By JANICE THAIN

Upon a lonely hill he sat,
The turkey of the hour,
Hoping hunters would think his plumes
Just a bright fall flower.

He huddled and shivered on the hill
'Til November twenty‑third
When he heard a loud and joyful cry:
"Hey, Turkey, you're a free bird!"

Then he strutted from his hiding place
Believing what was said;
The wiley hunter aimed and shot
The foolish turkey dead.

The hunter eyed Thanksgiving's bird
And then removed the cartridge;
He mused, "If turkeys weren't so dumb,
I might have to eat partridge."