422 
FOREST AND_ STREAM. 
[Dec, i, 1900. 
A Housewife's Calendar. 
"Oh, dear me, suz! If that hain't too bad!" Mrs. Betsey 
Blake cried in almost tearful vexation, as she stepped 
backward from the stove, and with a rueful face re- 
garded a Uiin stream of water trickling from a crack low 
down on the side of the w^ash boiler and sputtenng into 
a cloud of steam on the hot stove. "John!" she called, in 
a voice full of trouble, "the b'iler's leakin' like mad, aii^ 
it looks just as if nothin' short of a tinker could stop it." 
Her husband came into the kitchen from the woodshed 
at a leisurely pace, and with an air of confidence m his 
ability to cope with any number of leaky boilers. But 
as he examined the irregular fissure his face took on a 
puzzled and then a more serious expression. 
"Maybe you might stick a rag into it," he sugg-ested. 
"No, not in such a shaped hole as that," she said de- 
cisively, and began dipping the water out into a pail. 
"You've got to take it to the village and have it soddered, 
an' that's all there is about it. It'll just spoil the day, so 
I can't wash afore to-morrow, an' that'll put back my 
Thanksgivin' work. Hain't it too bad? Dear me, I 
most wish we hadn't asked father an' mother an' 
Abigail to come." 
"Well, I'm sorry it's happened so, but never mind. 
You'll fetch things round all right; you gen'ally do," 
said he, so confidently that her spirits rose above the 
present disappointment. 
"I can do some of to-morrow's work to-day, an' be 
£o much ahead," she said, and before he was on his way 
she had half a pumpkin pared and stewing in the place 
of the boiler. 
Next morning the mended boiler was reinstated; by 
noon the delayed washing was completed, and Betsey 
Blake looked out complacently from her belated din- 
ner, upon the long array of spotless clothes fluttering 
from the swaying line, like triumphant banners. 
In the afternoon a part of the ironing was done, and 
next morning she arose refreshed, and with a sense of 
relief from one great labor of the week. 
"There," she exclaimed, sitting down for a moment's 
rest, after clearing the breakfast table, washing the 
dishes and sweeping the kitchen. "Thank goodness, 
washin' day is over and some o' the ironin' done, an' 
now it's only Tuesday, with two whole days afore 
Thanksgivin' to git good and ready in." 
"Hey? What?" John asked, abstractedly, with his 
eyes on the columns of the last paper,; absorbed in an 
editorial on the Philippines. 
"Two more days afore Thanksgivin,," Betsey re- 
peated. 
"Why, yes. so there is," said he, looking up at the 
clock, as if for confirmation. "I was kind o' thinkin' 
this was Wednesday, but couldn't make it seem just 
right." 
"Of course it's Tuesday, for I washed yesterday," said 
she, with convincing assurance. "And now I'm goin* 
to make my cramb'ry sass an' my mince an' apple pies. 
I shall leave my punkin pies for to-morrow, for I 
want them fresh. This arternoon you'd better kill the 
turkey and dress him so't he'll have a good long spell 
to hang; they're heaps better so'n they be to fly into the 
oven. And then to-morrow you can git Silas an' go arter 
your load o' wood; mebby you can git two." 
As John Blake drove his lumber wagon along the 
road the next morning on his waj^ to the wood lot he 
noticed that an indolent atmosphere seemed to pervade 
the few farmhouses which he passed, but it only im- 
pressed him as a rather early sign of the coming holiday. 
He found Silas Day cutting firewood at his door, 
looking somewhat surprised at his appearance, and 
more so at the request to go to the woods. 
"Why, yes, I s'pose I can go an' help you a spell," 
he answered, "arter I cut Phebe a speck more wood; 
she'll want consid'able to-day." 
"Yes, gettin' ready so for Thanksgivin'. Betsey is, 
too, busy as a bee in a tar barrel." 
Presently they were jolting over the rough by-road, 
too much shaken for comfortable conversation until they 
carne to a halt in the quiet of the bare November woods. 
"T don't hardly see how you come to put off gittin' 
your wood till to-day," said Silas, looking up through 
the netted branches at the climbing sun. 
"Well, I had a lot of things to tend to. an' couldn't 
get roun' to it. I s'pose I might ha' waited till arter 
Thanksgivin', but thought I might as well git it afore." 
Silas stared at him and muttered, "Runnin' pretty clus 
to the wind, I should think." 
After they had plied their axes awhile John struck 
his into a log, and going to his coat drew a package 
from a pocket. 
"I always did relish victuals in the woods, and se I 
fetched along some bread an' meat. Le's set down an' 
take a bite." 
"Well, I can mos' alwa:^s eat," Silas assented, as he 
took his alloted share and . sat down beside his com- 
panion, munching the bread and meat and letting his 
eyes rove about as people are apt to do when eating 
out of doors. 
A company of chickadees were busily gathering their 
slender fare on a low branch before him, and ob a higher 
one a red squirrel began rasping a butternut 
"Eatm' their Thanksgivin' dinner," Silas said, nod- 
ding at the little banqueters. 
"Make 'em a tol'able long meal if they keep it up 
till to-morrow arternoon. Hush! What be they ring- 
in' the meetin' house bell for?" John asked, excitedly 
as the mellow tones of a church bell were wafted to 
their ears. 
"Why. don't they always?" Silas asked, glaring curi- 
ou.siv at his companion. 
"Why. Silas, you know they don't never, only Sundays 
and Fast Days and Thanksgivin'. except funerals, an' 
there am t nobody dead, nofas I know of" ^ 
"Look a here, John Blake," said Silas, "be -you crazv 
,^5 you .foolin'? You act all the time as if you- was 
makin b heve this _ wa'n't Thanksgivin' Day, sot. bv 
the Gov nor an bein' kep' by everybodv but "you ari' 
I. Now, quit your nonsense an' le's hurry up for I 
want git hpifje, We hain't got m turkey; but' Pbetje 
had three as neat chickens as ever you see all ready to 
go int' the oven when I come away, an' the childern'^^ 
all goin' to be there, an' I want to be on hand to rights." 
John's face grew blank; his eyes stared, unseeing, into 
space. , . , , 
"Good gracious, Peter! If Betsey an' me ham t done 
it!" Then springing to his feet, "Hurry up! I should 
say! Most noon Thanksgivin' Day, Betsey's father aiV 
mother an' sister a-comm', an' the turkey a-hangin' 
up in the cellar if she's kep' a-dreamiri' as long as I 
have. It all come o' that plaguey ol' wash b'iler 
springin' a leak Mondayj so she couldn't wash till 
Tuesday, an' we counted from that. Never mind the 
tarnal wood. Onhitch the ho'ses an' le's scoot." 
Five minutes later the team was ...tearing down the 
road, the bounding wagon sending far and wide its 
thundering echoes that brought forth alarmed inmates 
from many a farmstead, while Silas hung 05 for dear 
life, as disjointed pleas and protests were jolted from 
him, all unheeded b^' the^ reckless drivM'. 
Deacon Adams in his Sunday suit, kss the coat, was 
standing in the midst of his Sunday-dressed household, 
with an open letter in his hand and disappointment 
on his face that was repeated in various degrees in the 
faces of the family. Hearing the unwonted din, the 
deacon rushed forth to ascertain the cause. 
"Stop! Stop! Hold.i.o,^.!" he ^ried, running out into 
the road, and John, impatient of delay, drew rein. 
"What on this livin' airth, John, is the matter? Is 
somebody sick or have you b'en takin' more'n you'd 
ought to?" 
"No, there hain't nobody sick, and I hain't b'en 
a-drinkin'," said John, and rapidly set forth the awk- 
ward situation. 
"You wait a minute, and I'll fix you up right as a 
trivet," said the deacon, still restraining his impatient 
neighbor. "I'll lend you a turkey^ all roasted and 
ready to go ont' the table. I'd liveser'n not, an' so would 
Mis' Adams. You see, we invited my brother Iry and 
all his folks, and we'd got two roustin' big turkeys int' 
the oven and half roasted when there come a letter 
from 'em sayin' how Iry'd up and broke his leg and they 
wouldn't none of 'em come. I don't want to be eatin' 
cold turkey for a week arter Thanksgivin', and it's 
providential 'at yourn missed fire" 
Suitable provision was made for the safe transportation 
of the hot turkey the short distance, and John Blake 
went his way with it, relieved in spirit. 
Meanwhile Betsey had spent half the forenoon leisurely 
preparing for the morrow's festivity, glad to be un- 
embarrassed by the presence of men folks and tmin- 
terrupted bj' any visitors until a timid rap called her to 
the door, and she opened it to Silas Day's little daughter. 
"Wh}', Mandy, is this you? Is there anything the 
matter to your house?" Betsey asked, in evident sur- 
prise. 
"iVo, ma'am — ^yes, ma'am, I mean, some matter," 
Mandy stammered, "The cat got int' the buttry an' 
eat up a whole punkin pie, all but the crust, an' ma 
wants to know if you can't lend her one, 'cause there 
ain't enough left to go round." 
"A punkin pie? Come in and set down. Why, I hain't 
got none baked. Wa'n't goin' to till this arternoon. 
Your ma can have one to-morrow, an' I s'pose that's 
what she wants it for." 
Mandy stared at her, round-eyed and opened-mouthed, 
"No, ma'am, she wants it to-day." 
"Well, she can't have it of me afore night. How 
comes it you hain't to school?" 
"The' hain't no school to-day." 
"Hain't no school? Is the schoolma'am sick?" 
"No, ma'am; she went home to Thankgivin'." 
"What! Lose two whole days for Thanksgivin'? That's 
ridic'lous," Mrs. Blake declared, with emphasis. 
"Why, no; she's comin' back to-night or in the 
mornin." 
"An' not keep Thanksgivin' in her own home? That's 
ridic'louser." 
"Why, Mis' Blake, she's keepin' it to-day at her own 
home," said Mandy. staring with still wider eyes at her 
hostess. "This is Thanksgivin' Day!" 
"It hain't!" Mrs. Blake made this assertion stoutly, 
but she was beginning to feel sickening qualms of doubt. 
"It sartain is. Mis' Blake, 'cause ma's roastin' three 
chickens, an' we're all to home, and oh, my, you'd 
ought to smell it to Deacon Adamses as I come by." 
"My land o' goodness!" the poor woman gasped, 
sinking into a chair in complete collapse, as the mistake 
became undeniably evident. "I've skipped a day, I do 
b'lieve. It all come o' that mis'able b'iler leakin' so't 
I couldn't wash Monday." 
The rumble of wheels caught her ear. She cast an 
appalled glance out of the window. "And there, if there 
hain't mother an' father an' Abigail a-drivin' up this 
minute, and the turkey not singed nor the stuffin' made, 
nor a punkin pie made. Thank goodness 'tain his folks! 
There's mince and applie pies enough, Mandy, you 
git one o' each kind and take 'em home — but what shall 
I do?" 
She put on a brave face to "mask her mortification, as 
she went out to meet her guestS; whom she wished miles 
away, in spite of her longing to see them. But when 
she invited them into the unready house, and tried to 
make a joke of her mistake, and saw the look of dis- 
appointment steal over the faces of her sharp-set travel- 
ers, her feigned lausrhter broke into genuine sobs. 
Just then John Blake suddenly appeared in the midst 
of the depressed group, bearing the borrowed turkey, 
which in the nick of time made a joke of the mistake 
and turned fasting to feasting. 
; - Rowland E. Robinson.' 
Take inventory, of the good things in this issue 
of Forest, and Stream. Recall what a fund was 
given last week. Count on. what is to come nexl 
week. Was. there ever in all the world a more 
abundant weekly store of sportsmen's reading f 
Two Tales of Two Turkeys. 
I,— Oof Thanksgiving Twrkcy. 
^ We weren't after turkey in particular when we got our 
Thanksgiving turkey in the year 1893. But we got it 
all the same, and I've never felt quite easy in my mind 
or conscience, or whatever you like to call it, as to 
whether we were justified in annexing that bird. 
The story of how it came to us, or, more properly 
speaking, of how we went to it, has never been written, and 
as the three actors in the experience are still alive per- 
haps I ought to follow otlr first resolution and "not tell 
the boys." But if I don't care, Bill and Jake oughtn't to 
feel as if they've "any kick coming." 
It was early in the morning of the Tuesday before 
Thanksgiving Day in 1893 that Bill Clark, Jake Stier. 
Bill's pointer Zip and myself drove out of Altootla, Pa., 
in a two-seated rig, going due east toward Bellwood. 
We went through Juniata, and a mile or two on the road 
to Bellwood, and then turned up a "run" that led into 
the bowels of the range of the Alleghanies that lines 
the north side of the Pennsylvania Railroad all the Way 
from Harrisburg to Altoona and beyond. 
We had a man to take our team back, as we meant to 
get out at a spot known to local shooters as "the place 
where Banks missed the bluejay," which is not far from 
another spot also well known, called "where Kotty 
skinned his nose"! From that place we had decided to 
hunt for "pheasants" (rufifed grouse), working our way 
over to Bell's Run, and'down the run to Bellwood, thence 
home by train. 
We hunted and we Worked all right enough, btit birds 
were scarce and wild. We must have got one or two, as we 
generaUy got some, but I can't remember how many we 
had before it was lunch time. When you are out with Bill 
it gets to be lunch time quite early in the forenoon. This 
particular day I think it was about 11 or 11:30, when 
we made out way to an old orchard where we knew 
there was a good cold spring. There had been a home- 
stead there in years gone by, but nothing but an old 
field and a worn-out orchard showed any signs of a 
tiller's hand. 
There wias a little snow on the ground, and there was 
any quantity ol turkey tracks under the trees, as well as 
wild turkeys in that section of the country. In fact, 
there was turkey sign everywhere. This was nothing 
strange to us, for we knew there were always lots of 
wild turkeys in that sectio nof the country. In fact, 
there'll be lots of those magnificent birds in the Alle- 
ghanies for years to come. 
While eating our luncheon, and while 2ip alternated 
in gulping down morsels from our lunch and licking 
old sore places torn open again by briers, we dis- 
cussed the possibilities of meeting up with one of the 
turkeys. As Bill said, "It'd be a good idea to get a 
Thanksgiving turkey." 
Lunch was about over when we heard a gun go of? 
with a regular old black powder br-ro-o-oom. It was 
not more than three or four hundred yards away from us. 
judging by the sound. Somebody said, "Turkeys!" The 
rest of us agreed. By common consent we jumped up 
and went to a pair of bars, where an old woods road 
came out into the orchard, and stood looking in the 
direction of where the sound of the gun came from. 
All at once, out into the open over the little valley, way 
up above the trees, sailed a turkey. At first it looked as 
if it was coming toward us, but almost instantly we 
saw that it had turned down the valley and was flying 
directly away from us along the hillside. Our eyes 
followed it as it kept on its way for about a quarter of a 
mile, when suddenly up went its head and down it came 
"windling," deader'n a mackerel. 
"He got it after all," said some one. 
';He did," said Bill. 
"Did you ever see anything like it?" said Jake, who 
was always moderate in his conversational efforts. 
Then we returned to our lunch, and talked over the 
wonderful thing that we had seen. 
Bill was quiet for a bit; he had lighted a cigar and it 
was drawing well. Other cigars were also acting prop- 
erly, and Zip was at his old game of chewing and lick- 
ing those old sore spots. Then Bill broke the silence: 
"Say, do you suppose that fellow who shot at that 
turkey saw it fall? Do you think he had any idea that 
he hit it?" 
That was quite a new one on us, and we caught at it 
at once. It would be quite easy to follow the road in 
the woods and find out whether the man with the gun 
had turned off to the right or left anywhere. His tracks 
in the snow would tell us. We had marked where the 
turkey fell, as to us he seemed to fall right alongside of 
a monster old pine which for some internal imperfections 
had been left when its brethren were taken by the lum- 
bermen. Some 300 yards along the road we saw plain!}' 
where the man had come down into the road, and saw 
also that his tracks, as well as those of his dog, a little 
terrier, led along the road in the direction the turkey 
had flown. 
Following the tracks, we finally came alongside of the 
big pine, which was down hill on the right of the road. 
The turkey, too, had fallen to the right of the pine, so 
was further from the road than the pine was. Jake and 
I turned off into the wood, which was open enough for 
us to have a good view of the ground; Bill went down 
the road a bit to make sure that the man with the dog 
had not turned off further on. Then he, too, turned to 
the right into the brush and began to investigate. 
To Bill belongs the honor of finding that bird, a gob- 
bler, too, wattled, bearded and bronzed, as only an old 
gobbler can be. He was a beauty, with not a feather 
damaged, and not a drop of blood on the snow. Bill 
found him in less than two minutes after he had left' the 
road, which goes to show that he had marked the bird 
more carefully than we had. Slinging the gobbler on his- 
shoulder, he came toward us. Jake and I firing a feu de 
joie when he flung the bird on the snow at our feet. 
Was it our turkey, or did it belong to the mart who 
had .shot at it? He was by this time a mile or more on 
his way, and that turkey certainly did look good. Any- 
way. Jake toted the bird on his back nearly all the waj'- 
to Bellwood,, while Bill and I hunted for more gam<?. 
