With one swoop of the wooden spoon Jessie swept the rest of the meal into a pile on the ground, set down the pan and joined Minerva. “How many are there to-day?” she asked.
“Ten, so far.”
Jessie climbed upon a box and peered into a corner. “There are two more here,” she said. “Shall I take them?”
“If you’re careful not to break them,” Minerva told her.
Jessie gently lifted one egg at a time and put it in the basket Minerva carried. “That makes a dozen,” she said.
“And here’s another in this nest,” Minerva went on. “Old Posy is laying again, I expect.”
This was the last egg found, and the two left the hen-house. Minerva carried the basket into the house and then she and Jessie started off toward a corner near the garden where the mountain cherries grew, and where many other wild things made a close thicket, so that it was hard to penetrate the middle of the place. But Jessie had been there many a time. It was one of her favorite spots in summer. So now she pressed her body through the tangle of blackberry vines, pokeweed, sumach and laurel bushes to a less crowded part of the thicket. There was a dogwood tree here, and upon its lower branches sat the two turkeys entirely satisfied with the roost they had selected for the night.
“Here they are,” sang out Jessie.
Minerva followed the little girl. “Well, I declare!” she exclaimed. “It takes you to find ’em. I believe you know every foot of this place.” She grabbed first one turkey, then another. They set up protesting cries which were of no use whatever, for Minerva held them firmly and carried them home triumphantly under each arm. “It’s too cold for you to be out,” she said, addressing the turkeys. “I should think you’d have better sense. I shouldn’t wonder if we were to have frost to-night, and then where would your toes be?”
“Why, they’d be under them all covered up with feathers,” put in Jessie.