Isabel Gordon Curtis

“ On Thanksgiving afternoon the Colonial Theater, the best vaudeville house in the city, held a throng that had dined well and was happy enough to appreciate any sort of fun. The children—hundreds of them—shrieked with delight over every act. The women laughed, the men applauded with great hearty hand-claps. A little buzz of excitement went round the house when, at the end of the fourth turn, two boys, instead of setting up the regulation big red number, displayed a brand-new card, It read: “Extra Number— Homer Tidd and his Performing Turkeys.” ”

“ Mrs. Tidd and Homer caught a car at the city depot. Five minutes later they stood in front of Finch & Richards’s big market.
“Mother,” whispered the boy, as he stepped off the car, “mother, my turkeys! They ’re not there! Something ’s happened. See the crowd.”
They pushed their way through a mob that was peering in at the windows and through the windows of locked doors. The row of plump turkeys was not hung this morning under the big sign; the magnificent window display of fruit and vegetables had been ruthlessly demolished. ”

“ They knew that each old familiar trick—learned away back in chickhood—would earn a good feed. When the freckled boy began to whistle, or when his voice rang out in a shrill order, it was the signal for Dan’l Webster, for Gettysburg, for Amanda Ann, Mebitable, Nancy, or Farragut to step to the center of the stage and do some irresistibly funny turn with a turkey’s bland solemnity. None of the birds had attacks of stage-fright ”

“ Crimson beets neighbored with snowy parsnips, scarlet carrots, and silk-wrapped onions. Egg-plants gleaming like deep-hued amethysts circled about magnificent cauliflowers, while red and yellow bananas made gay mosaic walks through the fruit mountain. ”

“ Homer's freckles disappeared in the crimson glow of enthusiasm that over-spread his face.
“Eighteen dollars for nothin’ but exhibitin’ a bunch o’ turkeys! Seems to me some folks must have money to throw away.” Mrs. Tidd stared perplexedly over the top of her glasses.
“I ’ll tell you all about it, mother.” Homer took a chair and planted his feet on the edge of the oven. “Mr. Richards is goin’ to have a great Thanksgivin’ food show, an’ he wants a flock o’ live turkeys. He’s been drivin’ round the country lookin’ for some. ”

“ I don't know, boy, jest what I think o’ it,” said his mother, slowly. “’T ain't exactly a—a gentlemanly sort o’ thing to do; be it?”
“I reckon I be n’t a gentleman, mother,” replied Homer, with his jolly laugh.
“Tell me all about it.”
“Well, 1 was feedin’ the turkeys when Mr. Richards druv in. He said he heered I had some trick turkeys an’ he ‘d like to see ‘em. Lucky enough, I had n’t fed ’em; they was awful hungry, an’ I tell you they never did their tricks better.” ”