happy, for three crisp greenbacks were added to the roll in his small shabby wallet.
Two days before Thanksgiving, Homer, in his blue overalls and faded sweater, was busy
“The boy planted himself ehind the stoe and laid his mittened hand comfortably around the pipe.”
at work, The gray of the dawn was just creeping into the east while the boy went hurrying through his chores. There was still a man’s work to be done before he took the ten-o’clock train to town; besides, he had promised to help his mother about the house. His grandfather, an uncle, an aunt, and three small cousins were coming to eat their Thanksgiving feast at the old farm-house. Homer whistled gaily while he bedded the creatures with fresh straw. The whistle trailed into an indistinct trill; the boy felt a pang of loneliness as he glanced into the turkey-pen. There was nobody there but old Mother Salvia. Homer tossed her a handful of corn. “Poor old lady, I s’pose you ’re lonesome, ain't you, now? Never mind; when spring comes you ’ll be scratchin’ around with a hull raft of nice little chickies at your heels. We ’ll teach them a fine trick or two, won’t we, old Salvia?”
