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Archie must decide for himself what he would accept as restoration of his character, and Mrs. Poynsett could alone answer as to whether she would accept the compensation. But neither of them could be hard on one so stricken and sorrowful, and they did not expect hardness from their mother and cousin, especially so far as old Mr. Proudfoot and his daughter were concerned.
Why, I've always heard Turkey and cranberry sauce mentioned together." "Ah!" said Turkey Proudfoot. "I've no doubt you've heard them spoken of only too often. But that's no reason why I should be fond of cranberry sauce. To tell the truth, all my life I've schemed to keep away from it." "Then you don't care for the sharp taste of cranberries," said Mr. Crow.
He tried to look at Nelly, but something hurt inside him. "Yes," he mumbled. "Quite a long walk." Miss Mary Proudfoot tried again: "is it pleasant to study in Paris? Mrs. Arty said you were an artist." "No." Then they were all silent, and the rest of the dinner Mr. Wrenn alternately discussed Olympia Johns with Istra and picnics with Nelly.
And we make game of them by rising swiftly with a loud whir and flying off before they have time to shoot us." Turkey Proudfoot gaped at Mr. Grouse. "Don't they ever hit you?" he faltered. "They've never shot me," said Mr. Grouse. "Once a hunter knocked out one of my tail feathers. But that was only an accident." Grouse. "I shouldn't care to be a game bird," Turkey Proudfoot remarked.
Poor Vivian, as you know, came to his sad end the next year, but he had destroyed all his papers; and George Proudfoot has been dead four or five years, but without making any sign. Moy has almost risen above the business, and see, there's Proudfoot Lawn, where he lives with the old man. He claims to compete with the county families, and would like to contest Wils'bro' with Raymond."
The dawn of another day always makes one wide awake." "It always makes one sleepy, you mean," Simon Screecher corrected him. Now, Turkey Proudfoot always grew angry when anybody corrected him in any way. And he flew into a rage. "Go away! Go home!" he spluttered. "I don't enjoy your company." Simon Screecher started homewards at once. "Farmyard manners!" he muttered.
And after Turkey Proudfoot had repeated his interesting remark about a dozen times a huge old turkey cock came running up and alighted, panting, upon the fence-rail where Turkey Proudfoot was roosting. "You're late," Turkey Proudfoot greeted him. "I'd begun to fear that you had met with an accident. What kept you?" "They shut me up in a pen," the newcomer told him.
Although Turkey Proudfoot didn't like to hear others gobble, nevertheless he enjoyed the excuse for a fight that their gobbling gave him. And when he had nothing more important to do he often stood still and listened in the hope of hearing some upstart gobbler testing his voice in a neighboring field. Newly grown cocks had to go a long way off to be safe from Turkey Proudfoot's attacks.
"I'd like to know why I wasn't," Master Meadow Mouse replied somewhat hotly. "I was strutting right behind you, all the way across the yard. That's why everybody was giggling." "It's no wonder they were poking fun at you," Turkey Proudfoot told him. "You amused the neighbors because you thought you were strutting, while you really weren't." Master Meadow Mouse put his foot down on the ground.
And there's nothing like feathers to keep the cold off," said Brother Tom. "I suppose," said Turkey Proudfoot, "Mr. Grouse's legs wouldn't get as cold as ours do, even if he hadn't a feather on them." "Why not?" asked Brother Tom. "Because they're shorter," said Turkey Proudfoot. Brother Tom made no reply. He was no longer awake.
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