Chapter 3

"There's no use of my singing a dawn song beneath Farmer Green's window any more," Rusty Wren grumbled. "The terrible squalls of this new bird will disturb everybody in the valley."

"Don't be silly!" said Mrs. Wren. "Don't be silly like Turkey Proudfoot. He's making himself miserable because the Peacock has a tail that sticks up higher than his. How absurd," she cried, "to be proud like Turkey Proudfoot, just because your tail happens to stick up in the air. Why, yours and mine stick up. But we don't go around boasting about them. And if somebody else has a stickier-up tail, why worry about it? And if somebody else with a louder voice can wake Farmer Green better than you can, why worry about that? Let the Peacock scream if he wants to!"

"And _I_--" cried Turkey Proudfoot, who had been standing beneath the tree where Mr. and Mrs. Wren were talking--"_I_ say, let the Peacock parade in the front yard if he wants to. I certainly shan't visit him there. I'll parade behind the farmhouse."

When Turkey Proudfoot first spoke up like that, Rusty Wren and his wife gave each other an uneasy look. They had expected him to be angry. And now, with an air of great relief, Mrs. Wren exclaimed:

"I apologize to you, Mr. Turkey Proudfoot. You're not as silly as I supposed. You're not as vain as I thought you were. I begin to think we've been mistaken about you all these years."

"You certainly have been," Turkey Proudfoot declared. "I'm not vain at all and I'm glad I haven't the Peacock's horrid, harsh voice. Mine is much more beautiful than his. And nobody can deny it."

"_Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble!_"

XVI

DRUMMING ON A LOG

Turkey Proudfoot was not always content to stay in the farmyard. Although Farmer Green fed him well, he liked to range over the fields in search of extra tidbits, such as grain, seeds and insects. Sometimes he wandered even as far as the pasture. And one day he strayed into the edge of the woods beyond the pasture fence.

There he discovered a beech tree. And Turkey Proudfoot was enjoying the nuts that he found on the ground beneath it when all at once a _thump-thump-thump_ startled him. He raised his head and listened. The thumping sound came faster and faster, then died away in a rumble.

"Ho! It's only Johnnie Green drumming. Probably his mother wouldn't let him drum near the farmhouse, so he came to the woods where she couldn't hear him."

Turkey Proudfoot paid no more heed to the drumming, which rolled through the woods now and then. He went on with his search for beechnuts. But at last a thought popped into his head. "Johnnie Green must be eating most of the time, or he'd drum oftener," Turkey Proudfoot muttered. "He must have found a beech tree."

Soon Turkey Proudfoot decided to join Johnnie Green. He hoped that beechnuts were more plentiful beneath Johnnie's tree. So Turkey Proudfoot picked his way slowly through the underbrush. And guided by the _thump-thump-thump_ which once in a while boomed upon his ears, at last Turkey Proudfoot came into a little clearing.

There on a log sat a speckly, feathered, short-necked gentleman with a tail spread in much the fashion in which Turkey Proudfoot so often carried his own.

Turkey Proudfoot drew back behind a bush, out of sight.

"I'll show that bird a tail that _is_ a tail," he muttered to himself. So he spread his tail and then stepped proudly forth. A dry twig snapped beneath his weight. At that sound the stranger on the log turned his head quickly. Just for an instant there was an eager look on his face. But when he beheld Turkey Proudfoot it changed to one of disappointment.

"Who are you?" the stranger asked in none too pleasant a tone.

"I'm Turkey Proudfoot," said the ruler of the farmyard. "I live down the hill at Farmer Green's place."

"Then you'd better go home where you belong," said the stranger on the log. "I was expecting some one. I've been drumming for a friend. And when I heard you step on that dry twig I thought she'd come. I had my tail spread in her honor."

"Drum again!" Turkey Proudfoot ordered. "Call your friend at once and I'll show her a tail that is a tail. Yours is no bigger than Mrs. Green's fan."

The stranger made no move to obey. He appeared somewhat sulky.

"What's your name?" Turkey Proudfoot demanded.

"I'm Mr. Grouse," the stranger snapped out. "I supposed everybody in Pleasant Valley knew me. My drumming is famous."

"Indeed!" said Turkey Proudfoot. "I thought it was Johnnie Green making that noise."

"No wonder!" Mr. Grouse sniffed. "You're only a barnyard fowl. You can't be expected to know anything about us game birds."

XVII

A GAME BIRD

Mr. Grouse moved back and forth upon his log in the clearing in the woods. And casting a withering glance at Turkey Proudfoot, he said, "It's plain that you don't know what a game bird is. Men--and boys, too--come into the woods with guns to hunt us. And we make game of them by rising swiftly with a loud _whir_ and flying off before they have time to shoot us."

Turkey Proudfoot gaped at Mr. Grouse.

"Don't they ever hit you?" he faltered.

"They've never shot me," said Mr. Grouse. "Once a hunter knocked out one of my tail feathers. But that was only an accident."

"I shouldn't care to be a game bird," Turkey Proudfoot remarked. "I'm sure it's much safer living at the farmyard."

Mr. Grouse gave him an odd look. One winter when food was scarce in the woods he had flown down to the farmyard. And he remembered seeing turkey feathers scattered about the chopping block near the woodpile.

"How do you usually spend the holidays?" he asked.

"Last Fourth of July I went up in the haymow and kept out of sight all day," said Turkey Proudfoot. "I don't like firecrackers."

Mr. Grouse nodded his head.

"I don't blame you for that," he observed. "Firecrackers sound too much like guns.... But I wasn't thinking of the Fourth of July," he went on. "When I asked how you spent the holidays I was thinking more of those to come. Now, Thanksgiving Day isn't a long way off. Have you made any plans for that?"

When he mentioned Thanksgiving Day Turkey Proudfoot gave a sudden start.

"For goodness' sake, don't speak of that now!" he cried. "I came to the woods to enjoy myself. And now you're trying to spoil my good time."

Mr. Grouse could see that Turkey Proudfoot was angry. And being rather peppery himself, he was tempted to say something sharp--something about _axes_, which are always sharp unless they're dull. But Mr. Grouse managed to control his temper. After all, he thought, it was no wonder that Turkey Proudfoot didn't want to hear about Thanksgiving Day.

"Pardon me!" said Mr. Grouse. "I only brought up this matter in a cousinly kind of way."

"Cousinly!" cried Turkey Proudfoot. "You and I, sir, are total strangers to each other."

"Well, we ought not to be," said Mr. Grouse. "It's time we got acquainted with each other. Didn't you know that your family and mine are related?"

"No!" Turkey Proudfoot exclaimed. "No! I never knew it."

"It's the truth," Mr. Grouse told him. "Don't you think we look a bit alike, except that my neck is somewhat short, and yours is long and skinny? And of course my head is feathered out, while yours is bald and red."

"That will do!" Turkey Proudfoot gobbled angrily. "Even if you are my cousin you needn't make such remarks about me."

Mr. Grouse begged his pardon again.

"I was only pointing out the differences between us," he explained. "But if they displease you, I'll speak of the ways in which we are alike. Now, take our tails--"

"I won't!" Turkey Proudfoot squalled. "I'll take my own tail wherever I go. But I won't take yours."

XVIII

RED LIGHTNING

"What's the matter with my tail!" cried Mr. Grouse.

"It's too small," Turkey Proudfoot declared. "Now, if you want to see a tail that _is_ a tail--"

"I don't!" cried Mr. Grouse. "Not if you want me to look at yours! In fact, I don't care to talk with you any more. I was going to suggest a pleasant way for you to spend Thanksgiving Day. But nothing I say seems to please you. Besides, you began to boast about your tail the moment you entered this clearing. And if there's anybody I can't endure, it's a boaster." He was a rough and ready sort of fellow--this Mr. Grouse. When he had anything to say he didn't go beating about the bush. He came right out in the open and spoke his mind freely.

You might think that Turkey Proudfoot would have taken his cousin's remarks to heart. But he didn't. He was so pleased with his own tail that to him it was the biggest thing in the world. Indeed, when he spread his tail and looked at it he could see nothing else.

"You are jealous," he told Mr. Grouse. "And I can't blame you. It's only natural that you should look at my tail with envy. Everybody does down at the farmyard."

Turkey Proudfoot must have forgotten all about the peacock, when he spoke. Anyhow, he gazed around at his tail with great admiration.

All at once there was a terrible, loud _whirring_ sound. Turkey Proudfoot started up in alarm. To his amazement, where Mr. Grouse had been sitting on the log there was now nothing at all.

"Up! Up!" It was Mr. Grouse's voice that Turkey Proudfoot heard; and it seemed to come from the tree right above his head.

Although Turkey Proudfoot didn't like to obey anybody's orders--and certainly not Mr. Grouse's--there was a note of alarm in the cry that made him squall with terror. He started to run, flapping his wings awkwardly. And just as he rose into the air a reddish, brownish streak flashed beneath him.

Turkey Proudfoot settled himself on a branch of an old oak and looked down at a sharp-faced, grinning person who leered up at him. It was Tommy Fox. And though he looked very pleasant, inside he was feeling quite peevish. If it hadn't been for Mr. Grouse's warning he would surely have captured Turkey Proudfoot.

It was like Turkey Proudfoot not to thank his cousin. And it was like him, too, to fly into a rage.

"You might have warned me sooner," he complained to Mr. Grouse. "That red rascal is quick as lightning. He almost caught me."

"I thought you'd follow me when you saw me rise," said Mr. Grouse.

"I didn't see you."

"Well, you _heard_ me, didn't you?"

"I heard a _whirring_ sound," said Turkey Proudfoot, "but I didn't know what it was."

"Great snakes!" cried Mr. Grouse. "Farmer Green ought not to let you come into the woods--not if he expects you to spend Thanksgiving Day with him!"

Tommy Fox chuckled at that remark.

But Turkey Proudfoot never let on that he heard it. He crouched lower upon the limb of the oak tree and pretended to fall asleep.

Daylight was fast fading.

XIX

NIGHT IN THE WOODS

Mr. Grouse and Tommy Fox soon went about their business, leaving Turkey Proudfoot to roost in the oak tree in the woods.

Though he pretended to be fast asleep, Turkey Proudfoot had kept one eye slightly open. He had seen Tommy Fox trot away toward the pasture. He had heard Mr. Grouse go _whirring_ off into the depths of the woods.

"It's too late to go back to the farmyard this evening," Turkey Proudfoot grumbled. "It's almost dusk already. And there's no telling about Tommy Fox. He may be hiding behind a tree, ready to pounce on me the moment I alight on the ground."

Turkey Proudfoot actually began to feel a bit sleepy. He was in the habit of going early to roost anyhow. So he huddled low on the branch of the oak tree. And soon he was in the land of dreams.

He slept a long time. And while he slept a number of things happened of which he knew nothing.

Tommy Fox came stealing back in the moonlight and gazed up at him with longing eyes.

Miss Kitty Cat, who had prowled through the pasture on a hunt for field mice, spied him. "I declare, that's Turkey Proudfoot!" she exclaimed. "He must have got lost up here. I certainly shan't wake him and tell him the way home. If I spoke to him he'd be sure to gobble and scare away all the mice in the neighborhood."

Benjamin Bat came zigzagging through the air and all but blundered into Turkey Proudfoot. Missing him by the breadth of a wing, Benjamin Bat hung head downward from a near-by limb and stared at the sleeping form. "Hello!" he squeaked. "Here's a newcomer in these woods. I should think he'd cling to that limb upside down. He'd find it a much safer way than sitting on top of the limb." Benjamin Bat was on the point of rousing Turkey Proudfoot and advising him to change his position when a quavering whistle sent Benjamin hurrying away. He knew the voice of Simon Screecher, Solomon Owl's small cousin. And he had no wish to meet him.

Turkey Proudfoot stirred in his sleep. He was dreaming--dreaming that Johnnie Green was whistling to old dog Spot to come and drive Turkey Proudfoot out of the newly planted cornfield. The whistling seemed to come nearer and nearer. "I won't stir for old Spot," Turkey Proudfoot gobbled aloud in his sleep.

"Maybe you'll stir for me," cried a strange voice. And Turkey Proudfoot woke up with a start.

"Where am I?" he bawled. For a moment he couldn't remember having gone to sleep in the woods.

"You're right up under Blue Mountain," said Simon Screecher. "It's a dangerous place for a stranger to sleep. There are birds and beasts a-plenty in these woods that would make a meal of you if they caught you here."

Turkey Proudfoot yawned.

"I'm not worrying," he replied. "Foxes can't climb trees. And I'm as big as any bird in the neighborhood."

"You're as big--yes! And bigger than most!" Simon Screecher admitted. "But it isn't bigness alone that counts in the woods," he insisted.

"What does count, then?" Turkey

Proudfoot demanded.

"You ought to be able to guess," said Simon Screecher. "It's right in front of your eyes."

XX

BEAKS AND BILLS

Turkey Proudfoot was a poor guesser. There in the woods, at night, Simon Screecher the owl had told him of something that "counted," something that was right in front of Turkey Proudfoot's eyes. And Turkey Proudfoot named everything he could think of. He mentioned the oak tree in which he sat, the darkness, the yellow moon.

"You're wrong!" Simon Screecher kept telling him. "You're getting further away with every guess. I suppose I'll have to tell you what I mean: it's your beak. And if that isn't right in front of your eyes, I don't know what is."

"My beak!" cried Turkey Proudfoot. "I don't call my bill my beak. I call my beak my bill."

"Well, beak or bill, yours is a useless thing," Simon Screecher sneered. "It may do well enough to pick up a kernel of corn. But it can't be much good as a weapon. It ought to be sharp and hooked to be of any use in a fight."

With every word that Simon Screecher said, Turkey Proudfoot was growing angrier.

"There's nothing wrong with my bill," he clamored. "I've had plenty of fights in the farmyard. The fowls are all afraid of me at home."

Simon Screecher gave a most disagreeable laugh.

"I wasn't thinking of farmyard fights," he sniffed. "If Fatty Coon or Grumpy Weasel or my cousin Solomon Owl grabbed you, you'd find that a fight in the woods is a very different matter from a mere barnyard squabble."

Turkey Proudfoot was furious.

"If you'll come over here on this limb I'll peck you," he cried.

"Huh! We don't fight that way in the woods," Simon Screecher retorted. "We don't peck. We tear-r-r-r!"

He rolled out the last word in a long-drawn quaver which gave it a horrid sound--especially in the woods, after dark. And Turkey Proudfoot felt chills a-running up and down his back.

"A-ahem! You-you needn't bother to come over here," he stammered. "I-I shouldn't like to peck you. You-er-you seem to be a very pleasant sort of person."

"Well, I'm not!" Simon Screecher informed him. "And you ought to see my cousin, Solomon Owl. He's a _terrible_ fellow."

Turkey Proudfoot's wishbone seemed to be trying to come up into his month. At least, he had to swallow several times before he could answer.

"I'd like to see your cousin," he replied, "but not to-night."

He had scarcely finished speaking when a loud call came booming through the woods: "_Whooo-whoo-whoo, whoo-whoo, to-whoo-ah!_"

"Who's that?" gasped Turkey Proudfoot.

"That's my cousin, Solomon Owl," Simon Screecher explained. "And he's not far away."

"My goodness!" Turkey Proudfoot exclaimed. "If he's as big as his voice he must be enormous."

"He's twice my size," said Simon Screecher. "Not nearly as big as you are, of course! But you ought to see his beak. I do believe he could tear you into--"

"I don't want to see him to-night," Turkey Proudfoot interrupted. "I hope he won't come this way. Go and find him. And tell him to meet me here _to-morrow_ night."

XXI

FARMYARD MANNERS

"Oh, very well!" said Simon Screecher to Turkey Proudfoot. "I'll give my cousin your message. I'll tell him that you want him to meet you here in this clearing in the woods to-morrow night." So off Simon Screecher flew.

He had not been gone long when a noisy "_haw-haw-hoo-hoo_" rolled and echoed through the woods.

"He's laughing!" Turkey Proudfoot exclaimed. "Solomon Owl is laughing. I wonder what the joke is." He was so curious to know that he actually began to wish that Simon Screecher would hurry back. And after a little while he did.

"What was the joke?" Turkey Proudfoot demanded. "I heard you cousin laughing."

"Solomon Owl says that he doesn't care to meet you at all," Simon Screecher explained. "He says he has heard about you before and that you're a tough old bird."

"I'm not!" Turkey shrieked. "I'm very tender--and I'm not ten years old."

"Solomon Owl says he doesn't care to bother with any but the very youngest Turkeys."

"Well," Turkey Proudfoot retorted, "no matter what he says, the joke's on him. I wasn't coming back here to-morrow night. I don't like sleeping in the woods and having my rest disturbed by hoots and whistles."

"I suppose you don't," Simon Screecher admitted. "And I shouldn't care to try to sleep at the farmyard in the daytime and he waked by gobbles."

"I wish you _would_ come down to the farmyard," Turkey Proudfoot told him. "You'd drive old dog Spot half crazy with your whistling."

Simon Screecher looked thoughtful.

"No!" he said. "Farmer Green might drive me half crazy with his old shotgun." He yawned as he spoke. "I don't see what's making me so sleepy," he remarked. "I must be going home."

"Don't hurry!" Turkey Proudfoot begged him. "I'm beginning to enjoy your company--though I can't exactly say why. And I'd like to gabble with you for an hour or two. I don't see what makes me so wakeful."

Just then a familiar sound greeted Turkey Proudfoot's ears. It was a crow. It was the rooster's crow, way down at the farmyard.

"Why, it's almost dawn!" Turkey Proudfoot exclaimed. "I didn't know the night was so nearly gone. It's no wonder I couldn't sleep. The dawn of another day always makes one wide awake."

"It always makes one sleepy, you mean," Simon Screecher corrected him.

Now, Turkey Proudfoot always grew angry when anybody corrected him in any way. And he flew into a rage.

"Go away! Go home!" he spluttered. "I don't enjoy your company."

Simon Screecher started homewards at once.

"Farmyard manners!" he muttered. "I declare, I wish Cousin Solomon hadn't eaten those two mice and those three frogs and those four spiders and those five grasshoppers to-night. When he's well fed he's always good-natured. If he had been hungry he'd have been in a terrible temper. And he'd have fought this Turkey bird until there was nothing left of him but his tail feathers."

Turkey Proudfoot never knew what a narrow escape he had. As soon as it began to grow light he dropped down out of the oak tree and hurried home, for he didn't want to miss the breakfast that Farmer Green always gave him.

Along in the fall, breakfasts always seemed to be bigger.

XXII

CRANBERRY SAUCE

"Ho, hum!" old Mr. Crow yawned. He had stopped to talk with Turkey Proudfoot in the cornfield. It was fall; and the shocks of corn stood on every hand like great fat scarecrows, with fat yellow pumpkins lying at their feet, as if the scarecrows' heads had fallen off.

Mr. Crow always yawned a good deal when he chatted with Turkey Proudfoot and he wasn't always as careful as he might have been about covering up his yawns. Somehow Mr. Crow found Turkey Proudfoot dull company. Turkey Proudfoot had never been off the farm. On the other hand, old Mr. Crow was a great traveller. In his younger days he used to spend every winter in the South. And though he felt that the long journey had become too hard for him now, he thought nothing of flying around Blue Mountain and up and down Pleasant Valley.

As a result of his wanderings Mr. Crow had learned many things. And as a result of his staying at home, Turkey Proudfoot had learned little or nothing. Often Turkey Proudfoot complained to Mr. Crow that he couldn't even understand what Mr. Crow was talking about. But on this occasion Mr. Crow mentioned something that made him shudder.

"Ho, hum!" Mr. Crow yawned again. "My appetite isn't what it used to be. I believe I need to eat something tart. So I think I'll go over to the cranberry bog and pick a few cranberries. Why don't you come along with me?"

"Ugh!" Turkey Proudfoot exclaimed. "Cranberries! I can't stand even the mention of them."

"Ha!" Mr. Crow murmured to himself. "I've waked him up at last. I thought that would fetch him." And to Turkey Proudfoot he said, "Do you mean to tell me that you don't like cranberries? Why, I've always heard Turkey and cranberry sauce mentioned together."

"Ah!" said Turkey Proudfoot. "I've no doubt you've heard them spoken of only too often. But that's no reason why I should be fond of cranberry sauce. To tell the truth, all my life I've schemed to keep away from it."

"Then you don't care for the sharp taste of cranberries," said Mr. Crow.

"I've never eaten any," Turkey Proudfoot told him. "I'm sure I couldn't eat any if I wanted to. I believe the sight of them would take my appetite away."

Old Mr. Crow shook his head. And he leaned over to pick up a stray kernel of corn.

"Don't take that!" Turkey Proudfoot warned him. "I've had my eye on that kernel. I was going to eat it as soon as you went away."

Old Mr. Crow bolted the kernel of corn in a twinkling.

"You forget that you're not in the farmyard," he said boldly. "You can't treat me as if I were a Hen." And he chuckled--in a croaking sort of fashion.

Turkey Proudfoot glared at him. He knew that it was useless to rush at Mr. Crow. The old gentleman would only rise into the air and sail away with a loud haw-haw.

Now, Mr. Crow was a famous tease. He dearly loved to annoy others. And he gave Turkey Proudfoot a sly glance.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed. "I have a twinge of rheumatism."

"Where is your pain?" asked Turkey Proudfoot.

"In one of my drumsticks," said old Mr. Crow promptly, with a spluttering cough, to keep from laughing.

Turkey Proudfoot was furious.

"Cranberry sauce and drumsticks!" he exclaimed. "You do choose the most painful things to talk about."

"I was only trying to be polite," Mr. Crow told him. "You're always complaining that I don't talk about matters you can understand."

"I understand these only too well--" Turkey Proudfoot said--"especially at this season of the year!"

XXIII

VACATION TIME

It was well along in November. And Turkey Proudfoot was feeling fidgetty. Whenever Farmer Green or the hired man stepped into the yard, he started up with a wild look in his eye.

Turkey Proudfoot was no longer roosting at night in the tree near the farmhouse.

With the coming of cold weather he had been glad enough to roost under a shed beside the barn.

Ever since the winter before, Turkey Proudfoot had enjoyed sound sleeps at night. But for weeks now he had often waked up in the middle of the night and found himself all a-shiver.