Mississippi leader. (Jackson, Miss.) 1892-1895, 1894-11-27

divided between the rich and tooth
some biped and the almost universal
pigskin sphere. After the turkey, the
plum pudding; after the plum pudding,
which soothes and sustains one like the
kiss of summer girl by the moonlit
sea, the football.
Some men go from the country to the
city to see a game of football, while
others go from the city to the country,
when there is no game, to shoot birds.
But they all eat turkey if this divine
bird comes within their pecuniary reach.
The Ethiop who is so unfortunate as to
have no pecuniary reach worth speak
ing Of must depend upon his natural
reach to penetrate the foliage of his
neighbours tree and pluck therefrom the
moonlit fowl as a watermelon or q
Bartlett pear. Some men will eat corned
beef and Irish stew ON Thanksgiving day
and imagine that they are doing the day
and themselves justice. Such men are
moral monstrosities that defy analysis.
Those who would attempt to fathom
them and arrive at an Ineligible and
satisfactory solution could make more
money writing visiting cards with tel
egraph office pen. Not more vain would
it be to attempt to preserve in musical
notation the spirited barcarole of the
overripe November pig or to attempt to
sound the depths of country plumbers
sophistry with an ordinary plumb line.
The old fan tailed gobbler will no
more strut about the farmyard with the
dignity and hauteur of a retail floor
walker. No more will he wave his great
scarlet wattles like danger signal pre-
paratory to chasing the small boy, who
would make him the unwilling recip-
lent of bucket Of cold water. No more
will he sit in a statuesque ball on the
old elm and look wistfully over the
russell cornfield, whose burrows are pic
turesquely punctuated with dull gold
pumpkins He has heard the whining
winds of autumn rustling in the rosy
foliage and his blazing side whiskers
for the last time. Yesterday he was full
of hope Today he is full of chestnuts,
and his drumsticks play solo of joy on
the souls of the people congregated about
the table, especially that of the small
boy, whose eyes throb with joy and who
Is as full of anticipation as the turkey
is full of dressing. What a beautiful
study is the old gobbler as he lies upon
the platter, bronzed to a crisp, with his
white meat shining through his tawny
envelope that ever and anon breaks
with sound that sends ripples of soft
est music across the lilied millponds
of our souls!
When the turkey is so good, it is no
wonder that he usurps that portion Of
our inner man usually set apart for
plum pudding or pumpkin pie. The
man who likes plum pudding better
than turkey, if such man exists,
should not fail to change matters by
putting the last first and the first last.
A Shanghai on Thanksgiving day
scratches gravel in the background of
oblivion. He is more remote and OBJ
scure than is baseball player in the
height of the skating season or a furrier
i'll the sweltering dogday.
Thanksgiving day is day of tender
dreams that fill our souls with sweetest
music. Usually it is STILL gray day,
during which the dark, leafiess trees
stand sharply etched against liquid
atmosphere in which you can hear the
partridge drum and the blue jay squawk
mile away. The smoke curls from the
old farmhouse straight into the air, and
from its quaint windows the crow can
be seen circling wistfully over the old
cornfield, with outspread wings, as if
fearing to break the silence of the scene
And the old farmer is thankful that his
sons have come back to spend this festal
day with him at their old home. They
are delighted, for once more they scent
the roasting gobbler and dream of
cracking the wishbone again, just as
they did when small boys. And again
they will have the dear old nightmare
in the attic room that is colder than the
barn in winter and hotter than the po-
tato patch in summer. But they are
really no happier than those who cele-
brate the day in New York fiat that
is so small that it does not furnish suffi-
cient elbow room to carve a turkey and
therefore compels the family to have a
fricassee or canned turkey, neither of
which is dish equal to the require
ments of so glorious an occasion.
The only time that Thanksgiving is
not success is when the turkey is so
tough that the only way it can be dis
jointed seems to be by blasting it
with dynamite Such a turkey fills the
conscientious housewife with horror and
makes her register VOW to ever after
subject the turkey to thorough drub-
bling with rolling pin in the same way
that she does the average mustang
steak. A turkey should be treated in
this fashion before the dressing is in
serted or not at all. Yet the gobbler is a
peerless classic fowl that does more for
Thanksgiving day than Thanksgiving
day does for him, and we should cher
ish the sweet associations that surround
him from the Greco Roman with his
drumsticks to the tug of war with his
chaste enameled wishbone.
r. X. MUNKITTRICK.