MY CUMBERLAND TURKEY. 



333 



and make game of them. With the 

 cheerful possibility in mind of being 

 made the receptacle for a load of B B 

 shot by some nervous youth accus- 

 tomed to blaze away at everything 

 that moves, I listened more intently 

 to see whether the author of this sere- 

 nade would change position. He fin- 

 ally did, but not in my direction. 



At that juncture I determined on a 

 forlorn hope ; I would whistle a tur- 

 key tune myself. With many mis- 

 givings, I essayed 3 or 4 whistling 

 calls, resembling turkey only "as the 

 mist resembles rain." This maiden 

 effort of mine provoked the soloist be- 

 low into a prolonged and eloquent 

 burst of silence. Just as my hopes 

 reached zero they were sent jump- 

 ing nearly to melting point by a 

 vigorous renewal of turkey talk on 

 the part of my feathered friend. Pos- 

 sibly she concluded from the sound of 

 my voice I was a young bird that had 

 swallowed a beech nut wrong end first 

 and needed to be slapped on the back. 

 Or, maybe, it was merely an uncon- 

 trollable attack of feminine curiosity 

 which impelled her to come running 

 through the leaves around the base of 

 the hill where I sat, clucking vigor- 

 ously the while. I screwed myself to 

 the other side of the pine, praying the 

 shale under me might hold on one 

 minute longer, and flattened down like 

 a flounder. There she came, on the run, 

 through a short growth of briar be- 

 low ! As I threw up my gun, she ut- 

 tered a sharp "whuk, whuk," and 



jumped to fly just as I fired. She got 

 her wings set and went down through 

 the pine tops, but the second barrel 

 stopped her and she fell at the bottom 

 of the hill. 



As I stretched her out on the brown 

 leaves, smoothed down the rumpled 

 feathers, and surveyed the rich plum- 

 age, brilliant as burnished brass in the 

 afternoon sun, I would have treated a 

 proposition to exchange places with 

 Abdul Hamid or any other worldly 

 potentate with scorn and contempt. 

 Do you suppose Abdul Hamid could 

 all alone call up and shoot a wild 

 turkey ? 



Oh, what a beauty she was, fat and 

 heavy, the grandmother of all the 

 flock. I ate my lunch, then reclined 

 on a bed of fragrant leaves, watching 

 thin threads of smoke from my rest- 

 ful briar find their way lazily out 

 through the tree tops. I was at peace 

 with all mankind. But the stillness of 

 the late autumn afternoon came on 

 and the deep shadow of the other 

 mountain crept out of the » alley until 

 it fell over me, and only the bald sum- 

 mit remained bathed in sunlight. 

 I took the great bird on my back and 

 started down to meet Bill at the water 

 tank. 



Even now I survey the dark 

 splotches on the back of my old can- 

 vas shooting coat and live over the in- 

 cidents of that day among the Mary- 

 land hills which closed with the de- 

 mise of my turkey. 



Once upon a time a little girl was al- 

 lowed to take dinner with her elders for 

 the first time. She had never tasted as- 

 paragus, and when some was placed before 

 her she inspected it with considerable cu- 

 riosity. After turning the stalks over gin- 

 gerly with her fork, she pushed the plate 

 away with a decided air. When asked 

 what was the 'matter, she replied : "I don't 

 like it. One end of it is raw and the other 

 end rotten." — New York Evening Sun. 



