"I'll go, Bill," someone answered; "but wha do ye say ter go?"

"Oh, it don't make no difference, so's it's not too fer away!" the other
answered, and added: "Whist, Tom, why can't we git John's turkeys?
They'd make fust-rate eatin' all right. He's too far gone to know
anything about it."

John was just about to call out that they must let his turkeys alone
when he remembered how hard it would be in the darkness to discover
their roosting-place, so he remained quiet. It was, however, with some
uneasiness that he awaited the thieves' return. When they came, he was
relieved; for they were carrying chickens instead of turkeys. Although,
because of the safety of his pets, a thrill of satisfaction swept over
John, yet he had received in his heart a wound that was deep and wide.
These cruel, heartless men were willing to take from him, in so
unprincipled a manner, his only companions and playfellows. John
somewhat realized that life had a hard and bitter side for him; but
again he endeavored with all his strength to make the best of it.

It was morning before John and his father returned to their home;
and it was with unusual joy that John found his pets waiting for their
breakfast. As he held them close to his breast, with their beaks close
to his cheek, he again thought of his mother; also he wondered about a
certain change that had come over his father.

For a time after their removal to their own home, the father had been
very devoted to John and had seemed to understand something of the boy's
loneliness. Perhaps it was a realization of this loneliness and a desire
to bring into the life of the child the motherly interest of which he