I reflected a few moments, and then I said, "Job, you may have that little turkey, and when it gets big enough to sell, you can have the money all for your own."
"You don't mean dat, do you, missus?"
"Yes."
"Well, den, dat ar turkey ain't gwine ter die, not ef dis chile kin help it."
Any one who is familiar with poultry knows what delicate little things young turkeys are, and how difficult they are to raise under the most favorable circumstances. What, then, were Job's chances? Not one in a thousand.
JOB WATCHING HIS TURKEY.
Job went at once and put the young turkey in a coop by itself. He then procured some soft grass, with which he covered the floor; and having placed some water and food where the little thing could get at them, he spent the remainder of the day in lying on the ground before the coop, looking in at his new possession.
That night when I went out to superintend the feeding of the young chickens, which duty had devolved upon Job, he informed me that it was necessary to be very careful in regard to the rooster, and from what he said I inferred that he believed that fowl entertained some wicked scheme against not only all the young of its own kind, but all young poultry in general.
"De ole rooster-cock," said Job, as we paused before the coop that held the young turkey, "he come up en look through de slats at dat ar turkey—he did, sho. I hez ter keep a moughty close watch out, I duz. 'Member de time w'en he picked de young goslin' en de leetle chicken ter def, kaze dey wanted ter foller him. He'd do jes dat ar way wid de turkey ef he had half a chance. Oh, he's a precious vilyen, is dat same ole rooster-cock!"