eight good ones left," she said, calmly.

But Rebecca Mary was not calm. It seemed to her that Thomas Jefferson
was getting thinner every day.

"Oh, I can feel your bones!" she cried, in distress. "Your bones are
coming through, you poor, dear Thomas Jefferson! Won't you eat just
one more kernel of corn--just this one for Rebecca Mary? I'd do it
for you. Shut your eyes and swallow it right down and you'll never
know it."

That day Thomas Jefferson listened to pleading, but not the next day--
nor the next. He went about dispiritedly, and the last few times that
he crowed it made Rebecca Mary cry. Even Aunt Olivia shook her head.

"I could do it better than that myself," she said, soberly.

Rebecca Mary hunted bugs and angleworms and arranged them temptingly
in rows, but the big, white rooster passed them by with a feeble peck
or two. Bits of bread failed to tempt him, or even his favorite
cooky crumbs. His eighth appetite departed--his seventh, sixth,
fifth, fourth.

"He lost his third one yesterday," lamented Rebecca Mary, "and today
he's lost his second. It's pretty bad when he hasn't only one left,
Aunt Olivia."

"Pretty bad," nodded Aunt Olivia. She was stirring up a warm mush.
When Rebecca Mary had gone upstairs she took it to Thomas Jefferson
and commanded him to eat. He was beyond coaxing--perhaps he needed