im.

Turkey Proudfoot stirred in his sleep. He was dreaming--dreaming that
Johnnie Green was whistling to old dog Spot to come and drive Turkey
Proudfoot out of the newly planted cornfield. The whistling seemed to
come nearer and nearer. "I won't stir for old Spot," Turkey Proudfoot
gobbled aloud in his sleep.

"Maybe you'll stir for me," cried a strange voice. And Turkey Proudfoot
woke up with a start.

"Where am I?" he bawled. For a moment he couldn't remember having gone
to sleep in the woods.

"You're right up under Blue Mountain," said Simon Screecher. "It's a
dangerous place for a stranger to sleep. There are birds and beasts
a-plenty in these woods that would make a meal of you if they caught you
here."

Turkey Proudfoot yawned.

"I'm not worrying," he replied. "Foxes can't climb trees. And I'm as
big as any bird in the neighborhood."

"You're as big--yes! And bigger than most!" Simon Screecher admitted.
"But it isn't bigness alone that counts in the woods," he insisted.

"What does count, then?" Turkey

Proudfoot demanded.

"You ought to be able to guess," said Simon Screecher. "It's right in
front of your eyes."

XX

BEAKS AND BILLS

Turkey Proudfoot was a poor guesser. There in the woods, at night, Simon
Screecher the owl had told him of something that "counted," something
that was right in front of Turkey Proudfoot's eyes. And Turkey Proudfoot
named everything he could think of. He mentioned the oak tree in which
he sat, the darkness, the yellow moon.

"You're wrong!" Simon Screecher kept telling him. "You're getting
further away with every guess. I suppose I'll have to tell you what I
mean: it's your beak. And if that isn't right in front of your eyes, I
don't know what is."

"My beak!" cried Turkey Proudfoot. "I don't call my bill my beak. I call
my beak my bill."

"Well, beak or bill, yours is a useless thing," Simon Screecher sneered.
"It may do well enough to pick up a kernel of corn. But it can't be much
good as a weapon. It ought to be sharp and hooked to be of any use in a
fight."

With every word that Simon Screecher said, Turkey Proudfoot was growing
angrier.

"There's nothing wrong with my bill," he clamored. "I've had plenty of
fights in the farmyard. The fowls are all afraid of me at home."

Simon Screecher gave a most disagreeable laugh.

"I wasn't thinking of farmyard fights," he sniffed. "If Fatty Coon or
Grumpy Weasel or my cousin Solomon Owl grabbed you,