helps of the breast and plenty of gravy. But, as time went on, the Mother noticed that this savory future was less talked about, and that Nanny and Polly were often to be seen patting the turkey's back, and calling him 'Poor Chusey!' in a pathetic manner.
"At last the great day drew near. The pies were made,—rather singular as to looks, I confess, and a good deal more like porridge than pie, but not at all bad notwithstanding. Mrs. Fiske had picked some wild cranberries, and stewed them with maple sugar. A fine pile of mealy potatoes was chosen and washed. Nothing remained but to kill Massachusetts, and prepare him for the spit.
"'I'll attend to it when I come home to-night,' said Mr. Fiske.
"So, when his work was done, he sharpened a hatchet, and brought it with him ready for the bloody deed. But, lo! and behold, there on the floor were the four children, sitting round their beloved Chusey. They were all
