stiddy, she says," answered Prue, for the responsibility of this great
undertaking did not rest upon her, so she took a cheerful view of
things.

"I know, but it's the stuffin' that troubles me," said Tilly, rubbing
her round elbows as she eyed the immense fowl laid out on a platter
before her. "I don't know how much I want, nor what sort of yarbs to put
in, and he's so awful big, I'm kind of afraid of him."

"I ain't! I fed him all summer, and he never gobbled at _me_. I feel
real mean to be thinking of gobbling him, poor old chap," laughed Prue,
patting her departed pet with an air of mingled affection and appetite.

"Well, I'll get the puddin' off my mind fust, for it ought to bile all
day. Put the big kettle on, and see that the spit is clean, while I get
ready."

Prue obediently tugged away at the crane, with its black hooks, from
which hung the iron tea-kettle and three-legged pot; then she settled
the long spit in the grooves made for it in the tall andirons, and put
the dripping-pan underneath, for in those days meat was roasted as it
should be, not baked in ovens.

Meantime Tilly attacked the plum-pudding. She felt pretty sure of coming
out right, here, for she had seen her mother do it so many times, it
looked very easy. So in went suet and fruit; all sorts of spice, to be
sure she got the right ones, and brandy instead of wine. But she forgot
both sugar and salt, and tied it in the cloth so tightly that it had no
room to swell, so it would come out as heavy as lead and as hard as a
cannon-ball, if the bag did not burst and spoil it all. Happily
unconscious of these mistakes, Tilly popped it into the pot, and proudly
watched it bobbing about before she put the cover on and left it to its
fate.

"I can't remember what flavorin' Ma puts in," she said, when she had got
her bread well soaked for the stuffing. "Sage and onions and apple-sauce
go with goose, but I can't feel sure of anything but pepper and salt for
a turkey."

"Ma puts in some kind of mint, I know, but I forget whether it is
spearmint, peppermint, or penny-royal," answered Prue, in a tone of
doubt, but trying to show her knowledge of "yarbs," or, at least, of
their names.

"Seems to me it's sweet marjoram or summer savory. I guess we'll put
both in, and then we are sure to be right. The best is up garret; you
run and get some, while I mash the bread," commanded Tilly, diving into
the mess.

Away trotted Prue, but in her haste she got ca