—a dreadful thing, for, like the river of the 

 song, it is one to cross. Up and down the banks 

 stalk the gobblers, stretching their necks out 

 over the water and making believe to start, as 

 they do when going to roost in the apple-trees. 



All day long, all the next day, all the third 

 day, if the river is wide, they strut and cluck 

 along the shore, getting up their courage. The 

 ridiculous creatures have wings ; they can fly ; 

 but they are afraid ! By this time, however, 

 the whole flock has mounted the tallest trees 

 along the bank. One of the gobblers has come 

 forward as leader in the emergency. Suddenly, 

 from his perch, he utters a single cluck,— the 

 signal for the start,— and every turkey sails into 

 the air. There is a great flapping — and the 

 terrible river is crossed. 



A few weak members fall on the way over, 

 but not to drown. Drawing the wings close in 

 against their sides, and spreading their round 

 fan-like tails to the breeze, they strike out as if 

 born to swim, and come quickly to land. 



The hens tag along at the beginning of the 

 migration in order to keep their young out of 

 the way of the old ill-natured gobblers who will 

 [272] 



