‘Twas
the night of Thanksgiving when all through the flat
Not
a creature was stirring, not even the cat,
And
Johnnie lay sleeping upon his small cot,
He
might have been dreamless, but then he was not.
He
saw in his vision a table piled high
With
sauces and dressings and puddings and pie,
And
there in the center, upon a big plate
He
saw himself lying in elegant state.
He
was browned to a turn and was stuffed for a king,
With
his legs in the air, and each arm was a wing,
And
he tried to turn over and dash from the place,
But
he couldn’t move muscle, much less win a race,
And
a dozen big gobblers sat there in a ring
And
they pecked at his legs and they dug at his wing.
He
tried to call “father” and “mother” in vain,
And
still they kept pecking and causing him pain.
At
last, with an effort, he made a big slash
And
off from the table he flew with a crash,
And
when he awakened his two parents said:
“Good
gracious, Jon Augustus, please stay in your bed!”
Nov.
24, ‘09
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