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 springtime, and the hens were being a credit to themselves. 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 today. 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 eggs, 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, tha’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.