It was almost dark in the cornfield on a crisp evening late in November. It was not Farmer Green's field, but that of a neighbor of his. And it was far from any house.

The pumpkins had been gathered weeks before. The cornstalks had long since been cut and now stood in shocks amidst the stubble.

On the whole, the scene was bleak and dismal. Not a creature moved anywhere. Even the meadow, mice had already found the nights too chilly for their liking. Turkey Proudfoot was there alone, standingp. 116 like a statue, as if he were waiting for somebody.

"I don't see where he can be," Turkey Proudfoot muttered. "I've spent three days and three nights here already. And he has never been late before in all the years that I've been coming here for my vacation."

At last Turkey Proudfoot bestirred himself. With a hop, skip and a jump he landed on top of the rail fence that surrounded the field and settled himself for the night.

He had scarcely closed his eyes when a faint "Gobble, gobble, gobble" from across the cornfield drove all idea of sleep out of his head. He started up, stretched his long neck as high as he could, and burst forth with a deafening "Gobble, gobble, gobble!" Then he paused and listened.

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The answer soon reached him. It was nearer this time. And after Turkey Proudfoot had repeated his interesting remark about a dozen times a huge old turkey cock came running up and alighted, panting, upon the fence-rail where Turkey Proudfoot was roosting.

"You're late," Turkey Proudfoot greeted him. "I'd begun to fear that you had met with an accident. What kept you?"

"They shut me up in a pen," the newcomer told him. He was still somewhat out of breath, partly because of rage at having been imprisoned, partly because he had been hurrying. "They shut me up two days ago," he explained.

"Ah!" Turkey Proudfoot exclaimed. "You ought to have left home three days ago. Did you forget our yearly meeting?"

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"No!" said the other. "But I must have miscounted the days."

"That's very dangerous at this time of year," Turkey Proudfoot replied. "It's a wonder that you escaped from the pen. How did you manage to slip out!"

"Somebody left the door ajar," said the strange turkey.

"Ah! I've always claimed that our family was lucky!" Turkey Proudfoot cried. And he gave his companion a slap on the back with his wing.

Now, that was a jolly thing to do—and not at all like Turkey Proudfoot. But he was glad to see the newcomer. They were brothers. They had been separated when quite young; and they had lived on neighboring farms all their lives.

For a time they talked together pleasantly enough. Of course Turkey Proudfoot couldn't help boasting about the wayp. 119 he ruled the roost when he was at home. But his brother Tom was just as great a boaster. And after a time each began to think the other's stories somewhat tiresome. So they began to yawn. And at last they fell asleep.

A crescent moon peeped down at them from a clear, cold sky that crackled with stars. A chilling breeze swept down the valley. And sometime during the night Turkey Proudfoot woke up and found himself a-shiver. He sidled along the rail and huddled against his brother Tom.

Brother Tom stirred and stretched himself.

"This night's a nipper, isn't it?" he remarked. "I can't help wishing my legs were like Mr. Grouse's."

"Huh!" Turkey Proudfoot exclaimed. "You'd look queer—as fat as you are—if you had legs as short as his."

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"Ah! But his legs are feathered out. And there's nothing like feathers to keep the cold off," said Brother Tom.

"I suppose," said Turkey Proudfoot, "Mr. Grouse's legs wouldn't get as cold as ours do, even if he hadn't a feather on them."

"Why not?" asked Brother Tom.

"Because they're shorter," said Turkey Proudfoot.

Brother Tom made no reply. He was no longer awake.

Being on the leeward side of his brother, Turkey Proudfoot began to feel warmer.

"I'm glad Tom's a big fellow," he murmured drowsily. "He makes a fine windbreak." Then he too fell asleep.

And the next day was Thanksgiving.

THE END