported birds that appear on our Thanksgiv ing tables, trussed and browned, with giblet gravy for an appetizing accom paniment. In fact, our domestic tur key is the Mexican bird —a different species from the familiar wild turkey of this country. The notion so widely held that the barnyard turkey is this wild turkey domesticated is an error. It was first proved to be such by the late Spencer F. Baird, formerly secre tary of the Smithsonian institution; hence the difficulty of mating wild tur keys with tame ones. The wild tur keys of Mexico today, on the other hand, are just like our tame turkeys, being derived from the same original stock. They have .the same white meat —decidedly whiter than that of the wild turkeys of the United States —and they exhibit other likenesses in addition. There are two species of wild turkeys in North America. One is confined to the eastern and southern United States and the other to the southern Rocky mountain region and adjacent parts of Texas, New Mexico and as far south as Orizaba. In a word, one species belongs to eastern and the other to middle north America. Our barnyard turkeys are derived from the latter stock. The differences between the two species are not so marked as to excite the attention of the casual observer. In the Mexican or barnyard fowl the tips of the tail feathers and the feathers overlying the base of the tail are creamy white. The same feathers in the wild turkey of the eastern United States are brown al ways. In view of the facts here stated, the Mexican wild turkey of today becomes interesting. It is a very shy bird and lives in families like the goose. Senti nels are kept on watch while the flocks feed. The female lays 12 brownish red, spotted eggs, which are hatched in 30 days. It feeds on various kinds of berries and fruits and prefers pecan nuts to any other diet when they can be found. Its habits in all important respects are like those of the wild turkey of the United States. When migrating, if they reach a river which they want to cross, the turkeys wait on the near bank for a day or two. for consultation apparent ly. Meanwhile the males gobble con tinually and strut about with lowered wings and expanded tails. When the proper time arrives, the entire flock rises to the tops of the highest trees, and. at a signal from the leader, the birds launch themselves in the air and fly to the opposite shore. Should the stream be wide the young and feeble Individuals are apt to miss the point aimed at and fall into the water. They swim ashore with much dexterity, clos ing their wings, using the expanded tail for a support and striking out rapidly with their ijng and powerful legal Sometimes, if the bank is very st#ep, a few may be unable to ascend and. falling back from unsuccessful at tempts, they are drowned. In Yucatan and Guatemala Is found a fhird species of turkey, which is one of most beautiful birds known to the ornithologist. Its feathers blaze With metallic reflections of gold, green, blue aad hronze. It is somewhat less In siAthkp the other two kinds. Its tail is ornamented with eyes like those of the peacock. This species is called the “ocellated” turkey. SAID SISTER JANE. Said Tom, “The days are short and cold And dismal altogether; Why do they have Thanksgiving when It is the year’s worst weather?” "But I, I like a dreary day,” Said sturdy little Will; “Without a storm, and then a freeze, How could we slide down hill?” “And then,” said grown up sister Jane, “When loud the north wind roars, The best there is of summer time Is safe with us in-doors. “The lovely waving grass of June Makes sweet the barn with hay; And rosy apples in the bin Were once the flowers of May. “And fragrant still, as when the bees Its blossoms hovered over, Sealed up in waxen cells is all The sweetness of the clover. “And all the store of gold It caught From summer’s golden sky The jolly yellow pumpkin brings To make Thanksgiving pie. “And so, if we with grateful hearts Will count all things together, Each day will be Thanksgiving Day Whaiever be the weather!” —Marian Douglas. A Snowy Thanksgiving. “I wish you’d kill me the heaviest and fattest one you’ve got.” The woman who spoke was leaning out of her open kitchen window. She had hastily taken her apron from its usual place, and now held it clutched closely about her head, but the wind was blowing a lock of gray hair over her eyes, and she was constantly thrusting it back with a quick-moving thin hand. “You don’t want to go as high as an eighteen-pounder, do you?” The man paused as he was about to mount a one-horse tipcart. He had one hand on the horse’s haunch and one on the shaft of the cart; he put his question over his shoulder. “Yes, I do, too; I don't care if it’s a twenty-pounder. Do you think I want a small turkey for Thanksgiving? I sh’d feel mean as dirt with a small one.” “What you goin’ to do with it? I vow I don’t see how you’re goin’ to make ’way with it” —still speaking over his shoulder. “It ain’t no matter if you don't see, Adoniram Winsor; I c’n set ’n’ eat it. ’n’ be thankful that 1 ain't a man, ’n’ thankfuller still that I ain’t got one ’round,” with a laugh that rang merril> on the chill air. “Certain—certain. You shall have the lunkinest feller I’ve got—big ’nough for the president.” And now the man climbed into the cart, the horse moved and the wheels creaked slowly into the ruts of the lane that led to the main road a mile dis tant. Ruth Avery slammed down the win dow, went to her stove, lifted the lid, bethought herself of something she had meant to say, ran to the door, which she flung open with a bang, and shouted: “Adoniram! Adoniram Win-sor!” Mr. Winsor’s form as he stood erect in the wabbling cart gave no sign that he heard, but he immediately began to turn his horse and then to back him. “You needn't turn round —I say, you needn't turn round!” shouted Ruth. “But I want to. I’ve thought of something,” was the response. So the horse retraced his steps and the cart joggled behind him. “I only wanted to say you must save me the wings,” said Ruth. “There ain’t anything so good for sweeping under the stove and in corners as the right wing of a turkey.” “X il save ’em,” answered Mr. Winsor. He descended to the ground and caime forward. He was very tall, and the army overcoat he wore was not long enough for him. It was the coat h* had worn In the civil war. It was patched with various colored cloths and the bottom was somewhat fringed. The owner of it frequently announced that he was going to wear it as long as two threads held together. He usually added that “blue army coats were gittin’ so skearce now that this one made him quite distinguished, and if a man could be distinguished as cheap as that he was lucky.” Then he winked one keen blue eye. Ruth Avery remained standing in the doorway. A sharp wind came sweep ing into the valley from the hills and Ruth again huddled her apron about her head and shoulders. WinsoT approached and leaned one hand on the doorcasing; with the other he dragged the long lash of his whip over the grass, still green, by the southern side of the house. “I say,” he began, “how c’n you eat so much all alone?” "I ain’t alone; I’ve got a cat ’n’ a dog ’n’ hens.” “Oh. them don't count.” “Don't they? Well, then, if I can’t eat it alone I can throw it away alone. Is that what you came back to ask?” "No. ’taint.” Winsor drew his whiplash still faster over the grass. “We’d better go in than be standin’ here with the wind Mowin' through our bones,” remarked Ruth. "O. I can’t stop. Well, mebbe I had better step inside.” The two went into the kitchen. Ruth sat down in a chair and Winsor con tinued to stand, apparently that he might more conveniently pull his whiplash through his fingers. 1-Ie bent his head that he might look through the uncurtained part of the window. “Think it's goin' to snow?” he asked unexpectedly. "I’m sure I don’t know. You can’t tell nothin’ ’bout the weather in the fall of the years.” “Today’s Tuesday,” remarked Win sor, with still more irrelevance. “I ain’t goin’ to dispute that,” re sponded Ruth, and she laughed. Winsor was now gazing intently at his companion. He was thinking that he had never noticed before that she had a kind, wholesome face. It must have agreed with her to live alone as she had done for the five years since her father died. “Day after tomorrow’ll be Thanks givin’, ”he said. His eyes twinkled. “And the day after’ll be Friday,” she retorted; she laughed again. Winsor did not laugh, but his eyes twinkled still more. “What I’m wonderin’ ’bout,” he said, after a silence, “is whether it’ll snow Thanksgivin’.” “If you’re askin’ me. I can’t tell yon. The Lord ain’t let me know whether he’s goin’ to send snow or not.” “It’ll make it bad passin’.” “That won’t make no difference to me, the passin’ won’t. There’s weeks I don’t go out onto the main road when the winter sets in.” “ ’Tain’t fittin’.” “Yes, ’tis fittin’, too.” Mr. Winsor coughed. “Got your spinnin’ done?” No; somehow my sheep grew more wool ’n common this year.” “Folks are complainin’ ’bout their sheep. Dogs killed three of mine.” The speaker walked to the window and gazed at the sky for a long time in silence. Ruth put more wood in the stove, then sat down and contemplated the faded back of the army coat. Winsor turned toward her. He be /fs Y 0$ Turkeys Tout of reach) —Sing a Psalm of Thanksgiving. gan. rather nervously, to stroke the exUcmely small tuft of gray hair that he allowed to grow just below his un der lip. ”1 was talkin' with old Paul Dill down to the store last week,” he be gan abruptly, “ and he stuck to it that it most always snowed Thanksgivin’. I told him it didn't hardly ever. He got mad ’n 1 got mad finally. You know he's got a way with him that would make a saint lose his temper ’n swear like the devil. He asked me if I’d bet 'twould snow, 'n I said I would ” "1 hope you weren't silly enough,” interrupted Ruth. "I know 1 was —a regular-built fool; 1 am most the time. The upshot of the matter was that if it don’t snow Dill's goin’ to do a certain thing; ’n’ if it does snow I'm going to do the same. I thought I’d tell you.” Mr. Winsor now went to the door and put his hand on the latch. The twinkle had gone from his eyes and he was very sober. “I don't see any call for you to tell me, Adoniram,” rather wonderingly from Ruth. “No, 1 don't s'pose you do. I couldn’t expect that. I guess I’ll go now. I'll bring up the turkey tomorrow night, though what you’re going to do with it 1 can’t guess." He opened the door and stepped out. He looked up at the sky; there was a thin haze over it. He went back. "I teli you what ’tis, Ruth. I hope it’ll snow,” he said with great empha sis. "Then you'll lose your bet; it’ll be good enough for you, too.” “It'll be too good. Ruth Avery, I want you to remember that 1 said I hoped ’twould snow.” Ruth stared: she continued to stare as Winsor’s horse walked lip the slope and finally horse and cart and the man disappeared down the other side. For I some time after they had gone from sight she could hear the leisurely bumping of the cart over the hollows and stones of the path. She took her brooim and began to sweep rapidly, but the next moment she paused to say aloud to the cat in the rocker: “If men ain’t the queerest things that God ever made then I’ll give it up! 1 s'pose them two have promised to wheel each other in a wheelbarrow or some such foolishness. I always was thankful I wa’n't a man.” Perhaps it was this sense of .grati tude that made her begin to sing as she swept, forgetting some of the words: I thank the mercy and the grace That on my birth hath smiled, And—m—um—ti—de—ro—ti—um, A happy Christian child. “I do feel real thankful, ’n’ that’s a fact, she said aloud. “I’ve be’n pros pered." s>he had not finished sweeping when she heard someone cry “Whoa!” in front of the house. She went to the window. There was Paul Dill in the buggy that had once a top, but which had outlived its cover. Mr. Dill was a lean, active man, and he was already hitching his horse to the ring in the side of the house. Pres ently he knocked. Ruth set her broom in the corner with some emphasis of motion. Then she opened the duor and her visitor immediately stepped in. "Good morning, Mr. Dill,” she said reticently. “Won’t you take a chair?” "Don’t care u , do, a minute. I was goin’ by the head of the lane, ‘n’ I thought I'd come down ’n’ see if you still kep’ them Plymouth Rock hens ’n’ could spare me a dozen eggs. I’ve got a fool of a hen that I’ve shet up ’n’ ducked ’n' starved, but it don’t make no difference; she’s bound to set —late in the fall, too. I s’pose I’d better have wrung her neck to begin with.” i c n spare you the eggs,” was the reply, still in the same reserved man ner. All right. How do you make it here sence your father died?” Mr. Dill s eyes wandered about the room. “Very well.” "Git any money off the farm?” 1 manage to live and pay my taxes.” "Do? Much over?” “A little.” Ruth’s voice was growing more and more frigid. I hat so? The Avery family always did know how to manage. Your farm ’! be more valuable if ’twas more snug to the main road.” No answer. Ruth was studying the man’s face, and thinking that it bore a strange resemblance to a gimlet. My wife never was no kind of a manager, he said, discontentedly. \\ hen she died, of course, I mourned her, but she wa’n’t no money loss to me." Again no answer. Mr. Dill gazed hard at a closet door and appeared to wish to open it that he might examine its contents. But he gave up that idea and soon rose to his feet. lain t be n down here sence your father's funeral,” he remarked. “I guess I’ll go over the farm, if you ain’t no objections. I reckon some women do know how to farm it. but they’re mighty few. Make much sugar last sappin’ time?” “Considerable.” • "Did? How many men do you usual ly hire?” "I have Joe Monk and Killup Little in tlie busy seasons: other times I git 'long alone.” Ruth now shut her mouth as if she would not be likely to open it again. “Do? Monk ’n’ Little are real good workers. Yes. I guess I’ll go over the farm, if you ain’t no objections.” “The farm is free to folks to walk on.” Mr. Dill left the house. Ruth saw him go down first toward the English hay field. Having watched him thus far, she took her broom again. She was sweeping the kitchen for the third time when Mr. Dill came back. He merely put his head in at the door, which he held open just wide enough to admit of the insertion of that por tion of his physical frame. "Farm looks first-rate.” he said. “I sh’d almost say you’d better keep more sheep. Think it’s going to snow?” Ruth shortly expressed her ignorance as to the intentions of the weather, and Mr. Dill drove away. Ruth stood about aimlessly for a few minutes, then she hurried to the barn and harnessed the gray horse to the light wagon. She let her old brown spaniel sit on the seat with her, and, thus accompanied, she drove the three miles to tlie store. Having reached this place she and her spaniel walked in, and. as she expected, at this time in the day, the store was deserted save for the presence of the proprietor, who came forward snapping his fingers in a conversational manner at the dog, who paid not the slightest attention to him. "What it is today, Miss Avery? Sugar and spice ’n' everything nice for Thanksgivin’, eh?” facetiously. "No,” said Ruth, promptly, “I didn't come for groceries. I came to ask what old Paul Dill 'n' Adoniram Winsor were bettin’ about here; I s’pose you know, don’t you, Mr. Scott?” Mr. Scott’s ingratiating expression instantly left his face; his jaw dropped. He did not answer. “I s’pose you know, don’t you?" in sisted Ruth. “Yes,” at last, “I guess most of us know. But, law, you needn’t mind what a mess of men says.” Mr. Scott began to laugh. He plain ly made a violent effort to smother this laugh, choking to the extent of a pur ple face in the attempt. While he was thus engaged there entered a small man very much enveloped about the neck and chin in a red comforter. Ruth turned upon him with flashing eyes. “Mr. Benner,” she said, “you see Mr. Scott is in kind of a fit. Now, I’ll ask you the same question I asked him. I What were old Paul Dill ’n’ Adoniram Winsor bettin’ about here?” Mr. Benner did not laugh. He grew pale and glanced nervously at the door. "Do you kno.v?” relentlessly from Ruth. “Yes, yes. I know, Miss Avery, but 'twa’n’t nothin'—jest nothin’ at all, 'n' that’s a fact." Having spoken thus Mr. Benner left the store with the remark that he had forgotten to bring his pail for mo lasses. Ruth also left.. She drove directly home. She was conscious of a burning at her heart and eyes. She told herself that she guessed she could*live If she never knew what that bet was and have a good Thanksgiving too. The next afternoon, In the early dusk of November, Mr. Winsor’s horse s head appeared at the top of the hill and a few moments later Adoni ram entered Ruth’s kitchen. He was freshly shaved and he wore his Sun day suit under the army coat. He bore an immense turkey by the legs. He slapped the fowl down on the table with the remark that it weighed eight een and three-quarters and that no old maid in the world could ever eat It without help, a man's help too. "My dog ’n’ cat are all the help I want,” was the response. Mr. Winsor drew out the wings from his pocket and presented them. Then he took off his coat and hung it up. He said he had thrown a blanket on his horse, and if Ruth didn't mind he’d stop awhile. The two partook of hot biscuit and cold corned mutton and tea. Ruth explained that she didn’t always keep pies on hand just before Thanksgiving, as she herself could get along well enough if she never saw a pie. At the second cup of tea Adoniram spoke of the fact that he had often thought he had missed it not marry ing. There was no reply whatever to this, and he changed the conversation to the subject of rutabagas, upon which Ruth grew fluent, having made experiments in the raising of that root. It was 9 o’clock before Mr. Winsor took the blanket from his horse. When he had risen from his chair he had said: "Now. Ruth, I want to tell you once more, ’n’ I want you to understand it —I hope it’ll snow Thanksgiving.” When he was unhitching his horse he called loudly and cheerily: "It does look ’n’ feel like snow, ’n’ the wind’s dead east. Whether it snows or not I’m goin’ to drive over.” Ruth was under a degree of excite ment when she went to bed. Twice In the night she rose and looked out of the window. She could see no stars and the wind lashed against the east side of the house. She slept later In the morning at last, and when she rose the ground was white and a fine snow was sifting down the wind, the whole sky looking as if it might storm for weeks. There was a chickadee calling on the butternut tree in the yard. Ruth was rather tired with herself, because her excitement continued. She looked very calm, however, save that her eyes were brighter than com mon. When she combed her hair, which had always tried to curl, she al lowed the locks on her forehead to lie more loosely, but Ihis was all the con cession she made m her excitement. Mr. Winsor came at 9:30 in the morning. Instead of covering his horse he put him in the barn. When the man entered the kitchen his elderly face was glowing. The odors of baking turkey were in the room. "You’ve lost your bet,” exclaimed Ruth. "I know it; I’m glad of it.” Adoniram walked quickly to the sink, where his hostess was paring turnips. “1 was a mean skunk to make such a bet, but old Dill made me so mad I didn’t care. Ruth Avery, will you marry me?” Ruth stopped her work and leaned her hands on the edge of the sink. Her cheeks were red. “I sh'li have to think about that,” she said. “Yes, I know you will. I've got to tell you what we bet—that is, what the loser was to do—he was to come here and ask you to marry him. It was a horrid thing to bet. I didn’t realize it. Dh Ruth, don't look like that! I want you to marry me. I’m goin' to come here every week V ask you till you say yes. l won’t give it up, You're mad now; I don't wonder." “You’d better go home,” in a muffled savage tone from Ruth. “Yes, yes; I’ll go, but I sh’li come hack next week ’n' right along. I’ve kicked myself every minute since I done that—’n’ I guess I sha’n’t feel right till I’ve kicked old Dill too. I sh’li come next week.” And he did; he kept coming, but Ruth steadfastly refused to marry him until the next Thanksgiving, which •was also snowy, with the sun shining once in a while between the clouds.— New York Tribune. THANKSGIVING. It ain’t around the table ez supports the biggest bird Thet the smiles shine out the freest an’ the gentlest words are heard; An’ the plainest kind o’ service makes the merriment no less; it's the people, not the turkey, ez per vides the thankfulness. —Washington Star. GLAD THINGS AUK NO WORSE. "Hampton, have you any special cause for thanksgiving this year?” “Yes, sir; I’m glad one turkey is enough for a man and wife and six children.”—Chicago Record. THE REAL REASON. "Jimmie,” asked the Sunday school teacher, "why is it that so many peo ple are grateful on Thanksgiving?” “ ’Cause that’s the time they allns gets turkey.” -Detroit Free Press. THANK HIM. For pasture lands folded with beauty. For plenty that burdened the vale. For the wealth of the teeming abund ance, Each day will tie Thanksgiving Day We lift to the Maker our anthems, Hut none the less cheerily come To thank him for bloom and fruition And the happiness crowning the home. —Margaret E. Sangster. Senator Hayward of Nebraska is worse. His right side is paralyzed and tie speaks with difficulty and only in I monosyllables.