“Stranger,” said old Susan, “seems’s though that turkey spoke, as Balaam’s turkey, if he had one, might have done. Stranger, I raised them turkeys myself, and I hoped that I might have one myself; and that perhaps—I dreamed of it, stranger—perhaps my twin brother Martin, who went out West, might be here, and that we might have one of them for Thanksgiving.” “I’ll buy the turkeys for you.” “You—well, you are proper good. But I don’t understand these things. I’ve never been used to receiving anything from strangers, though the neighbors have always been good to me. They tried not to have the farm sold, but it was the law. Stranger, it had to be—it was the law.” The auctioneer mounted the bench again, rang his bell, and swung his hammer. “There’s one thing we’ve overlooked. Hear, all! Here are the things that everybody wants. Turkeys—to-morrow is Thanksgiving. A fine lot of fat turkeys, and a white one. Just look at that fat old gobbler up in that tree! One seldom sees a finer bird than that. And look at that hen-turkey—” “Quit! quit!” exclaimed the beautiful bird, in great astonishment, on seeing all eyes turned towards her. “That’s the mother turkey,” said old Susan. “She’s lost her family before. She is a cosset turkey. I raised her in the chimney-corner. She is used to coming into the house to be fed.” “How much am I offered for this fine lot of turkeys? Just a dozen of them. Twelve dollars. I am offered twelve dollars. Do I hear the thirteen? Twelve dollars, twelve dollars. Thirteen—thirteen I am offered. Thirteen—fourteen. Fifteen—do I hear it? Fourteen dollars. Going, going, going. Once, do I hear it? Twice, do I hear it? Third and last call—f-o-u-r-t-e-e-n dollars.” He lifted his hammer. “Fifteen.” “Fifteen dollars—fifteen I am offered. Going, going, going, for fifteen dollars. Are you all done? Going for fifteen dollars to—” “MARTIN MARLOWE,” said the old man in a firm voice. He stood up and uncovered his white head. Old Susan’s form dropped together as though she had been smitten. She buried her face in her lap, and sobbed as she used to do in childhood. The neighbors gather silently around the door-step, among the myrtles and bouncing-bet. Some are whispering, some laughing, and a few are crying. “Susan,” says the old man, “get me my violin.” The old woman sent for the instrument, and the old man saw that it had not been wholly out of use. He tuned it, and lifted it into the air. “Susan, we used to sing together in church, over there. What did we use to say on Thanksgiving days? “I remember, neighbors. I’m going to play that hymn. My voice is almost gone, but I want you to sing it with me.” He lifts the bow. “Tune—‘Hamburg.’” The music floated out on the mellow autumn air, the violin playing as in the old church days. Before the people ran the river to the sea. The air was still; nature seemed listening.