native woods is not a very amiable character;
but, on the contrary, a pompous, inflated,
choleric creature—the Malvolio of birds—and cruel
and unnatural withal; a bad husband and a bad
father; a bird, in short, that deserves—to be
well roasted and eaten. This brings me to the
most interesting part of my subject: the way
in which the Turkey really deserves to be
appreciated.

Civilisation has, of course, improved the rnoral
disposition of the Turkey, though even in its
domesticated state the male bird has some of the
faults which we occasionally discover—with regret
—amongst our own personal friends. To be “as
angry as a Turkey-cock” is a proverbial expression;
and our neighbours over the water,
acutely perceiving that anger and stupidity are
closely allied, say of a booby that he is “bête
comme un dindon,” and that to be the butt of a
joke is to be “le dindon de la chose;” they even,
in a Salic spirit, call an unintelligent young
woman “une grande dinde;” they once, but the
fashion is altered now, used to call a provincial
young lady “une dindonnière;” and the phrase,
“garder les dindes,” still expresses, without a
compliment, the degree of intellect which
suffices for those who lead a country life. That
this reputation for stupidity is altogether
deserved may, perhaps, admit of some doubt, for
the stupendous ingratitude of man is constantly
shown in his abusing those to whom he is most
indebted—the woodcock being a notable example
of an admirable bird (with its trail on toast)
intellectually depreciated;—at all events, Turkeys
sometimes meet with people more stupid than
themselves, as happened once in Persia, where
(the Rev. Mr. Wood tells us) “a pair of these
birds, that had wandered in some strange
manner, were thought to speak very good
Arabic, though the particular dialect was
beyond the comprehension of their hearers.”
Had it been Welsh, now! But, no! The
animal has no name that ever condescended to
utter a language like that! Still, the Turkey
(in a state of nature) cannot be called the bird
of wisdom, or it would scarcely allow itself to
be captured in the fashion described by the last-
mentioned authority: “A little square hut is
made of logs, without window or door. A trench
is cut in the ground, some ten or twelve feet in
length, passing under the wall of the hut, and
terminating in its centre. A kind of bridge of
flattened logs and sticks is then laid across the
trench in the interior of the hut, close to the
wall. The roof is then laid, and the pen is
complete. Its mode of action is as follows: A
quantity of corn is strewn in the pen and along the
trench, and is sparingly scattered at intervals so
as to lead the Turkeys to the trench. When
they see the corn they follow it up, feeding as
they go, and finding that the trench is so well
supplied, they traverse its length, and pass into
the pen. There is no trap-door to prevent them
from escaping, neither is there need of it. As
is the custom of trapped birds in general” (a
saving clause, this, for the Turkeys), “they walk
round the walls of their prison, trying to find a
hole at which to escape, and peering anxiously
at the interstices between the logs. When they
come to the trench, they never think of going
out by the way that they entered” (here the
Turkeys exhibit their special intellectual
endowments), “but keeping close against the wall,
they walk over the little bridge and recommence
their tour. In this way great numbers of
Turkeys are taken annually.”

Pride, too, which often has a fall,
characterises the Turkey as well as choler and
imbecility. An instance of “the sin that o’erthrew
the angels” is recorded of a splendid Honduras
Turkey in the Zoological Gardens, who “used
to stalk about with his tail spread, wings
drooping, and all his feathers puffed up, as if he
would burst with pride. At such a time his
head was thrown back so much, and his breast
feathers projected so far, that he could not
observe the ground beneath him, and consequently
he often stepped into the water, greatly to his
annoyance and the visitors’ amusement.”

Yet, let us take the Turkeys—as we do the
people we meet—with all their imperfections,
and having wrung their necks (a process which,
unfortunately, we cannot apply to some of the
people we meet, whatever our longing that way),
strike a balance with their good qualities;
assuredly the latter will far outweigh the
former.

“The Turkey,” says Brillat Savarin, “is the
largest, and if not the most delicate, certainly
the most savoury of all domestic fowls. He also
enjoys the solitary privilege of gathering round
it every class of society. When the vine-
dressers and farmers wish to enjoy themselves
on the long winter evenings, what do we see
roasting before the bright fire in the room where
the supper-table is laid? A Turkey. When
the industrious mechanic or the toiling artisan
assembles his friends to give them a treat, what
does he offer? A Turkey stuffed with sausages
or Lyons chesnuts. And in our most eminent
gastronomic circles, in our choicest assemblies,
when politics are obliged to give way to
dissertations on taste, what do we expect—what
desire? What do you see at the second course?
A truffled Turkey!”

Presented in the form last named, the Turkey
is at its culminating point of excellence, and,
as another writer observes, “when it makes its
appearance on table, all conversation should for
the moment be suspended.” That it is also
eaten in silence on some occasions—ejaculations
of course excepted—may be inferred from the
following anecdote: A certain judge of Avignon,
famous for his love of good living, said to a
friend one day, “We have just been dining on
a superb Turkey! It was excellent! Stuffed
with truffles to the very throat—tender, delicate,
filled with perfume! We left nothing but the
bones!” “How many were there of you?”
asked the friend. “Two!” replied the judge.
“Two!” echoed the other, in astonishment.
“Yes, two!” repeated the judge, “the Turkey
—and myself.” The truffle is, in France—as it
deserves to be—the natural culinary ally of the