rated with a fringe of plump turkeys. One 1 : window held a glowing mountain of fruit and vegetables arranged by some one with Srp «i @ keen eye to color—monstrous pumpkins, Bellefonte Pa.. November 25, 1904 = ar SAND WILL DO IT. splendid purple cabbage, rosy apples and “russet pears, green and purple grapes, . snowy stalks of celery, and corn ears yel- | “RE a g ow as stnshine. Crimsoned beets neigh- borr ' +h snowy parsnips, scarlet carrots, |r Jc-wrapped onions. Egg-plants 1 observed a locomotive in the railroad=yssese fea eo like deep-hued amethysts circled one day, ¥ It was waiting in the roundhouse where the locomotives stay ; = 1t was panting for the journey, it was coaled and fully manned, And it had a box the fireman was filling full of sand. It appears that locomotives can not always get a grip On their slender iron pavement, ’cause the wheels are apt to slip: And when they reach a slippery spot their tactics they command, And to get a grip upon the rail they sprinkle it with sand. It's about the way with travel along life's slippery track, If your load is rather heavy you're always slipping back ; So, jif a common locomotive you completely understand, You'll provide yourself in starting with a good supply of sand. If your track is steep and hilly and you have heavy grade, x If those who've gone before you have the rails quite slippery made, If you ever reach the summit of the upper table land, Youll find you'll have to doit with a liberal use of sand. If you strike some frigid weather and discover to your cost, That you're liable to slip on a heavy coat of frost, Then some prompt decided action will be call- ed into demand, And you’ll slip way to the bottom if you haven’t any sand. You can get to any station that is on life’s schedule seen, If there’s fire beneath the boiler of ambition’s strong machine, And you'll reach a place called Flushtown at a rate of speed that’s grand, If for all the slippery places you've a good sup- ply of SAND. —Richmond (Ind.) Register. THE DEBUT OF DAN'L WEBSTER. ‘I guess you can get the ell roof shin- gied now, most any old time,’’ cried Ho- mer Tidd. He hounced in at the kitchen door. A blast of icy wind followed him. ‘‘Gracious ! shet the door, Homer, an’ then tell me your news.’”’” His mother shivered and pulled a little brown shawl tighter about her shoulders. The hoy planted himself behind the stove and laid his mittened hands com- fortably around the pipe. ‘‘Oh, I’ve made a great deal, mother.” Homer’s freckled face glowed wish satisfaction. ‘‘What?’’ asked Mrs. Tidd. “‘Did you see the man that jest druv out o’ the yard?’’ ‘‘No, Ididn’t, Homer.’’ ‘“Well,’s was Mr. Richards—the Mr. Richards o’ Finch & Richards, the big market folks over in the city.’ ‘‘Has he bought your Thanksgivin’ tur- keys?” ‘“He bhain’t bought ’em for Thanks- givin’.” “Well, what aie you so set up about, boy?”’ ‘‘He’s rented the hull flock. He's to pay me three dollars a day for them, then he’s goin’ to buy them all for Christmas.’’ ‘Land sakes ! Three dollars a day!”’ Mrs. Tidd dropped one side of a pan of apples she was carrying, and some of them went rolling about the kitchen floor. Homer nodded. Ou ‘‘For how long?’’ she asked eagerly. “For a week.” Homer’s freckles dis- appeared in the crimson glow of enthusi- asm that overspread his face. ‘‘Eighteen dollais for nothin’ but ex- hibitin’ a bunch o’ turkeys! Seems to me some folks must have money to throw away.” Mrs. Tidd stared perpiexedly over the top of her glasses. ““I’11 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 look: in’ for some. The postmaster sent him here. He told him about Dan’l Webster’s tricks.”’ or ‘They don’t make Dan’l any better eat- in’,”’ objected the mother. ‘Maybe not. But don’t you see? Well!’ Homer’s laugh was an embarrassed one. ‘‘I'm goin’ to put Dan’l an’ Gettys- burg tbrough their tricks right in the store window.”’ ‘“You ben’t?’”’ and the mother looked in rapt admiration at her clever son. “I be!” answered Homer triumphant- 1 y. “I don’t know, boy, jest what I think o’ it,”’ said his mother, slowly. ‘‘’Tain’s ex- actly a—a gentlemanly sort o’ thing to do; be it?”? *‘I reckon I be n’t a gentleman, moth- er,”’ replied Homer, with his jolly laugh. *“Tell me all about it.” ‘Well, I was feedin’ the turkeys when Mr. Richards druv in. He said be heered I had some trick tuikeys an’ he'd like to see ’em. Lucky enough, I bad n’t fed em; they was awful hungry, an’ I tell you they never did their tricks better.”’ “What did Mr. Richards say?’’ ‘‘He thought it was the most amazin’ thing he'd ever seen in bis life. He said he wouldn't bave believed turkeys had enough gnmption in them to learn a trick o’ any kind.” ‘Did you tell him how you’d fussed with them ever since they was little chicks.’ “I did. He woz real interested, an’ he offered me three dollars to give a show three times a day. a8 big as this kitchen. He’ll have it wir- ed in, an’ the turkeys ’ll stay there at his expense. Along before Christmas be’ll give me twenty-two cents a pound for ‘em.”’ Well, I vow, Homer, it’s pretty good ‘*Mr. Richards give me a commutation on the railroad. He's to send after the turkeys an’ bring ’em back, so I won’s have eny expense."’ Homer rose and sauntered about the kitoken, picking up the apples that had rolled in all directions over the floor. A week before Uhanksgiving, the corner in front of Finch & Richard’s great market looked as it was wont to look on circus day: only the eyes of the crowds were not turned expectantly up Main street ; they were riveted on a window in the big store. Passers-by tramped out into the snowy street when they reached the mob at the corner. The front of the store was deco- He's got a window half | ahout wiaguificent cauliflowers, while red ¢ 1 yellow bananas made gay mosaic "+ @#l*y through the fruit mountain. Where- ever a cr. 2k or a cranny had been left was a mound of ruby cranberries, fine raisin buncles, or brown puts. "Tt was a remarkable display of American products; yet, after the first ‘‘Ah’”’ of ad- miration, people passed on to the farther window, where six piomp turkeys, su- premely innnocent of a feast-day fate, flapped their wings or gobbled imperti- nently when a small boy laid his nose flat againsi the window. Three times a day the crowd grew twenty deep. It laughed and shouted and elbowed one another good naturedly, for the Thanksgiving spirit was abroad. Men tossed children up on their stalwart shoulders, then small hands clapped ecstatically, and small legs kicked with wild enthusiasm. The hero of the hour was a freckled, red-haired boy, who came leaping through a wire door with an old broom over his shoulders. Every turkey waited for him eagerly, hungrily ! They knew that each old familiar trick—learned away back in childhood—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 Gettys- burg, for Amanda Ann, Mehitable, 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 bad attacks of stage fright ; their acting was as self-possessed as if they were in the old farm-yard with no audience pre- sent but Mrs.Tidd to lean smiling over the fence with a word of praise and the covet- ed handful of golden corn. With every performance the crowd grew more dense, the applause more ugroarious, and the Thanksgiving trade at Finch & Richard’s bigger than it had been in years. Each night Homer took the last train home, tired bot bappy, for three crisp greenbacks were added to the roll in his small shabby wallet. Two days before Thankegiving, Homer, in his blue overalls and faded sweater, was busy at work. The gray of dawn was just creeping into the east while the hoy 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; be- sides, he bad promised to help his mother about the house. His grandfather, an uncle, an aunt, and three small cousins were coming to eat their Thauksgiving feast at the old farm-house. Homer whis- tled 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 hand- ful of corn. ‘‘Poor old lady, I s’pose you’re lonesome, ain’t you. now?’ Never mind ; when spring comes y ou’ll be seratch- in’ 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?”’ Salvia clucked over the corn apprecia- tively. ‘‘Homer, Homer, come here, quick!’’ Down the frozen path through the yard came Mrs. Tidd, with the little brown Shawl wrapped tightly about her head. She fluttered a yellow envelop in her hand. ‘‘Homer, boy, it’s a telegraph come. I can’t read it ; I’ve mislaid my glasses.”’ Homer was by her side in a minute, tearing open the flimsy envelop. “It’s from Finch & Richards, mother,’’ be cried excitedly. ‘‘They say, ‘Take the first train to town without fail.” ”’ “What do you 3’pose they want yon for?’ asked Mrs. Tidd, with an anxious face. : ‘“P'r’aps the store’s burned down,” gasped Homer. He brushed one rough band across his eyes. ‘‘Poor Dan’l Web: ster an’ Gettysburg! I didn’t know any- body could set so much store by turkeys.’ ‘“‘Mavbe ‘6 ain’t nothin’ had, Homer.” Mrs. Tidd laid her hand upon his should- er. ‘‘Maybethey want you to give an ex- tra early show or somethin’.”” She sug- gested it cheerfully. ‘‘Maybhe,’’ echoed Homer. ‘‘But, moth- er, I've got to hurry to catch that 7:30 train.”’ ‘‘Let me go with you, Homer.”’ “You don’t need to,’’cried the boy. ‘‘It probably ain’t nothin’ serious.’’ “I'm goin’,’’ said Mis. Tidd decisively ; ‘you don’t s’pose I could stay here doin’ nothin’ but waitin’ an’ wond’rin ?”’ Mrs. Tidd and Homer caught a car at the city depot. Five minutes later they stood in front of Finch & Richard’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 the mob that was peering in at the windows and through the windows of locked doors. i The row of plump turkeys was not hung i this morning under the big sign ; the mag- nificent window display of fruit and veget- ables had been ruthlessly demolished. ‘‘What do you s8’pose can have happen- ed ?” whispered Mre. Tidd, while they waited for a olerk to come hurrying down the store and uolock the door. Homer shook his head. Mr. Richards himself came to meet them. ‘‘Well, young man,’’ he cried, ‘‘I’ve had enough of your pesky bird show. There’s a hundred dollars’ worth of provisions gone, to say nothing of the trade we are ! turning away. Two days before Thanks- | giving, of all times in the year!" { ‘Good laud!” whispered Mrs. Tidd. | Her'eyes were wandering about the store. . Is was scattered from one end to the other : with wasted focd. Sticky rivers trickled here and there across the floor. A small army of clerks was hard at work sweeping and mopping. ‘Where's my turkeys ?’’ asked Homer. ‘Your turkeys, confound them!’’ snarl- ed Mr. Richards, ‘They're safe and sound in their crate in my back store, all but that blasted old gobbler you call Dan’l Webster. He's doing his stunts on a top shelf. We found him there tearing cereal packages into shreds. For meroy’s sake,go and see if you can’t get him down. He has almost pecked the eves out of every clerk who has tried to lay a finger on him. I’d like to wring bis ugly neck!”’ Mr. Richards’s face grew red as the comh of Dan’l Webster himself. Homer and his mother dashed across the store. High above their heads strutted Dan’l Webster with a slow, stately tread. Occasionally he peered down at the ruin and confusion below, commenting upon it with a lordly, satisfied gobble. ‘‘Dan’l Webster,”’ called Homer, coax- ingly, ‘‘good old Dan’l, come an’ see me.”’ The boy slid cautiously along to where a step ladder stood. *‘Dan’l,”’ he called, ‘‘wouldn’t you like to come home, Dan’l?’’ Dan’l perked down with pleased recogni- tion in his eyes. Homer crept up the lad- der. He was preparing to lay a hand op one of Dan’l’s black legs when the turkey hopped away with a triumphant gobble, and went racing gleefully along the wide shelf. A row of bottles filled with salad- dressing stood in Dan’l’s path. He clear- ed them out of the way with one energetic kick. They tumbled to a lower shelf ; their yellow contents crept in a sluggish stream toward the mouth of a tea-box. “‘I’ll have that bird shot!” thundered Mr. Richards. ‘‘That’s all there is about is.” “Wait a minute, sir,”’ pleaded Mrs.Tidd. ‘““Homer’!] get him.”’ Dan’l Webster would neither be coaxed nor commanded. He wandered np and down the shelf, gobbling vociferously into the faces of the excited moh. ‘*Henry, goand get a pistol,’’ cried Mr. Richards, turning to one of his clerks. **Homer,”’—Mrs. Tidd clutched the boy’s arm,—‘*why don’t you make b’iieve you're shootin’ Dan’l? Maybe he’ll lie down, so you can git him.”’ Homer called for a broom. He tossed it gun fashion, across his shoulder, and crept along slowly, sliding a ladder before him to the spot where the turkey stood watch- ing with intent eyes. He put one foot upon the lowest step, then he burst out in a spirited whistle. It was ‘‘Marching through Georgia.”’ The biid stared at him fixedly. ‘‘Bang!’’ cried Homer, and he pointed the broom straight at the recreant turkey. Dan’l Webster dropped stiff. A second later Homer bad a firm grasp of the scaly legs. Dan’l returned instantly to life, but the rebellious head was tucked uw» der his master’s jacket. Dan’l Webster thought he was being strangled to death. ‘“There!”’ cried Homer, triumphantly. He closed the lid of the poultry crate and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “There! I guess you won’t get out again.”’ He followed Mr. Richards to the front of the store to view the devastation. *‘Who’d bave thought turkeys could have ripped up strong wire like that?’ oried the enraged market man, pointing to the shattered door. . ‘I guess Dan’l began the mischief,’’ said Homer, soberly; ‘he’s awful strong.”’ “I'm sorry I ever laid my eyes on Dan’l,’”’ exclaimed Mr. Richards. ‘‘I’ll hate to see Finch. He'll be in on the 4:20 train. He’s conservative ; he never bad any use for the turkey show.” “When did you find out that they— what bad happened ?”’ asked Homer, tim- idly. ‘At five o’clock. Two of the men got here eariy. They telephoned me. I never saw such destruction in my life. Your turkeys had sampled most everything in the store, from ‘split peas to molasses. What they didn’t eat they knocked over or tore open. Iguess they won’t need feed- ing for a week. They're chuckful of oat- meal, beans, crackers, peanuts, pickles, toothpicks, pranes, soap, red herrings, cab- bage—about everything their crops can hold.” “I'm awful sorry,’’ faltered Homer. *‘So am I,” said Mr. Richards, resolute- ly. ‘‘Now, the best thing that you can do is to take your flock and clear out. I've had enough of performing turkeys.’ Homer and his mother waited at the depot for the 11 o’clock train. Beside them stood a crate filled with turkeys that wore a well-fed, satisfied expression. Somebody tapped Homer on the shoulder. “You're the boy who does the stunts with turkeys, aren't you?'’ asked a well- dressed man with a silk hat, and a flower in his buttonhole. ‘‘Yes,”’ answered the boy, wonderingly. ‘I’ve been hunting for you. That was a great rumpus you made at Finch & Richards’s, The whole town’s talking about it.”’ ‘“Yes,”” answered Homer again, and he blushed scarlet. “Taking your turkeys home?’’ Homer nodded. “I’ve come to cee if we can keep them in town a few days longer.”’ The boy shook his head vigorously. ‘‘I don’t want any more turkey shows.” “Not if the price is big enough to make it worth your while?”’ “No!" said Homer. ‘‘Let us go into the station and talk it over.” 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 ap- planded 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 regunla- tion big red number, displayed a brand- new card. It read: ‘Extra Number— Homer Tidd and bis Performing Turkeys.”’ A shout of delighted anticipation went up from the audience. Every paper in town had made a spectacular story of the ruin at Finch & Richard’s. Nothing could have been so splendid a surprise. Every- body broke into applause—everybody ex- cept one little woman who sat in the front row of the orchestra. Her face was pale, her hands clasped and unclasped each oth- er tremulously. ‘Homer, boy,’”’ she whispered to herself. The curtain rolled up. The stage was set for a realistic farm yard scene. The floor was scattered with straw, aun old pump leaned over in one corner, hay tumbled untidily from a barn-lofé, a coop with a hen and chickens stood by the fence. From her stall stared a white-faced cow ; her eyes blinked at the glare of the footlights. The orchestra struck up a merry tune; the cow uttered an astonished moo: then in walked a stardv lad with fine broad shoulders, red hair, and freckles. His boots clumped, his blue overalls were faded, his sweater had once heen red. At his heels stepped six splendid turkeys, straight in line every one with its eyes on the master. Homer never knew how he did it. Two minutes earlier he had said ‘to the manager, desperately : *‘I’ll cut an’ run right off as soon as I set eyes on folks.”’ Perhaps he drew courage from the anxious gaze in his mother’s eves. Heirs was the only face he saw in the great audience. Perbaps it was the magnificent aplomb of the turkeys that inspired him. They step- ped serenely, as if walking out on a gor- geously lighted stage vas an every-day event in their lives. Anyhow, Homer threw up his head and led the turkey march round and round past the footlights, till the shout of applause dwindled into silence. The hoy threw back his bead and snapped his fingers. The turkeys re- treated to form in line at the back of the stage. ‘Gettysburg,’ cried Homer, pointing to a stately plump hen. Gettysburg stepped to the center of the stage. ‘‘How many kernels of corn have I thrown you, Getty?’’ he asked. The turkey turned to count them, with her head cocked reflectively on one side. Then she seratched her foot on the floor. ‘“One, two, three, four, five!’ ‘Right! Now you may eat them, Getty.” : Gettyshurg wore her new-won laurels with an excellent grace. She jumped through a row of hoops; slid gracefully about the stage on a pair of miniature roll- er-skates; she stepped from stool to chair, from chair to table, in perfecs time with Homer’s whistle and a low strain of melody from the orchestra. She danced a stately jig on the table, then, with a satisfied cluck, descended on the other side to the floor. Amanda, App, Mehitable, Nancy, and Farragut achieved their trinmph in a slow dance made up of dignified hops and mazy turns. They stood in a decorous line awaiting the return of their master, for Homer had dashed suddenly from the stage. He reappeared, holding his head up proudly. Now he we ¢ the blue uni- form and jaunty cap of a suidier boy; a gun leaned on his shoulder. The orchestra put all its vigor, patriot- ism, and wind into ‘‘Marching through Georgia.”’ Straight to Homer's side, when they heard his whistle, wheeled the tur- key regiment, ready to keep step, to fall in line, to march and countermarch. Only one feathered soldier fell. It was Dan’l Webster. At a bang from Homer's rifle be dropped stiff and stark. From children here and there in the audience came a cry of horror. They turned to ask in fright- ened whispers if the turkey was ‘‘truly shooted.’”” As if to answer the question, Dan’l leaped to his feet. Homer pulled a Stars and Stripes from his pocket and wav- ed it enthusiastically; then the orchestra dashed into ‘‘Yankee Doodle.”’ It awoke some patriotis spirit in the soul of Dan’l Webster. He left his master, and, puffing himself to bis stateliest proportions, stalk- ed to the footlights to utter one glorious, soul-stirring gobble. The curtain fell, bus the applause went on and on and on! At last, out again across the stage came Hom- er, waving ‘‘Old Glory.”” Dan’l Webster, Gettysburg, Amanda, Ann. Nancy, Mehit- able and Farragut followed in a trinmphal march. Homer’s eyes were bent past the footlights, searching for the face of one lit- tle woman. This time the -face was one radiant flush and her hands were adding their share to the deafening applause. ‘‘Homer, boy,’’ she said fondly. This time she epoke aloud, hut nohody heard it. An encore for the ‘‘Extra Turn’’ was