Herbert's father was so indignant at the disappointment occasioned by the reported loss of the gobbler that, without the slightest consideration for the old darky, who was working in the celery ditch, he shouted, "See here, Uncle Ned, why did you steal our last turkey?" "I didn't steal him, sah!" replied Uncle Ned, with a crestfallen air. "Then get right off the place, and don't let me see you around here again," shouted the proprietor, with great indignation. Uncle Ned dropped his spade and went sullenly away, while Absalom smiled through his tears on the old dusty rafter in the dark corner of the garret. "Now what are we going to have for Thanksgiving dinner?" inquired the head of the house. "It's three miles to the village, the butcher's will be closed in an hour, and we can't even get a steak!" "Say, papa," suggested Herbert, "let's have nothing only dessert. What do you say? Nothing but plum pudding; that'll make a fine old dinner." Although the adults of the family frowned on such a suggestion, the family had to make out a dinner on plum pudding or go hungry. Herbert had never eaten so fine a dinner before; and when it was over he slipped up to the garret with a plateful for Absalom. "What in the world is this, Herbert?" asked the bird, as he smacked his bill. "It's plum pudding with hard sauce for your Thanksgiving dinner." "Well, it's mighty fine, and I think it must be called hard sauce, because it's hard to find anything else quite so good." So he ate away until he fell asleep. In the bright rosy morning he returned to the barn-yard, greatly relieved and in buoyant spirits. "Take Uncle Ned right back to work at once," said Herbert's father at about noon to Michael. "What, after stealing the gobbler?" asked Michael. "He didn't do it," responded Herbert's father, meekly; "he didn't do it. I just met the gobbler, and I admit that while I am not oversuperstitious, the mysterious disappearance of that bird when he was ripe and due for the axe, and his sudden return when the danger had passed, fills me with dire foreboding, and makes me think he'll bring me good luck if I only treat him right. So I am not going to kill him even for Christmas, but intend to feed him on the fat of the farm, and let him die of old age. When I saw him a little while ago he actually winked at me and grinned, and that was too much for my suspicious temperament." So Uncle Ned was at once restored to his former position, and Absalom thrived and lived to a grand old age, the faithful companion of his devoted little friend and preserver. THE REAL DOLL. BY H. G. PAINE. On little Frances's birthday She had dolls of every size: Baby dolls and lady dolls, And dolls in mannish guise. She had china dolls and rubber dolls, Wax, worsted, wood, and some That squeaked when Frances squeezed them hard, And others that were dumb.