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Tale of Turkey Proudfoot (version 2)

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<h2>XXII</h2> <h3>CRANBERRY SAUCE</h3> "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!" <hr class="chapter" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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