MY CHRISTMAS TURKEY. 



JAS. CAMPION. 



The night before Christmas 1 stepped 

 off the train at a village in Webster county, 

 West Virginia, in quest of turkeys. 1 had 

 received a letter from a friend stating that 

 turkeys were plentiful in the hills and that 

 if I should arrive in time I would have 

 some good shooting. Accordingly I packed 

 my Winchester .30-30 in its case and em- 

 barked for the mountains. At dawn Christ- 

 mas morning we finished our breakfast of 

 coffee and roast chicken and departed for 

 the woods, promising the women we would, 

 if possible, have the king of birds on the 

 table for dinner. 



John went up the right fork of a small 

 creek and I the left. There were plenty of 

 turkey signs, but no birds, and the sun 

 was high when we emerged from the creek 

 bottoms and climbed to higher ground. 

 Everywhere nature was in her glory, the 

 warm sun bringing forth all the birds, 

 which darted in and out among the golden 

 and russet leaves of the oaks. 



John had stopped to light his pipe and 

 was in the act of striking a match when I 

 heard a rustle in the bushes to the right. I 

 wheeled around in time to see a turkey 

 dash into the bushes, followed by a charge 

 of shot and a rifle ball, but he escaped. 



It was then 10 o'clock, and we were be- 

 ginning to think that luck was against us. 

 We determined to stay in the game, how- 

 ever, and proceeded farther into the 

 woods in the direction the turkey had 

 taken. In about 10 minutes we came out 

 in a little open spot in the woods. This 

 clearing in turn opened into another, and I 

 was walking for that when my friend 

 grasped my arm. 



"Down, quick, Jack!" he said, as he 

 dragged me into the underbrush. "Look 

 yonder !" 



I followed the direction of his arm, and 

 beheld, perched on a tall, dead pine at the 

 other end of the clearing, and outlined 

 against the blue sky, a magnificent golden 

 bronze turkey. The splendid old fellow 

 seemed to be excited about something, and 

 was craning his neck to the North. The 

 distance was about 200 yards, a long shot. 

 I wished to steal up on him and lessen 

 the distance, but my friend would not 

 listen. 



"I have been in these hills long enough 

 to know yonder bird, Jack, and if you try 



to crawl up on him we will be without a 

 Christmas dinner. Conditions are against 

 you. The minute you emerge from the 

 bushes he will see you and it will be all 

 over. Try him from here with that little 

 popgun of yours." 



1 had great confidence in my Winchester. 

 I knew that if I held it right it would do 

 its work. Using an old stump for a rest I 

 took a glimpse along the Lyman sights and 

 fired. A second later I was greeted with a 

 few choice words not in the Bible. 



"You've missed him, Jack ! You fellers 

 from the city don't know how to shoot !" 



He was partly right. We began to look 

 at each other uneasily. It was near the 

 noon hour and the stove in one West Vir- 

 ginia home was waiting. John shot a brace 

 of quails by way of something to take home, 

 and, giving up the turkey hunt as a bad 

 job, we retraced our way homeward. 



The sun was directly overhead, casting its 

 warm rays on the hilltops, as we came out 

 into the creek bottoms, when we heard the 

 welcome "put, put, put," of a turkey. It 

 was repeated again and again, the sound 

 coming from the direction of a clump of 

 chestnuts, and we soon made out another 

 large bird. The distance was a little longer 

 than the first shot, and the conditions were 

 the same as in the first case. I crawled in 

 behind a pine, taking aim at the center of 

 the slowly waving mass. The rifle had 

 scarcely spoken when my friend greeted 

 me with an altogether different cry,. 



"You've got him, Jack !" 



I saw the turkey come down like a bag of 

 sand. We ran up to the tree, and, great 

 Scott ! No bird was in sight ! I dropped 

 my gun in disgust. It seemed as if I had 

 hunter's luck again, when suddenly, 100 feet 

 away, I saw the body of that great, proud 

 turkey. 



The ball had entered his breast and had 

 come out at the other side, yet, mortally 

 wounded, he had covered that distance ! 

 True Yankee courage ! I felt sorry he 

 should die; but so is the will of the sports- 

 man. 



It was 4 o'clock that afternoon when 

 John, his wife and I sat down to a dinner 

 of wild turkey, flanked with his smaller 

 brethren, the quails ; baked sweet -potatoes, 

 cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. It was 

 indeed a dinner fit for the gods. 



Uncle — How old are you, Jimmy? 

 Jimmy — I'm 13 at home, 14 at school, and 

 II in the train. — Tit-Bits. 



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