Her papa smiled, and handed the open letter to her mamma.

"Read it aloud, every bit," begged Lura, seeing her mamma was smiling,
too.

But her mamma folded the letter and said nothing.

On Christmas eve the box, which had just arrived, was opened, and
every one in the house was made glad with a present. Lura's was a
papier-mache turkey, nearly as large as the one brought home at the
same time by the market-boy.

Next morning, while the fowl in the kitchen was being roasted, Lura
placed hers before a window and watched people admire it as they
passed. All its imitation feathers, and even more its red wattles,
seemed to wish every man and woman, boy and girl, a Merry Christmas.

Lura had not spoken of the jewelry since her uncle's letter was read.
It is not nice for one who receives a gift to wish it was different.
Lura was not that kind of a child.

When dinner was nearly over, her papa said to her, "My dear, you have
had as much of my turkey as you wanted; if you please, I will now try
some of yours."

"Mine is what Uncle Roy calls a turkey for one," laughed Lura. She
turned in her chair towards where her bird had been strutting on the
window-sill, and added, in surprise, "Why, what has become of him?"