Early in the spring her uncle had given her a young turkey.
“There, Bessie,” he had said, “that is one of the prettiest turkeys I
have ever seen. I will give him into your care, and on Thanksgiving Day
we will have him on the dinner-table.”
For some time Bessie fed the turkey every day without feeling
particularly fond of him. Very soon, however, he began to know her; he
not only ran to meet her when she brought him his corn and meal, but
he would follow her about just the way Mary’s little lamb followed HER
about.
Her uncle often called after her: “And everywhere that Bessie goes, the
turkey’s sure to go.”
Yes, round the garden, up and down the avenue, and even into the house
itself the turkey followed Bessie.
Then why was she so sad?
Alas! she remembered her uncle’s words when he gave her the turkey, “On
Thanksgiving Day we will have him on the table.”
Thanksgiving Day would be here in a week.
Now, if Bessie had been like some little girls, she would have told her
trouble to her uncle. But she never mentioned it to any one, although
she cried herself to sleep several nights before Thanksgiving Day.
At last the day came, and Bessie, instead of going out to the fowlyard
as usual, kept in the house all the morning. She was afraid that, if she
went, she would not find her beloved friend. Dinner-time came, and,
with a heavy heart, she seated herself at the table. Her uncle and
aunt noticed her sober face, and thought that she missed her father and
mother.
“Come, come,” said her uncle, “we must cheer up; no sad looks on
Thanksgiving Day. Maria, BRING IN THE TURKEY.”
Poor Bessie! she could not look up as the door opened, and something
was brought in on a big platter. But, as the platter was placed on the
table, she saw that it did indeed hold her turkey, but he was alive and
well.
She looked so astonished that suddenly her uncle understood all her past
troubles.
“Why, Bessie,” he said, “did you think I would kill your pet? No,
indeed, but I told you he should be on the table Thanksgiving Day, so
here he is.”
Then Bessie’s uncle struck the turkey gently with his carving-knife, the
way the queen strikes a man with a sword when she makes him a knight.
“Behold!” said Bessie’s uncle, “I dub you ‘Sir Gobble;’ you shall never
be killed, but die a natural death, and never be parted from Bessie.”