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Tale of Turkey Proudfoot

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<h2>XX</h2><h3>BEAKS AND BILLS</h3> Turkey Proudfoot was a poor guesser. There in the woods, at night, Simon Screecher the owl had told him of something that "counted," something that was right in front of Turkey Proudfoot's eyes. And Turkey Proudfoot named everything he could think of. He mentioned the oak tree in which he sat, the darkness, the yellow moon. "You're wrong!" Simon Screecher kept telling him. "You're getting further away with every guess. I suppose I'll have to tell you what I mean: it's your beak. And if that isn't right in front of your eyes, I don't know what is." "My beak!" cried Turkey Proudfoot. "I don't call my bill my beak. I call my beak my bill." "Well, beak or bill, yours is a useless thing," Simon Screecher sneered. "It may do well enough to pick up a kernel of corn. But it can't be much good as a weapon. It ought to be sharp and hooked to be of any use in a fight." With every word that Simon Screecher said, Turkey Proudfoot was growing angrier. "There's nothing wrong with my bill," he clamored. "I've had plenty of fights in the farmyard. The fowls are all afraid of me at home." Simon Screecher gave a most disagreeable laugh. "I wasn't thinking of farmyard fights," he sniffed. "If Fatty Coon or Grumpy Weasel or my cousin Solomon Owl grabbed you, you'd find that a fight in the woods is a very different matter from a mere barnyard squabble." Turkey Proudfoot was furious. "If you'll come over here on this limb I'll peck you," he cried. "Huh! We don't fight that way in the woods," Simon Screecher retorted. "We don't peck. We tear-r-r-r!" He rolled out the last word in a long-drawn quaver which gave it a horrid sound—especially in the woods, after dark. And Turkey Proudfoot felt chills a-running up and down his back. "A-ahem! You-you needn't bother to come over here," he stammered. "I-I shouldn't like to peck you. You-er-you seem to be a very pleasant sort of person." "Well, I'm not!" Simon Screecher informed him. "And you ought to see my cousin, Solomon Owl. He's a terrible fellow." Turkey Proudfoot's wishbone seemed to be trying to come up into his month. At least, he had to swallow several times before he could answer. "I'd like to see your cousin," he replied, "but not to-night." He had scarcely finished speaking when a loud call came booming through the woods: "Whooo-whoo-whoo, whoo-whoo, to-whoo-ah!" "Who's that?" gasped Turkey Proudfoot. "That's my cousin, Solomon Owl," Simon Screecher explained. "And he's not far away." "My goodness!" Turkey Proudfoot exclaimed. "If he's as big as his voice he must be enormous." "He's twice my size," said Simon Screecher. "Not nearly as big as you are, of course! But you ought to see his beak. I do believe he could tear you into—" "I don't want to see him to-night," Turkey Proudfoot interrupted. "I hope he won't come this way. Go and find him. And tell him to meet me here to-morrow night." <hr class="chapter" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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