“I rather think not,” said I, laughing; “that is the reason we want some of yours.”

“Well, I should think you could hev some on ’em.  What be you calc’latin’ to give?”

“Whatever you say.  I do not know at all the market price.”

“Good land! ’t’a’n’t never no use to try to dicker with city folks; they a’n’t use to’t.  I’xpect you can hev ’em for two York shillin’ apiece.”

“But how will you catch them?”

“Oh, I’ll ketch ’em, easy!”

She went into the house and reappeared presently with a pan of Indian meal and water, called the chickens, and in a moment they were all crowding in and over the unexpected supper.

“Now you jes’ take a bit o’ string an’ tie that ’ere turkey’s legs together; ’twon’t stir, I’ll ensure it!”

Strange to say, the innocent creature stood still and eat, while I tied it up; all unconscious till it tumbled neck and heels into the pan, producing a start and scatter of brief duration.  Kate had left the wagon, and was shaking with laughter over this extraordinary goodness on the turkeys’ part, and before long our basket was full of struggling, kicking, squeaking things, “werry promiscuous,” in Mr. Weller’s phrase.  Mrs. Bemont was paid, and while she was giving me the change,—­

“Oh!” said she, “you’re goin’ right to Miss Tucker’s, a’n’t ye?—­got to drop the turkeys;—­won’t you tell Miss Tucker ‘t George is comin’ home tomorrer, an’ he’s ben to Californy.  She know’d us allers, and Melindy ‘n’ George used ter be dre’ful thick ’fore he went off, a good spell back, when they was nigh about childern; so I guess you’d better tell ’em.”

“Confound these turkeys!” muttered I, as I jumped over the basket.

“Why?” said Kate, “I suspect they are confounded enough already!”

“They make such a noise, Kate!”

So they did; “week! week! week!” all the way, like a colony from some spring-waked pool.

    “Their song might be compared
    To the croaking of frogs in a pond!”

The drive was lovelier than before.  The road crept and curled down the hill, now covered from side to side with the interlacing boughs of grand old chestnuts; now barriered on the edge of a ravine with broken fragments and boulders of granite, garlanded by heavy vines; now skirting orchards full of promise; and all the way companied by a tiny brook, veiled deeply in alder and hazel thickets, and making in its shadowy channel perpetual muffled music, like a child singing in the twilight to reassure its half-fearful heart.  Kate’s face was softened and full of rich expression; her pink ribbons threw a delicate tinge of bloom upon the rounded cheek and pensive eyelid; the air was pure balm, and a cool breath from the receding showers of the distant thunderstorm just freshened the odors of wood and field.  I began to feel suspiciously that sentimental, but through it all came persevering “week! week! week!” from the basket at