At this moment his elbow was nudged, and opening his eyes he beheld one of the office boys, whom he had sent up to the theatre half an hour ago, to ask for six reserved seats near the stage.

“Mr. PUPPET says he’s very sorry, sir,” said the boy, “but the seats is all taken for to-night, and so he can’t send any.”

“Can’t send any, can’t he?” exclaimed BEZZLE, wide awake.  “All right.  Just go to Mr. SNAPPETY, the dramatic editor, for me, and tell him not to say one word about that theatre in his criticism to-morrow, I’ll teach Mr. PUPPET,” etc., etc., etc.

SPIFFKINS.

* * * * *

TURKEYS—­A FANTASY.

[Illustration:  Bishop of Turkey]

We hear a great deal from scientific men about the influence of climate, atmosphere, and even the proximity of certain mineral substances, upon the life and welfare of man; but there is yet another vein to be worked in this region of human knowledge.  Taking a chance train of ideas—­an excursion-train, we may say—­which came in our way on last Thanksgiving, we were brought to some interesting conclusions in regard to the influence exercised by the turkey upon human affairs.  The annual happiness of how many thousands at the return of Thanksgiving Day—­the unfed woes of how many thousands more—­does this estimable fowl revolve within his urbane crop!  Every kernel of grain which he picks from the barn-floor may represent an instant of masticatory joy held in store for some as yet unconscious maxillary; we may weigh the bird by the amount of happiness he will afford.  When we go to market, to barter for our Thanksgiving turkey, we inquire substantially of the spruce vender, glistening in his white apron:  “How much gustatory delight does yonder cock contain?” And he, gross slave of matter, doth respond, giving the estimate in dollars and parts of dollars!

But how inadequate is any material representative of his value to us.  Indeed, it is next to impossible to conceive of the niceties involved in this question of how much we owe the turkey.  For him the country air has been sweetened; the rain has fallen that he might thrive; the wheat and barley sprouted that he might be fed.  A shade more of leanness in the legs, one jot less of rotundity in the breast—­what misery might not these seemingly trivial incidents have created?  A failure in the supply of turkeys?—­it would have been a national calamity!  What were life, indeed, without the turkey?

As for Thanksgiving, the turkey he is it. Paris, c’est la France! Remove the turkey, and you undermine Thanksgiving.  How could a conscientious man go to church on Thanksgiving morning, knowing within himself that he shall return to beef, or mutton, or veal for his dinner, as on work-days?  I tell you, religion would disappear with the turkey.