an
all go back--we can go next week!" and she almost danced up and down
on the unresponsive clay floor.

"I owe you two cents, Pa, and I'll pay it back to you just as soon as
I can get a dollar changed," said Obadiah proudly, fingering the
shining coins.

"How's that, Bubby?"

Then Obadiah explained.

"I hope you didn't complain, Obie," said his mother, her happy face
clouding.

"Well, I told him about the drought and the cyclone. I guess if I was
a near relation I wouldn't call that complaining. And then I asked him
if he wouldn't swap dollars with me, so I could have one without a
hole in it to get something for Thanks--"

Mr. Waddle broke in with a shout of laughter, and Mrs. Waddle kissed
her son once more, and laughed, too, although her eyes were full of
tears. And then Obadiah knew everything was all right.

"We can have Thanksgiving now, can't we, Ma?" he asked. "It's so near;
and I'm going to get all the things. We'll have chicken pie--_tame_
chicken pie--and plum pudding--and butter--and cream for the
coffee--and cranberries--and lump sugar--and pumpkin pie--and--"

"Oh, me wants supper!" exclaimed Sis. And then they laughed again, and
fell upon the cooling corn-bread and molasses and melancholy bits of
fried pork and the thin ghost of tea as if they were already engaged
in a feast of Thanksgiving. And so they were.

THE WHITE TURKEY'S WING[17]

BY SOPHIE SWETT.

Priscilla, the big white hen turkey, deserved a better fate
than to be eaten on Thanksgiving Day, and Minty and Jason
contrived to save her.

Mary Ellen was coming home from her school teaching at the Falls, and
Nahum from 'tending in Blodgett's store at Edom Four Corners, and
Uncle and Aunt Piper with Mirandy and Augustus and the twins were
coming from Juniper Hill, and there was every prospect of as merry a
Thanksgiving as one could wish to see. And Thanksgivings were always
merry at the Kittredge farm on Red Hill. Uncle Kittredge might be a
trifle over thrifty--a leetle nigh, his neighbours called him--but
there was no stinting at Thanksgiving, and when a boy is accustomed to
perpetual corn-bread and sausages, he knows how to appreciate
unlimited turkey and plum pudding; and when he is used to gloomy
evenings, in which Uncle Kittredge holds the one feeble kerosene lamp
between himself and a newspaper, Aunt Kittredge knits in silent
meditation on blue yarn stockings, he knows how good it is to have the
house f