“She took him out of the water; she made him go up stairs and get between the blankets of her own bed; she fed him with broth; she hung his clothes on the bushes to dry; she borrowed another suit for him; and she let him out into the street through a place where there was a board loose in the fence. Next day his father took the clothes back, and changed them. The fowls had just been found in a swamp. It was thought that some country-people coming in to circus caught them the day before and carried them off, and that the fowls afterwards got away. They probably staid in the swamp all night, and that might have been the means of their death; though it might have been the sea-voyage, or change of air, or home-sickness: we can’t tell. They didn’t live very long after that.”
“And didn’t he get some more?” Annetta asked.
“No. The cousin in Germany died; and his fowls were not attended to; and a disease got among them, and carried them off. Mr. Spleigelspruch told me the whole story after I grew up.”
“What a pity,” said Hiram, “that those musical fowl couldn’t have spread over the country! ’Twould be a fine affair to have all the roosters singing in the morning, instead of making the kind of noises they do make. ’Twould be like an oratorio.”
“To be sure,” said Mrs. Plummer. “And I wish, for my part, that boy had staid at home. I suppose he has grown up by this time. It is to be hoped that he washes his face, and also that he doesn’t forget poor Winfreda.”
“Oh, no!” said Mr. Tompkins, stepping out, and taking up the arms of his wheelbarrow,—“oh, no! I don’t forget Winfreda. I send her lobsters every spring.”
“You, you! what do you send her lobsters for?” asked Mrs. Plummer and Hiram, both speaking at once.
Mr. Tompkins trundled his wheelbarrow along pretty fast, laughing away to himself; and, when he got beyond the yard, he looked over his shoulder at them as they stood in the doorway, and called out, “I was the boy!”