Turkeys  Going  to  Market. 
(ARRANGED  KOK  KINDERGARTEN.) 
The  storm  clouds  are  heavy  with  snow, 
And  hakes  by  iny  window  fast  how, 
As.  loud  thro'  the  white-mantled  trees, 
I  hear  'hove  the  wail  of  the  breeze, 
The  refrain: 
“  No,  we  don't  want  to  go — go — go.  (Loud.) 
No,  we  don't  want  to  go  -  go-go.  (Softly.) 
No,  we  don't  want  to  go— go— go.”  (Loud,  and  repeat  softly. 
It  hrst  sounded  shrilly,  then  low; 
Sometimes  It  is  faster;  then  slow. 
I’m  startled  to  hear  the  i  trange  noise, 
And  ask  if  'tie  school-going  boys. 
In  the  rain: 
Who  "  do  not  want  to  go— go— go.”  (Repeat  loud  and  softly.) 
But  soon  I  look  downward  and,  lo  1 
Not  laddies  ?  Nor  lassies  ?  Ah,  no  ! 
I  see,  'mid  the  slush  of  the  street, 
Live  turkeys  who  vainly  repeat 
A  nd  declare: 
“  No.  we  don’t  want  to  go— go— go.”  (Repeat,  as  above.) 
Poor  things  !  Well,  the  reason  I  know. 
They’re  hurried  thro'  sleet,  rain  and  snow; 
They’re  frightened  and  weary,  yet  chased  ! 
To  market  they’re  going  in  baste 
And  despair: 
But  they  “  don't  want  to  go— go— go.”  (Repeat,  etc.) 
Their  tracks  through  the  mud  plainly  show; 
They  reel  as  the  chilly  winds  blow, 
Endeavor  to  ily  up,  or  out, 
As,  urged  on  by  whip  and  by  shout, 
They  proclaim 
That  they  “  don’t  want  to  go— go— go.”  (Repeat.) 
Deep  pity  on  them  I  bestow 
As  they  pass  down  the  long,  narrow  row. 
The  drivers  are  carrying  some, 
But  none  are  resigned,  calm,  or  dumb. 
Or  to  blame 
If  they  “  don’t  want  to  go— go— go,”  etc. 
They're  lost  In  the  fast-falling  snow, 
But  market  will  lind  them,  I  know: 
And  all  thro'  the  hours  of  the  day 
Each  one  In  my  ears  seems  to  say 
Asa  ghost: 
“  No,  we  don’t  want  to  go-go — go, 
No,  we  don’t  want  to  go — go-go, 
No,  we  don’t  want  to  go— go— go, 
No,  we  don't  want  to  go— go— go.” 
—VIRGINIA  SHEFFEY  HALLEY. 
Some  Causes  for  Thanksgiving. 
The  Now  of  Peace. — The  Thanksgiving  of  our  fore¬ 
fathers  was  shown  in  a  strong  light  by  the  illustrative 
pencil  belonging  to  one  of  New  York’s  fun-makers — 
Life,  we  think.  It  was  not  a  funny  sight,  this  picture 
of  our  ancestors  with  their  families  devoutly  sitting 
in  their  hard,  wooden  pews,  while  savage  arrows  flew 
thickly  around  them,  and  savage  faces,  tricked  out  in 
paint  and  feathers,  blood-thirsty  and  pitiless,  filled  the 
windows  of  the  sanctuary.  Yet  the  mind,  making  in¬ 
stant  flight  from  these  scenes  to  the  luxurious  Thanks¬ 
giving  of  our  own  day,  found  in  the  incongruity  of  the 
two  scenes  a  source  of  laughter,  and  the  shrewd  tipping 
of  the  arrow  of  laughter  with  the  barb  of  thought 
that  may  not  be  dismissed  was  most  effective.  Even  the 
poorest  of  the  land,  those  who  had  suffered  in  circum¬ 
stances,  or  in  heart  treasure,  or  through  affliction,  all 
could  at  least  feel  a  thrill  of  thankfulness  that  they 
lived  in  the  now  of  peace,  rather  than  the  then  of  strug¬ 
gle  and  war  and  bloodshed. 
Alas,  Columbus. — The  nineteenth  century  is  grow¬ 
ing  tired  of  Columbus  !  It  has  rather  outgrown  the 
idea  of  hero-worship  ;  and  the  discovery  of  some  new- 
old,  long-forgotten  documents  in  the  Spanish  archives 
has  given  it  an  excuse  for  reconstructing  a  little  of  the 
story  and  more  than  a  little  of  the  character  of  the 
commander  of  the  pioneer  fleet  to  America.  In  the 
days  of  the  childhood  of  the  nation,  he  was  a  religious 
enthusiast,  a  bigot,  an  inquisitor,  if  you  will,  yet  sin¬ 
cere  ;  and,  judged  by  the  standards  of  his  time,  pro¬ 
gressive  and  worthy  of  admiration.  Now,  forsooth, 
he  is  a  renegade,  a  liar,  a  pirate  on  the  high  seas,  a 
commander  of  criminals,  by  whom  we  are  ashamed 
almost,  to  have  been  discovered.  We  prefer  to  say 
that  Cabot  came  but  a  few  years  later,  and  would  have 
discovered  us  anyhow,  that  Columbus  did  not  really 
find  much  but  the  outlying  islands  ;  that  some  of  our 
Indian  tribes  show  by  virtue  of  language  and  custom, 
distinct  traces  of  Anglo-Saxon  influence  that  must 
have  come  to  them  from  the  Old  World  and  have  become 
incorporated  in  their  life  centuries  before  the  time  of 
Columbus.  Thus  Columbus  stands  before  this  genera¬ 
tion  stripped  far  worse  than  when  deprived  of  his 
honors  and  placed  in  chains  by  the  ungrateful  Span¬ 
iards  :  stripped  of  the  honor  of  discovery,  stripped  of 
all  semblance  of  decent  character — yes,  verily,  stripped 
in  the  latest  accepted  portraits  and  monuments,  even  of 
his  goatee  and  stiff  collar  ;  is  it  not  an  irony  of 
homage  that  has  in  the  last  few  weeks  been  paid  him  ? 
If  we  cannot  be  thankful  for  personal  blessings ;  if 
we  chance  to  be  of  those  who  look  with  trembling 
toward  the  future  of  the  nation  ;  if  we  be  of  those  who 
look  always  upon  that  which  we  have  not  with  jealous 
spirit,  rather  than  with  thankful  heart  upon  the  good 
that  has  been  vouchsafed  us;  at  least  let  each  and 
every  one  of  us  be  thankful  that  we  are  not  Columbus. 
“  Punkin  Pie  Year.” 
F  all  the  farmers’  wives  in  the  county  of  Sque- 
dunck,  none  was  so  highly  respected  and  be¬ 
loved  as  little  Mrs.  Catherwood.  She  had  been  born 
and  brought  up  in  the  county,  married  there  too,  and 
raised  a  family  of  eight  children,  yet  she  was  still 
known  as  “little”  Mrs.  Catherwood.  Nobody  had 
anything  but  a  good  word  for  her,  and  her  generosity 
was  often  the  theme  of  conversation  in  families  that 
knew  her  only  by  reputation.  If  a  neighbor’s  peach 
trees  failed  to  bear,  Mrs.  Catherwood  was  always 
ready  and  anxious  to  supply  the  lack.  Where  pears 
were  scarce  Mrs.  Catherwood  invariably  appeared 
with  some  of  her  1  est  kind ;  and  everybody  in  the 
vicinity  shared  the  beautiful  apples  that  were  so 
abundant  in  the  Catherwood  orchard.  For  miles 
around  when  people  ran  short  of  anything  they  would 
say,  “I  wonder  if  little  Mrs.  Catherwood  has  any  to 
spare.” 
Now  it  so  happened  one  year  that  the  pumpkin  seeds 
which  Mr.  Catherwood  planted  turned  out  to  be  a 
failure  ;  there  wasn't  the  sign  of  a  pumpkin,  and  con¬ 
sequently  the  family  could  have  no  pumpkin  pies. 
A  neighbor  dropped  in  one  morning  and  finding 
Mrs.  Catherwood  engaged  in  rolling  out  pie-crust,  in¬ 
quired,  “Mailin'  punkin  pies?” 
“  Lor,  no  ;  I  haven't  a  punkin  to  bless  myself  with. 
The  seeds  didn’t  come  up.” 
“Is  that  so  ?  Well,  that’s  strang’e  ;  we’ve  a  plenty 
and  to  spare.  Can  have  some  of  our'n  jest  as  well  as 
not.” 
Mrs.  Catherwood  thankfully  accepted  the  offer  and 
sent  one  of  her  boys  to  get  the  pumpkins.  The  next 
day  the  family  had  the  much-wished-for  pumpkin 
pies. 
The  following  morniDg  Johnnie  Catherwood  took 
his  father  to  the  station,  and  when  he  returned  he 
had  10  pumpkins  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon.  “  Ma,” 
said  he,  “Mr.  Green  heard  tell  that  your  punkin  seeds 
was  a  failure,  so  he  sent  these  over.” 
Mrs.  Catherwood’s  eyes  glistened.  They’d  have  more 
of  tne  favorite  pies  now. 
In  the  afternoon  Farmer  Dodge  drove  down  to  the 
house.  “I  lieern  tell,  Mrs  Catherwood,  that  you 
hadn  t  no  punkins,  so  as  I  was  cornin’  along  this  way, 
thought  I’d  bring  you  a  few.” 
“Now  I  can  make  pies  to  send  down  to  the  girls,” 
thought  Mrs.  Catherwood,  after  she  had  thanked  her 
neighbor  for  his  kindness  ;  “they're  so  powerful  fond 
of  punkin  pies.” 
Toward  night  Mr.  Valentine’s  hired  man  dropped  in 
to  say  that  his  boss  had  heard  that  Mr.  Catherwood 
had  no  punkins,  so  he  had  sent  some  down. 
“Everybody  is  so  clever,”  Mrs.  Catherwood  after¬ 
ward  said  to  her  husband  ;  “we’ve  got  sech  a  nice  lot 
of  punkins  now  that  I  guess  wre  won’t  starve  for  the 
want  of  punkin  pies.” 
The  next  day  a  little  girl  ran  in  to  tell  Mrs.  Cather¬ 
wood  that  her  ma  said  she  could  send  some  one  over 
to  the  house  to  get  some  punkins,  if  she  hadn’t  any. 
They  had  raised  more  than  they  could  possibly  use. 
The  good  woman  thanked  the  child,  and  at  noon  in  a 
private  interview  with  her  husband,  asked  him  if  he 
didn’t  think  they  had  enough  now. 
“  Well,  it  kinder  seems  like  it,”  he  replied,  “hadn't 
you  better  send  them  word  we  don’t  want  any  more?” 
“Oh!  mercy!  no,”  cried  the  little  woman,  “I 
wouldn  t  insult  them  that  way  for  the  world.  We’ll 
have  to  take  them,  of  course.” 
Mr.  Catherwood  went  away  on  business  the  next 
morning  and  did  not  return  until  night.  When  he 
entered  the  house  Mrs.  Catherwood  met  him  with  an 
anxious  look,  and  said,  “Whatever  are  we  goin’  to  do, 
Tom?  The  cellar  bottom  is  covered  with  punkins, 
and  more  keep  cornin’.  They’ve  been  cornin’  all  day.” 
Why,  stop  ’em,  of  course.  Tell  the  people  you 
don’t  want  any  more.” 
“  But  I  can’t  send  them  away  when  they're  kind 
enough  to  bring  ’em.  If  any  more  asked  me  now— 
but  they  don’t  wait  to  ask;  they  send ’em  right  along.” 
By  the  following  day  the  smoke-house  and  the 
chicken  house  were  also  full  of  pumpkins.  Mrs. 
Catherwood  wondered  how  everybody  found  out  that 
her  seeds  had  been  a  failure.  She  had  not  told  any 
one  but  Mrs.  Dwight,  and  Mrs.  Dwight  hadn’t  been 
away  from  home,  she  was  sure  of  that,  and  yet  people 
for  miles  around  were  sending  pumpkins.  One  man 
left  a  goodly  number  at  the  station,  and  then  wrote 
to  Mr.  Catherwood  to  come  after  them,  so  they  had  to 
be  sent  for  immediately. 
At  last  when  every  little  outbuilding  that  they  had 
was  full  of  the  great,  yellow  balls,  Mr.  Catherwood 
decided  that  something  had  to  be  done. 
“  1 11  tell  you,  ma,  said  Johnnie;  “  have  a  pumpkin 
pie  bee,  and  then  send  the  pies  to  the  poorhouse.” 
I  hat  ain’t  a  bad  idee,”  exclaimed  the  farmer,  and 
without  further  parley,  he  dispatched  his  son  to  have 
a  notice  inserted  in  the  county  paper.  This  was  the 
notice  as  it  appeared,  not  as  he  indited  it : 
Mrs.  Catherwood  wises  to  thank  her  friends  and  neighbors  for  so 
kindly  sending  her  pumpkins  in  a  time  of  need,  but  having  many  more 
now  than  she  will  be  able  to  dispose  of  herselt,  she  suggests  that  those 
who  can  make  it  convenient  meet  at  her  bouse  on  Monday  to  make 
pies  to  send  to  the  poorhouse  and  other  charitable  institutions  in  the 
county. 
The  suggestion  was  kindly  received.  The  people 
were  glad  to  do  a  good  deed  by  way  of  a  Thanksgiving 
offering  ;  consequently  a  large  number  met  at  Mrs. 
Catherwood’s  and  fell  to  work  on  those  pumpkins  in 
such  an  energetic  manner  that  it  was  not  long  before 
they  were  transformed  into  rows  of  the  most  inviting 
pies  that  any  one  ever  beheld.  As  the  women  were  to 
make  the  pies,  the  men  took  up  a  collection  and  paid 
for  the  flour  and  other  necessary  ingredients,  and  the 
boys  carried  them  in  wagons  to  the  different  institu¬ 
tions.  IIow  the  hearts  of  the  poor  people  filled  with 
joy  at  sight  of  the  feast  in  store  for  them  ! 
“  Who  would  have  reckoned  that  my  not  havin'  pun¬ 
kins  would  make  so  many  people  happy?”  said  Mrs. 
Catherwood  gleefully. 
“  And  who  ever  saw  such  a  heap  of  punkin  pies  as 
we  took  away  ?”  said  Johnnie. 
“I  never  did  before,”  replied  Mrs.  Dodge,  “and  I 
believe  I  shall  see  punkin  pies  for  a  week  to  come 
whenever  I  shut  my  eyes.” 
The  other  ladies  believed  they  would  have  a  similar 
experience. 
“  I  kinder  reckon  this’ll  be  called  punkin  pie  year,” 
said  old  Deacon  Appleby. 
And  his  prophecy  was  fulfilled.  From  that  time  the 
year  was  spoken  of  by  the  people  of  Squedunck  County 
as  “  Punkin  Pie  Year.”  s.  jennie  smith. 
Dinah’s  Thanksgiving. 
“  1  ’M  powerful  sorry,  missis;  but  I  don't  see  how  1 
-*■  can  come.  Why,  I  ain't  bin  away  from  hum  a 
Thanksgiving  Day  fer  nigh  onto  15  year,  not  since  the 
children  begun  ter  git  married  ;  an’  no  matter  how  fur 
off  they  settled,  they  alius  managed  ter  git  home  that 
day,  an'  I  would  dissipint  them  by  not  being  there,” 
and  Dinah  scrubbed  away  vigorously  on  the  wash¬ 
board. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  skies  dropped  down  on  me  at  her 
words.  I  had  been  so  certain  of  her  helping  me 
through  this,  my  first  Thanksgiving-making  for  Fred’s 
relatives.  It  was  the  third  year  since  our  marriage 
and  they  had  spared  me  until  now.  Wlnj  are  the  hus¬ 
band’s  relatives  always  such  a  bugbear  to  a  young 
wife?  Fred’s  were  such  dear,  good  people  too,  and  I 
wanted  everything  so  nice  for  them.  But  all  the  same 
I  knew  my  real  Thanksgiving  would  be  the  day  after  ! 
And  now  Dinah  was  going  to  fail  me. 
I  would  have  pleaded  with  her,  but  there  was  such 
a  look  on  the  good  woman’s  face— a  far-away,  yearn¬ 
ing  look  toward  the  children  whom  she  had  not  seen 
for  nearly  a  year— that  I  only  said:  “  Children,  Dinah? 
Why  I  did  not  know  you  had  children  except  George 
the  coachman  at  Captain  Rodgers’s  and  Susie.” 
“  I've  got  four  ’sides  them,  missis,”  was  the  reply. 
“  An’  16  gran’  children.” 
I  almost  gasped  for  breath. 
Vile  cod-liver  oil  has  lost  its  vileness  in 
Scott’s  Emulsion  and  gained  a  good  deal 
in  efficiency. 
It  is  broken  up  into  tiny  drops  which 
are  covered  with  glycerine,  just  as  qui¬ 
nine  in  pills  is  coated  with  sugar  or  gela¬ 
tine.  You  do  not  get  the  taste  at  all. 
The  hypophosphites  of  lime  and  soda 
add  their  tonic  effect  to  that  of  the  half- 
digested  cod-liver  oil. 
Let  us  send  you  a  book  on  careful 
living — free. 
Scott  &  Bowne,  Chemists,  132  South  5th  Avenue,  New  York. 
Your  druggist  keeps  Scott’s  Emulsion  of  cod-liver  oil— all  druggists 
everywhere  do.  $1, 
