“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.
“Ith 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 yer ma’ll let you feed him up for thath?” Julius Caesar asked, grinning triumphantly.
Jericho Bob’s next Thanksgiving dinner seemed destined to be a dream. His face fell.
“I’ll tell yer whath I’ll do,” his friend said, benevolently; “I’ll keep ’m for you, and Thanksgivin’ we’ll go halvth.”
Jericho resigned himself to the inevitable, and the infant turkey was borne home by his friend.