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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 4