The turkey was politely and smilingly accepted, and Mrs. Kinneth went away looking mightily pleased.

I extemporized a little coop for our turkey.  Having but little mechanical ingenuity, it was a difficult job, but it resulted more satisfactorily than did my attempt to make a door for the miniature kitchen attached to the parsonage.  My object was to nail some cross-pieces on some plain boards, hang it on hinges, and fasten it on the inside by a leather strap attached to a nail.  The model in my mind was, as the reader sees, of the most simple and primitive pattern.  I spent all my leisure time for a week at work on that door.  I spoiled the lumber, I blistered my hands, I broke several dollars’ worth of carpenter’s tools, which I had to pay, and—­then I hired a man to make that door!  This was my last effort in that line of things, excepting the turkey-coop, which was the very last.  It lasted four days, at the end of which time it just gave way all over, and caved in.  Fortunately, it was no longer needed.  Our turkey would not leave us.  The parsonage fare suited him, and he staid, and throve, and made friends.

We named him Dick.  He is the hero of this Sketch.  Dick was intelligent, sociable, and had a good appetite.  He would eat any thing, from a crust of bread to the pieces of candy that the schoolgirls would give him as they passed.  He became as gentle as a dog, and would answer to his name.  He had the freedom of the town, and went where he pleased, returning at meal-times, and at night to roost on the western end of the kitchen-roof.  He would eat from our hands, looking at us with a sort of human expression in his shiny eyes.  If he were a hundred yards away, all we had to do was to go to the door and call out, “Dick!”

“Dick!” once or twice, and here he would come, stretching his long legs, and saying, “Oot,” “oot,” “oot” (is that the way to spell it?).  He got to like going about with me.  He would go with me to the post-office, to the market, and sometimes he would accompany me in a pastoral visit.  Dick was well known and popular.  Even the bad boys of the town did not throw stones at him.  His ruling passion was the love of eating.  He ate between meals.  He ate all that was offered to him.  Dick was a pampered turkey, and made the most of his good luck and popularity.  He was never in low spirits, and never disturbed except when a dog came about him.  He disliked dogs, and seemed to distrust them.

The days rolled by, and Dick was fat and happy.  It was the day before Christmas.  We had asked two bachelors to take Christmas-dinner with us, having room and chairs for just two more persons. (One of our four chairs was called a stool—­it had a bottom and three legs, one of which was a little shaky, and no back.) There was a constraint upon us both all day.  I knew what was the matter, but said nothing.  About four o’clock in the afternoon Dick’s mistress sat down by me, and, after a pause, remarked: