“Give it some whiskey-punch!” growled Peter, whose strict temperance principles were shocked by the remedies prescribed for Peggy’s ague.

“So I would,” said Kate, demurely.

Now if Peggy had one trait more striking than another, it was her perfect, simple faith in what people said; irony was a mystery to her; lying, a myth,—­something on a par with murder.  She thought Kate meant so; and reaching out for the pretty wicker-flask that contained her daily ration of old Scotch whiskey, she dropped a little drop into a spoon, diluted it with water, and was going to give it to the turkey in all seriousness, when Kate exclaimed,—­

“Peggy! when will you learn common sense?  Who ever heard of giving whiskey to a turkey?”

“Why, you told me to, Kate!”

“Oh, give it to the thing!” growled Peter; “it will die, of course.”

“I shall give it!” said Peggy, resolutely; “it does me good, and I will try.”

So I held the little creature up, while Peggy carefully tipped the dose down its throat.  How it choked, kicked, and began again with “week! week!” when it meant “strong!” but it revived.  Peggy held it in the sun till it grew warm, gave it a drop more, fed it with bread-crumbs from her own plate, and laid it on the south window-sill.  There it lay when we went to tea; when we came back, it lay on the floor, dead; either it was tipsy, or it had tried its new strength too soon, and, rolling off, had broken its neck!  Poor Peggy!

There were six more hatched the next day, though, and I held many consultations with Melindy about their welfare.  Truth to tell, Kate continued so cool to me, Peter’s sprained ankle lasted so long, and Peggy could so well spare me from the little matrimonial tete-a-tetes that I interrupted, (I believe they didn’t mind Kate!) that I took wonderfully to the chickens.  Mrs. Tucker gave me rye-bread and milk of the best; “father” instructed me in the mysteries of cattle-driving; and Melindy, and Joe, and I, used to go strawberrying, or after “posies,” almost every day.  Melindy was a very pretty girl, and it was very good fun to see her blue eyes open and her red lips laugh over my European experiences.  Really, I began to be of some importance at the farm-house, and to take airs upon myself, I suppose; but I was not conscious of the fact at the time.

After a week or two, Melindy and I began to have bad luck with the turkeys.  I found two drenched and shivering, after a hail-and-thunder storm, and setting them in a basket on the cooking-stove hearth, went to help Melindy “dress her bow-pot,” as she called arranging a vase of flowers, and when I came back the little turkeys were singed; they died a few hours after.  Two more were trodden on by a great Shanghai rooster, who was so tall he could not see where he set his feet down; and of the remaining pair, one disappeared mysteriously,—­supposed to be rats; and one falling into the duck-pond, Melindy