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24 THE
The Family
THE TURKEY'S NEST.
"If you find the nest." said Farmer Brown,
With a twinkle in his e>e,
"You shall have the nicest things in town
That a silver dollar will buy.
But mind you. it won't be children's play,
Fcr tuat sly old turkey hen
Has often stolen her nest away.
And has puzzled all my men."
Across the fields and into the wood.
And down by the running brook,
Among tne logs where the old mill stood.
Into every kind of nook;
And one by one they gave up the quest?
Bobh'e and Jack and Fred;
\>'e never could find that turkey's nest
If we searched a month," they said.
The fields were wide and the hills were
steep
And the baby's years were few.
And she lasreed behinil an<t ivcnt tr? eloon
Where ,.ie alder bushes grew.
And the turkey did not see her guest.
As she sought her eggs to set; .
So baby awoke and found the nest?
And the folks are wondering yet.
?Selected.
* .
LITTLE THANKFUL.
By Mrs. Susan M. Griffith.
"Got a girl yet, Mrs. Baxter?"
"No, I ain't, Mrs. Allen. Come in.
Girls are awful hard to find, it 'pears
iike. I reckon they're getting too
uppity to work out now. You can't
hardly get a white girl no more, and I
hate to have mlnrpd holn olmnt ihu
house."
"All the folks comin' home as usual, to
eat turkey dinner with you, I reckon?"
said Mrs. Allen, smilingly, as she accepted
the proffered chair. "I oughtn't
to set down a single minute, Mrs. Baxter.
1 just run over to borry a little molasses
for my gingerbread. I did not know 1
was out, or I'd sent for some yesterday.
My men-folks thinks housekeepin' is
comin' to an end if they don't have
gingerbread."
"Well, I want to know!" said Mrs.
Baxter. "Marier, go to the jug and fill
Mrs. Allen's cup. And don't be in a
hurry, Mrs. Allen. Set a while. Yes. "the
folks are all comin', of course. The
liouse'll be full. There's John's and
Silase's folks, and Emily?Emily's got
a new baby: I reckon you know that?"
"No!"
"Yes! two months old yesterday. Smart
little fellow for his age. Baxter's two
brothers are back on a visit among the
kin folks, too, from Wisconsin, and
they're comin', too. So, you see, we'll
be full."
"Well, I should say you would, it
looks stormy like, too; kinder as if it
was makin' ready for a snow or some
such thing."
"Oh, I reckon it will. It generally does
along about Thanksgivin*. How're your
turkeys this year, Mrs. Allen?"
"Jim was sayin* this mornln' he
guessed we'd be obliged to go without
this Thanksgivin*. He 'lowed to have a
lot to sell, but there are not more'n
six or seven in the whole lot left.
"Dear me! I want to know!' ex
PRESBYTERIAN OF THE SOUTI
claimed Mrs. Baxter, rubbing the flour
off her hands, for she was making
biscuit.
"Well, I must be goin\ or the dark'll
catch me. Come over, and you come,
too. Marier I hope you'll get a good
g!rl to help. Good-night." And the
ne'ghbor departed, letting in a blast ot
cold north wind as she opened and closed
the door.
Xlght falls early in November, and it
was not long ere its lengthening shadows
enveloped the farmhouse, in whose
kitchen a bright light shone,*and fragrant
oflors of boiling coffee and frying
sausage were pre-eminent.
"Set the coffee pot oil to the hack ot
the stove. Marier," said Mrs. Baxter,
going to the door and peering anxiously
down the road, listening intently for the
sound of wheels. "Seems like your pa's
late tonight. 1 shouldn't wonder a mite
if this cold rain would turn to snow afore
niornin'. We'll probably have a snowy
Thanksgiviif. There! I guess that's
your pa now, Marier. Get the laiyern
ready. Sissy, and be quick about it."
But quick as the young girl was, she
was not quick enough for her father,
whose heavy footsteps rang along the
rough stone walk leading from the barnyard
to the back door, and whose voice
could he heard talking cheerily to some
one.
"1 believe he's got us a girl!" said Mrs.
Baxter, throwing the door wide open, and
suiciding ine light she held In her hand
to keep it from being blown out by the
stormy wind.
"Here's your girl!" replied Mr. Baxter,
cheerfully triumphant, entering the
warm, bright kitchen and depositing a
diminutive old hair trunk on the floor.
"Come on in, little one. Don't stand
outside a minute longer than you have
to. That north wind's like sixty knives,
more or less."
She stepped in obediently, lifting a
pair of very dark eyes slowly to Mrs.
Baxter's wnndertnc Oimt, ? u?.i-.
? -- ? ? ? ? - ---Q K7uv.ii a unit-"
mite as she was, seemingly not over
fourteen years of age, no older than
Maria, shabbily clad, with black, elfin
locks straying under the battered old hat,
and a bright, intelligent, eager face. She
made a quaint little bow as she stepped
in, which was half courtesy, and sfood
silent under Mrs. Baxter's critical gaze.
'Distress!" ejaculated that lady,
with a glance at her husband. "You
don't mean to say to me, Baxter, that
you've gone and hired this child to do
our housework?"
"That's just what I have. Miranda,*
said Mr. Baxter, taking the lantern from
the hand of his little girl and preparing
to go out and put up his horse. "It is
the best and only thing I could do for
you. and I just happened on her. 1
reckon she'll do quite well when she
gets started; she's little, but she's
peart."
Mrs. Baxter turned to the girl as her
husband went out. "What's your name,
child?" she said, shortly.
"Bessie Bright, ma'am. 1 know how to
do things if I am little. I've worked out
ever since 1 was knee-high to a grasshopper.
I can scrub, and wash and Iron
and sweep and all like that. I don't know
'bout fine cooking, but I can learn. I hope
you'll please let me stay, ma'am, for it's
all so beautiful!" And she clasped her
hands and sighed with intense pleasure
i. April 21, igog.
as she glanced around the old-fashicned
kitchen.
"What's beautiful?" said Mrs. Baxter,
following the entranced gaze of the child
in some amazement.
"Why, everything! The fire, and the
smells! Oh, 1 never lived by a Are that
warmed the whole room like this, and
such beautiful cooking?it goes all over
me!''
"Well, I want to know! Did I ever!"
exclaimed the astonished Mrs. Baxter,
her face softening toward the little
stranger. "The idee of that fire bein'
beautiful, and common things like meat
and potatoes and coffee niakin' such a
stir. Here, little girl, you go and sit
..uuibcu uy mai lire if you've taken such
a shine to it, and. Mailer, you help me
dish up the supper. I reckon your pa
and the child's both huugrv a ridin' so
fur in the cold."
"The ride was beautiful," said the
little girl, rapturously. "1 never had such
a ride before in all my life. The air
blowing on my face was fine. And the
fields and the woods are grand. We
never get to see 'em in town. I think
the country the most beautiful place in
the world. I should think you would
never want to go away from it, even for
a day."
"Humph!" sniffed Maria, "you'll soon
get tired of it, you stay here long. It's
as lonesome as can be all winter; nothing
to see and no place to go. You'll finrf
out."
At this moment Mr. Baxter reentered
the house, and his wife called
them all to supper. The little stranger's
enjoyment of the meal went to the housewife's
heart, and she piled her plate with
abundant and lavish hospitality.i But
as soon as the supper was all over she
left the two girls to do up the work and
followed her husband into the adjoining
room, with a question upon her lips.
"Now, Baxter, I just want you to tell
me how and where you came across this
child. The idee of you bringin' her home
to help us about the house! Why, she
won't earn her board!"
"Well, she promised to he satisfied.
You see, Miranda, the way of it was
this: I had trapsied about all over town
trvina fi?"i ????*? *
?s M hiiu ounieooay, and I was just
falriy tuckered. I had some apples and
cabbage for Mrs. Melrose, and she and 1
stood a talkin' on the steps for quite a
bit about the scarcity of hired help and
all that sort of thing, and it was right
late, when, at last. I got started home.
I hadn't gone inore'n a block, I reckon,
when this here little girl ran out in the
read and stopped me. 'Oh. sir,' said she,
so earnest, I kinder thought she was
cryin', 'do please take me home with
you! I'm little and young, I know, but
I can work just as well as big folks, and
what I don't know I can learn. I was
passin' and heard you talkin' to that
lady on Vine street, about wantin' a
girl, an' I do wish you'd take me.'
one ait hi sue was an orphan, with no
kin in the world, and?I don't know why
I took to the young one so, Miranda, but
l.did. and I just drove round*to the place
she was sta.vin'?and 1 wish you could
have seen it; such a wretched hole as
it was, and such an unfeelln' woman and
yet the little girl seemed to like her, and
thanked her real heart-felt for lettin"
her stay there, and give her all the
money she had. which wasn't much, you
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