California Sketches, Second Series | Page 3

saloons, worked steadily, little Mary had no
lack of new shoes and neat frocks, and the Kinneth family were happy
in a humble way. Mike always seemed glad to see me, and greeted me
warmly.
One morning about the last of November there was a knock at the door
of the little parsonage. Opening the door, there stood Mrs. Kinneth with
a turkey under her arm.
"Christmas will soon be coming, and I've brought ye a turkey for your
kindness to little Mary and your good talk to Mike. He has not touched
a dhrop since the blissed day ye spake to him. Will ye take the turkey,

and my thanks wid it?"
The turkey was politely and smilingly accepted, and Mrs. Kinneth went
away looking mightily pleased.
I extemporized a little coop for our turkey. Having but little mechanical
ingenuity, it was a difficult job, but it resulted more satisfactorily than
did my attempt to make a door for the miniature kitchen attached to the
parsonage. My object was to nail some cross-pieces on some plain
boards, hang it on hinges, and fasten it on the inside by a leather strap
attached to a nail. The model in my mind was, as the reader sees, of the
most simple and primitive pattern. I spent all my leisure time for a
week at work on that door. I spoiled the lumber, I blistered my hands, I
broke several dollars' worth of carpenter's tools, which I had to pay,
and--then I hired a man to make that door! This was my last effort in
that line of things, excepting the turkey-coop, which was the very last.
It lasted four days, at the end of which time it just gave way all over,
and caved in. Fortunately, it was no longer needed. Our turkey would
not leave us. The parsonage fare suited him, and he staid, and throve,
and made friends.
We named him Dick. He is the hero of this Sketch. Dick was intelligent,
sociable, and had a good appetite. He would eat any thing, from a crust
of bread to the pieces of candy that the schoolgirls would give him as
they passed. He became as gentle as a dog, and would answer to his
name. He had the freedom of the town, and went where he pleased,
returning at meal-times, and at night to roost on the western end of the
kitchen-roof. He would eat from our hands, looking at us with a sort of
human expression in his shiny eyes. If he were a hundred yards away,
all we had to do was to go to the door and call out, "Dick!"
"Dick!" once or twice, and here he would come, stretching his long legs,
and saying, "Oot," "oot," "oot" (is that the way to spell it?). He got to
like going about with me. He would go with me to the post-office, to
the market, and sometimes he would accompany me in a pastoral visit.
Dick was well known and popular. Even the bad boys of the town did
not throw stones at him. His ruling passion was the love of eating. He
ate between meals. He ate all that was offered to him. Dick was a
pampered turkey, and made the most of his good luck and popularity.
He was never in low spirits, and never disturbed except when a dog
came about him. He disliked dogs, and seemed to distrust them.

The days rolled by, and Dick was fat and happy. It was the day before
Christmas. We had asked two bachelors to take Christmas-dinner with
us, having room and chairs for just two more persons. (One of our four
chairs was called a stool--it had a bottom and three legs, one of which
was a little shaky, and no back.) There was a constraint upon us both all
day. I knew what was the matter, but said nothing. About four o'clock
in the afternoon Dick's mistress sat down by me, and, after a pause,
remarked:
"Do you know that tomorrow is Christmas-day?"
"Yes, I know it."
Another pause. I had nothing to say just then. "Well, if--if--if any thing
is to be done about that turkey, it is time it were done."
"Do you mean Dick?"
"Yes," with a little quiver in her voice.
"I understand you--you mean to kill him--poor Dick! the only pet we
ever had."
She broke right down at this, and began to cry.
"What is the matter here?" said our kind, energetic neighbor, Mrs. T--,
who came in to pay us one of her informal visits. She was from
Philadelphia, and, though a gifted woman, with a wide range of reading
and observation of human life, was not a sentimentalist. She laughed at
the weeping mistress of the parsonage, and, going