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Updated: May 18, 2025
Many of them were so tame that they would eat from my hand and let me feel them. One big gobbler snatched a tomato from me one day and ran away with it. Inspired, perhaps, by Master Gobbler's success, we carried off to the woodpile a cake which the cook had just frosted, and ate every bit of it. I was quite ill afterward, and I wonder if retribution also overtook the turkey.
Turkey Proudfoot went so far as to hint that he had scared the fellow away. Not many believed that that was what happened, however. For old dog Spot claimed to have seen one of the missing gobbler's wings hanging in the kitchen of the farmhouse. "Mrs. Green uses it for a brush," Spot had explained. When he heard that story Turkey Proudfoot exclaimed, "Nonsense! A Fox's tail is a brush.
But what is that on the big gobbler's back? Sure as I live, it is Peter-Kins! Here, you horrid little dog, let go my darling Peter-Kins' tail!" and Miss Belinda picked up a long-handled rake that was leaning against the fence and went after Zip. All this time Polly had been screeching, "Help! Help! Naughty Peter-Kinks! Spank! Spank!"
He could hear them whistling past his ears, but could not see them to dodge. Fortunately none struck him, and when the turkeys felt that they had had fun enough of that kind at his expense the bean shooter was returned to him. "Now, then," said the gobbler's Aunt Fanny, "he once gave me a string of yellow beads for corn." "What shall we do to him for that?" asked the gobbler.
He ran between the Gobbler's feet and they tumbled over together. The little girl picked herself up and hurried into the house. If the Gobbler was angry before, he was much more so after his fall. "What do you mean, sir," he said, "by tripping me?" "And what do you mean," said the Black Spanish Cock, "by knocking me over?" "Pffff! You were under my feet." "Erruuuu! You were over my head."
He might be seen any day sailing like a gray shadow along the walks of the Jardin des Plantes, on his head a shabby cap, a cane with an old yellow ivory handle in the tips of his thin fingers; the outspread skirts of his threadbare overcoat failed to conceal his meagre figure; his breeches hung loosely on his shrunken limbs; the thin, blue-stockinged legs trembled like those of a drunken man; there was a notable breach of continuity between the dingy white waistcoat and crumpled shirt frills and the cravat twisted about a throat like a turkey gobbler's; altogether, his appearance set people wondering whether this outlandish ghost belonged to the audacious race of the sons of Japhet who flutter about on the Boulevard Italien.
When the Turkey Chicks were hatched, their mothers kept them out of the Gobbler's way, because, you know, he did not like small children and it was better that they should not meet.
"Tell him to come by Gobbler's Hollow," ordered Grizzel; "you'll find us there. Don't stop to wash." When the boys were half-way across the sandhills, they saw a thin column of blue smoke rising from somewhere among the low scrubby trees, and a minute after a delicious smell greeted their unducal noses a smell of wood-smoke and toast combined.
They found the girls in Gobbler's Hollow appropriately so named by Hugh bending over a gipsy fire. The inevitable billy- can hung from a tripod, and the steam from it mingled with the smoke of the fire. Mollie was toasting bread, which Prudence buttered with a lavish hand, and Grizzel was shelling hard-boiled eggs.
And no living creature, he felt sure, loved him, except his gobbler and a gobbler's love is not very satisfying, though it is better than nothing. He was blissfully happy as he carried his stool across the lawn. He climbed his pine and went in at the window and curled up on the seat in a maze of delight. The blue room was more shadowy than ever but that did not matter.
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