ABSALOM.

BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK.

It was a few days before Thanksgiving, and Herbert was out in the woods with his father shooting. It was lovely autumn weather, and the dreamy Indian-summer smiled upon the few yellow leaves that still fluttered on the woodland boughs. Herbert was the first to break the silence:

"Papa, I hope you are not going to kill dear old Absalom for Thanksgiving. Let's try to shoot a wild gobbler, instead."

"But there are no wild gobblers around here, my boy," replied the father.

Herbert thought of the solitary turkey in their barn-yard, and it made him very sad to think that that poor bird should be beheaded for the Thanksgiving feast. And this was because the early summer rains had killed Absalom's little brothers and sisters, and left him to make his way on the farm as best he could. Herbert well remembered the morning when he brought Absalom, limp and almost dead, from the coop, and wrapt him in flannel, and put him under the kitchen stove to dry. And he reflected upon the pleasure he had experienced in bringing the little fellow up until they became companions. Many a time the gobbler had jumped upon his knee and made himself as much at home as he possibly could have done upon the bough of a tree. Herbert had fed him with scraps of meat and bread, until Absalom followed him about and seemed to feel that they were brothers. Herbert, like Absalom, had neither a brother nor a sister, and this may have been one reason that they were inseparable friends. Now when Herbert thought of Absalom in the light of a feast, it was like a little Chinese boy thinking of his pet poodle being made into pies and patties.

"You are not really going to eat Absalom on Thanksgiving, are you, papa?" asked Herbert, sadly.

"He's a fine fat gobbler," replied the father, evading a direct answer—"he's a fine fat gobbler, Herbert, and you know what the gobbler's mission is."

Herbert knew very well from his father's remarks that Absalom would be killed that very night, to be eaten upon the morrow, and he was very sad as they trudged homeward. But when he did arrive at his home he determined to do his best to save the old gobbler's life. Going down to the barn-yard, he was met by the bird, which, not being suspicious of his impending doom, ran gayly to meet his little friend.

"Oh, Absalom," he said, "they would eat you to-morrow!"

"Eat me to-morrow?" mused Absalom, wearily, for up to this time he had imagined that he was simply ornamental, like a peacock. "I don't quite understand you. Pray explain."

Then Herbert told him about Thanksgiving day and its sacred traditions, and the poor bird was so badly upset that he couldn't conceal his emotion. He hurriedly wiped a tear from his eye with his left wattle, and thrust his head beneath his wing to conceal the fact that he was weeping. Herbert took him gently in his arms, and said, as he laid his cheek against his head,

"Well, they sha'n't kill you if I can help it."

And then he stole softly into the house, and, without being seen, carried Absalom up to the garret, and perched him gently on a rafter in a dark corner. He then put a little red shawl over him to protect him against the draughts, and fastened it just over his wish-bone with a safety-pin.

"Now you must keep perfectly still until to-morrow is over."

"I will do so," promised Absalom.

"Promise me that you will not forget yourself and go 'gobble, gobble, gobble,' for if you should do so you would certainly be discovered, only to become a memory and a dinner."

"I won't gobble once," replied Absalom; "I fully appreciate the importance of keeping still."

Then Herbert gave him an ear or two of pop-corn that was hanging in the garret to dry, and afterwards went down stairs and brought him some tea-biscuits and cracked English walnuts.

"You shall be the first gobbler on record to celebrate Thanksgiving by having a feast instead of making one. Here is some nice celery, and here is a handful of minced meat, and you shall have all you can eat to-morrow."

"I shall never forget your kindness," said the gobbler, with feeling. "This is twice you have saved my life—once from being drowned in the rain, and once from being eaten with cranberry sauce. Believe me, I shall never forget your kindness."

Just then they were startled by the voice of Herbert's father downstairs.

"Michael," said he, "just go down to the barn-yard and chop the head off that gobbler!"

It was an awful moment for Absalom, who almost shivered himself off his perch.

After awhile Michael returned, long-faced and empty-handed.

"I cannot find the gobbler, and I think the old Uncle Ned who works here by the day has stolen him for his Thanksgiving dinner."

Herbert's father was so indignant at the disappointment occasioned by the reported loss of the gobbler that, without the slightest consideration for the old darky, who was working in the celery ditch, he shouted,

"See here, Uncle Ned, why did you steal our last turkey?"

"I didn't steal him, sah!" replied Uncle Ned, with a crestfallen air.

"Then get right off the place, and don't let me see you around here again," shouted the proprietor, with great indignation.

Uncle Ned dropped his spade and went sullenly away, while Absalom smiled through his tears on the old dusty rafter in the dark corner of the garret.

"Now what are we going to have for Thanksgiving dinner?" inquired the head of the house. "It's three miles to the village, the butcher's will be closed in an hour, and we can't even get a steak!"

"Say, papa," suggested Herbert, "let's have nothing only dessert. What do you say? Nothing but plum pudding; that'll make a fine old dinner."

Although the adults of the family frowned on such a suggestion, the family had to make out a dinner on plum pudding or go hungry. Herbert had never eaten so fine a dinner before; and when it was over he slipped up to the garret with a plateful for Absalom.

"What in the world is this, Herbert?" asked the bird, as he smacked his bill.

"It's plum pudding with hard sauce for your Thanksgiving dinner."

"Well, it's mighty fine, and I think it must be called hard sauce, because it's hard to find anything else quite so good."

So he ate away until he fell asleep. In the bright rosy morning he returned to the barn-yard, greatly relieved and in buoyant spirits.

"Take Uncle Ned right back to work at once," said Herbert's father at about noon to Michael.

"What, after stealing the gobbler?" asked Michael.

"He didn't do it," responded Herbert's father, meekly; "he didn't do it. I just met the gobbler, and I admit that while I am not oversuperstitious, the mysterious disappearance of that bird when he was ripe and due for the axe, and his sudden return when the danger had passed, fills me with dire foreboding, and makes me think he'll bring me good luck if I only treat him right. So I am not going to kill him even for Christmas, but intend to feed him on the fat of the farm, and let him die of old age. When I saw him a little while ago he actually winked at me and grinned, and that was too much for my suspicious temperament."

So Uncle Ned was at once restored to his former position, and Absalom thrived and lived to a grand old age, the faithful companion of his devoted little friend and preserver.