mought
be gold, an’ then ag’in it moughtn’t.”
The essential difference between these two extremes has afforded scope for vacillation to more consistent men than the surveyor.
“Thar’s the grant right now, in the pocket o’ Nate’s coat,” said Tim, shifting the garment on his arm to show a stiff, white folded paper sticking out of the breast pocket. “I reckon when he tole me ter tote his gun an’ coat home, he furgot the grant war in his pocket, ’kase he fairly dotes on it, an’ won’t trest it out’n his sight.”
Nate was in the habit of exacting similar services from his acquiescent younger brother, and Tim had his hands full, as he tried to hold the gun, and turn the coat on his arm. He finally hung the garment on a peg in the shed, and shouldered the weapon. Suddenly he whirled around toward Rufe, who was still standing by.
“What in the nation air inside o’ that thar boy?” he exclaimed. “A chicken, ain’t it?”
For a musical treble chirping was heard proceeding apparently from Rufe’s pocket. This chicken differed from others that Rufe had put away, in being alive and hearty.
The small boy entered into the conversation with great spirit, to tell that a certain hen which he owned had yesterday come off her nest with fourteen of the spryest deedies that ever stepped. One in especial had so won upon Rufe by its beauty and grace of deportment that he was carrying it about with him, feeding it at close intervals, and housing it in the security of his pocket.
The deedie hardly made a moan. There was no use in remonstrating with Rufe, - everything that came within his eccentric orbit seemed to realize that, - and the deedie was contentedly nestling down in his pocket, apparently resigned to lead the life of a portemonnaie.
Rufe narrated with pardonable pride the fact that, some time before, his great-uncle, Rufus Dicey, had sent to him from the “valley kentry” a present of a pair of game chickens, and that this deedie was from the first egg hatched in the game hen’s brood.