Joe had a healthy appetite. He had charged his mouth with a load of cold
meat, when his jaws ceased work, and, opening his mouth as though he were
sleepy, he leaned forward and calmly returned it all to the plate. Dad
got suspicious and asked Joe what was up; but Joe only wiped his mouth,
looked sideways at his plate, and pushed it away.

All of us stopped eating then, and stared at each other. Mother said,
"Well, I--I wrapped a cloth round it so nothing could get in, and put it
in the safe--I don't know where on earth to put the meat, I'm sure; if I
put it in a bag and hang it up that thief of a dog gets it."

"Yes," Dad observed, "I believe he'd stick his nose into hell itself,
Ellen, if he thought there was a bone there--and there ought to be lots by
this time." Then he turned over the remains of that cold meat, and,
considering we had all witnessed the last kick of the slaughtered beast,
it was surprising what animation this part of him yet retained. In vain
did Dad explore for a really dead piece--there was life in all of it.

Joe was n't satisfied. He said he knew where there was a lot of eggs, and
disappeared down the yard. Eggs were not plentiful on our selection,
because we too often had to eat the hens when there was no meat--three or
four were as many as we ever saw at one time. So on this day, when Joe
appeared with a hatful, there was excitement. He felt himself a hero.
We thought him a little saviour.

"My!" said Mother, "where did you get all those?"

"Get 'em! I've had these planted for three munce--they're a nest I found
long ago; I thought I would n't say anythink till we really wanted 'em."