As Mrs. Bob truly said, it was no earthly use to get something new for Jericho, even if she could afford it; for the goat browsed all over him, and had been known to carry away even a leg of his trousers. Jericho Bob was eight years old, and the friend of his bosom, Julius Caesar Fish, was nine. They were both of a lovely black; a tallow-dip couldn't take the kink out of their hair, and the hardest whipping did not disturb the even cheerfulness of their spirits. They were so much alike that if it hadn't been for Jericho's bow-legs and his turn-up nose, you really could not have told them apart. A kindred taste for turkey also united them. In honor of Thanksgiving day Mrs. Bob always sacrificed a hen which would, but for such blessed release, have died of old age. One drumstick was given to Jericho, whose interior remained an unsatisfied void. Jericho Bob had heard of turkey as a fowl larger, sweeter, and more tender than hen; and about Thanksgiving time he would linger around the provision stores and gaze with open mouth at the noble array of turkeys hanging, head downward, over bushels of cranberries, as if even at that uncooked stage, they were destined for one another. And turkey was his dream. It was spring-time, and the hens were being a credit to themselves. The goat in the yard, tied to a stake, was varying a meal of old shoe and tomato-can by a nibble of fresh green grass. Mrs. Bob was laid up with rheumatism. "Jericho Bob!" she said to her son, shaking her red and yellow turban at him, "Jericho Bob, you go down an' fetch de eggs to-day. Ef I find yer don't bring me twenty-three, I'll--well, never mind what I'll do, but yer won't like it." Now, Jericho Bob meant to be honest, but the fact was he found twenty-four, and the twenty-fourth was so big, so remarkably big. Twenty-three eggs he brought to Mrs. Bob, but the twenty-fourth he sinfully left in charge of the discreet hen. On his return he met Julius Caesar Fish, with his hands in his pockets and his head extinguished by his grandfather's fur cap. Together they went toward the hen-coop and Julius Caesar Fish spoke, or rather lisped (he had lost some of his front teeth): "Jericho Bobth, that 'th a turkey'th egg." "Yer don't say so?" "I think i'th a-goin' ter hatch." No sooner said than they heard a pick and a peck in the shell. "Pick!" a tiny beak broke through the shell. "Peck!" more beak. "Crack!" a funny little head, a long, bare neck, and then "Pick! Peck! Crack!" before them stood the funniest, fluffiest brown ball resting on two weak little legs. "Hooray!" shouted the woolly heads. "Peep!" said turkeykin. "It's mine!" Jericho shouted excitedly. "I'th Marm Pitkin'th turkey'th; she laid it there." "It's mine, and I'm going to keep it, and next Thanksgiving I'm going ter eat him." "Think your ma'll let you feed him up for thath?" Julius Caesar asked, triumphantly. Jericho Bob's next Thanksgiving dinner seemed destined to be a dream. His face fell.