began to dry it in her apron, and I went to help her; I thought, as I was rubbing the thing down with the apron, while she held it, that I had found one of her soft dimpled hands, and I gave the luckless turkey such a tender pressure that it uttered a miserable squeak and departed this life.  Melindy all but cried.  I laughed irresistibly.  So there were no more turkeys.  Peggy began to wonder what they should do for the proper Thanksgiving dinner, and Peter turned restlessly on his sofa, quite convinced that everything was going to rack and ruin because he had a sprained ankle.

“Can’t we buy some young turkeys?” timidly suggested Peggy.

“Of course, if one knew who had them to sell,” retorted Peter.

“I know,” said I; “Mrs. Amzi Peters, up on the hill over Taunton, has got some.”

“Who told you about Mrs. Peters’s turkeys, Cousin Sam?” said Peggy, wondering.

“Melindy,” said I, quite innocently.

Peter whistled, Peggy laughed, Kate darted a keen glance at me under her long lashes.

“I know the way there,” said mademoiselle, in a suspiciously bland tone.  “Can’t you drive there with me, Cousin Sam, and get some more?”

“I shall be charmed,” said I.

Peter rang the bell and ordered the horse to be ready in the single-seated wagon, after dinner.  I was going right down to the farm-house to console Melindy, and take her a book she wanted to read, for no fine lady of all my New York acquaintance enjoyed a good book more than she did; but Cousin Kate asked me to wind some yarn for her, and was so brilliant, so amiable, so altogether charming, I quite forgot Melindy till dinner-time, and then, when that was over, there was a basket to be found, and we were off,—­turkey-hunting!  Down hill-sides overhung with tasselled chestnut-boughs; through pine-woods where neither horse nor wagon intruded any noise of hoof or wheel upon the odorous silence, as we rolled over the sand, past green meadows, and sloping orchards; over little bright brooks that chattered musically to the bobolinks on the fence-posts, and were echoed by those sacerdotal gentlemen in such liquid, bubbling, rollicking, uproarious bursts of singing as made one think of Anacreon’s grasshopper

    “Drunk with morning’s dewy wine.”

All these we passed, and at length drew up before Mrs. Peters’s house.  I had been here before, on a strawberrying stroll with Melindy,—­(across lots it was not far,)—­and having been asked in then, and entertained the lady with a recital of some foreign exploit, garnished for the occasion, of course she recognized me with clamorous hospitality.

“Why how do yew do, Mister Greene?  I declare I ha’n’t done a-thinkin’ of that ’ere story you told us the day you was here, ‘long o’ Melindy.” (Kate gave an ominous little cough.) “I was a-tellin’ husband yesterday ’t I never see sech a master hand for stories as you be.  Well, yis, we hev got turkeys, young ’uns; but my stars!  I don’t know no more where they be than nothin’; they’ve strayed away into the woods, I guess, and I do’no’ as the boys can skeer ’em up; besides, the boys is to school; h’m—­yis!  Where did you and Melindy go that day arter berries?”