poems written when President McKinley was
assassinated, none surpassed in sympathy and original conception
the verses printed below.]

See that turkey out there, mister? Ain't he big and fat and nice?
Well, you couldn't buy that gobbler, not for any kind of price.
Now, I'll tell you how it happened: 'Way along last spring, you know,
This here turkey's mother hatched some twenty little ones or so--
Hatched 'em in the woods down yonder, and come marchin' home one day
With them stringin' out behind 'er, catchin' bugs along the way.

Well, my little grandson named 'em--both his folks are dead, you see,
So he's come and gone to livin' with his grandma, here, and me.
He give each a name to go by: one was Teddy, one was Schley,
One was Sampson, one was Dewey, one was Bryan, too, but I
Liked the one he called McKinley best of all the brood, somehow--
He was that there turkey yonder that's a gobblin' at you now.

How them cunnin' little rascals grew and grew! Sometimes, I swear,
It 'most seemed as though we seen 'em shootin' upward in the air.
And McKinley was the leader and the best of all the lot,
And you'd ought to seen the mother--proud of him?--I tell you what!
So I says to ma and Charley--oh, three months ago at least--
That I guessed we'd keep McKinley for our own Thanksgivin' feast.

Then we sold off all the others, keepin' only this one here,
And I guess we won't have turkey for Thanksgivin' Day this year.
Just the name we gave that gobbler makes him sacreder to me,
After all the things that's happened, than I--well, somehow you see
I was in his ridgement--so you'll please excuse me--I dunno--
I don't want to show my feelin's--sometimes folks can't help it, though.

Hear 'im gobble now, and see him as he proudly struts away;
Don't you s'pose he knows there's something in the name he bears to-day?
See how all his feathers glisten--ain't he big and plump and nice?
No, sir! No; you couldn't buy 'im, not for any kind of price.
That there gobbler, there, that Charley gave the name McKinley to,
He'll die natural--that's something turkeys mighty seldom do.

The Winning of Lorna Doone

(From Lorna Doone.)

BY R. D. BLACKMORE.

[The Doones were a band of aristocratic, but lawless, people
living in the Doone Valley, from which they sallied forth to
raid the neighboring farmers and travelers. John Ridd, who tells
the story, whil