FANCIERS’ JOURNAL AND POULTRY EXCHANGE. 
23 

LOST—A GOBBLER. 
Tux Christmas days are here, the saddest of the year. In 
the still small hour, when the new morn bro egg shell, 
I heard the shriek of the gobbler and the wa the turkey 
hen. The bark of the dog had aroused me, the call of the cat 
had alarmed me, the moonlight was glaring through the 
window, the screaming mice tore along the passage way, the 
braying of the mule shuddered on the night air; all nature 
was horrible. Murder was being done. Tucking the blan- 
kets about me I swore no power on earth could move me; I 
closed my eyes, but not to sleep, the soothing God had left 
me, I layed on the thorns of unquiet, and was impaled on a 
lance of thought. The morning broke heavily, the mist 
arose from the river; I wended my way into my breeches, 
jerked on my old top coat and made for the turkey pastures. 
Pe, pe, pe, tuck, tuck, tuck, tuck. ‘+ Not a sound was heard, 
not a funeral note.”” Istrained my eyes through the grayish 
fog and earnestly besought them to answer. Oh! for one 
gobble, gobble to ease my aching heart. I called them softly, 
I called them loudly, though far in the distance I heard the 
ba-a of the neighbor’s sheep. From his long night’s rest 
the aged sun came creeping from out the East; he lay on 
the clouds like a golden dream, but he gave not my heart 
delight; he forced his rays through the sombre haze, but 
his light put my brain in a maze. Before me lay on the 
cold damp ground, the head of my turkey cock, his eye 
half shut with a ghastly wink and his mouth was open wide 
Beside him wept the turkey hen whose body had disappeared. 
I turned me away with a silent tear to wrestle with my 
grief alone, for the day was cold and dark and dreary, my 
turkies were gone and I was weary. The feathers were 
wafted right and left by the rascals in their flight, but never 
a luscious bird was left to carve on Christmas day: I dug 
them a grave in the frozen earth and buried them side by 
side, and over their tomb I vowed I’d raise a statue bold 
and clear. 
“The day goes by like a shadow o’er my cake 
With sorrow where all was delight ; 
The hours are coming which the turkies were to bake, 
But their bodies are goned out of sight. 
Oh play no more my children, 
O play no more to day. 
We must weep some tears for the gobbler, and the hen, 
That were ’wisked away from our pen.” 
Many’s the day and long, we fed them the best old corn, 
and now, to lie awake and think that from their roof they’re 
torn. Our thoughts were wedded to their fat and often on 
the coop we sat, in the days that are no more a listening to 
the mornful howl of our ancient thomas-cat. Farewell old 
turks, the night comes on and its gloom is sad to see, for 
never more from the green will I hear thy gobble, gobble 
—pe, pe, pe, 
Softly through the still night the zephyrs whisper to me 
that the saddest words of all are these: 
The gobbler is stolen away, 
There is nought for Christmas day. 
—W. P. Moraan in Saturday Night’ 

“Wat's the matter there, Alice? Don’t your shoes fit ?”’ 
“ No, papa, they don’t fit me at all,” replied the little one. 
And then she enumerated all the faults of the shoes in set 
terms, and reached the climax thus—‘‘ Why, they don’t even 
squeak when I go out for a walk.” 

TIGER TRAPS. 
Srrone posts are fixed in the ground so as to form a circle 
of palisades ten or twelve feet in diameter. Another large 
circle is formed in the same way outside the other, leaving 
a space of a foot and a half between the two. In the outer 
circle a small door is made of a width equal to the space 
between the circles. A goat or calf is tied to a post in the 
centre, and the door is opened, so that it stands across the 
space between the circles. The tiger comes and walks 
around the outer circle till he finds the entrance. He enters, 
and walks around the space till he reaches the open door, 
which he pushes back into its place. The space is too nar- 
row for him to turn round or exert his great strength, and 
he continues to walk round and round till morning, when 
he is easily killed, and the bait extricated unhurt.—London 
Times. 

(For Fanciers’ Journal.) 
WANTED !—GRASS. 
Domestic fowls of all kinds seem to be, in a measure, both 
carnivorous and granivorous; partaking in this respect of 
the character of both those whose food consists entirely of 
insects and slugs, as well as those whose food consists of grain 
alone. Ducks and geese incline more to grain, and turkeys 
probably more to insects. Chickens seem to hold an inter- 
mediate place; they cannot thrive on either flesh or grain 
alone, although life may, for a time, be supported on cither 
one or the other diet ; if confined strictly to the one diet, 
however, disease will ultimately be the result. 
The nearer we can fix on the natural diet of fowls, the 
nearer shall we reach success in preserving their health. Of 
course our plan of confining poultry in small coops and yards 
is an unnatural restriction on their liberty and habits, and as 
a result, there must be some care taken that we supply the 
lacking elements in their food, or in other words, make re- 
compense for that of which we deprive them by their con- 
finement. One of these elements, and probably the most 
important, is grass, including under this head vegetable food 
for winter. 
I have been experimenting the past summer with a view 
to testing the merits of a grass run for fowls. I never had 
a doubt as to the importance of allowing my fowls a free run 
on the turf, but I was anxious, further, to see to what extent 
the difference in treatment would affect the fowls. Accord- 
ingly while I hatched and reared a brood of chicks in my 
limited town quarters, I at the same time had several broods 
of the same stock hatched and reared in the country by a 
farmer friend of mine; one of the conditions being, that 
the chicks should not be brought in till they were six months 
old. No extra care was to be given in the way of food or 
attention. A few weeks ago these chicks, which have had 
an unlimited grass run all summer, but very little feed, were 
returned to me; my own have been carefully fed the whole 
season, and given limited freedom on asmall grass run. Now 
as to the difference, I find those reared on the farm not only 
in better condition, weighing at least a pound each more than 
the home-raised ones, but their plumage is much finer and 
they seem to be more healthy, because more active. 
I have carried this experiment further by having another 
friend, a dairyman, rear a few for me, giving him halt. 
These were fed first on skim-milk and afterwards with grain, 
and at the same time given the freedom of ameadow. Here 
again both grass and feed show how much superior the ad- 
vantages of farmers are in rearing good stock to those of 
us who are compelled to give small space. 
Under all circumstances if we want the best from our fowls, 
they should have a grass run. Cabbages and the like thrown 
into their yards will help of course, but the grass is the best. 
When I have found it impossible to give mine a grass run, I 
have either dug turf for them or cut grass from my lawn and 
carried it to them, and in every case I have found it pay. 
A.N. BR. 
