“Baked beans! I want to kill some chickens, make a smother, and give the old gentleman a good tuck out.”
“Well, then, make me up a fire; the boys are all in the field.”
He brought in a great log, and threw it on the hearth; then, bringing in a huge armful of wood, the moment he was inside the door, let drive right into the middle of the room, at the same time kicking the door to with his feet. Proceeding to put on the log, instead of using the great kitchen shovel to rake forward the ashes from the back, he put in his foot, and, after scraping out a hole, flung on the log with such force that the coals and ashes flew all over the room.
“Edmund, what a splutter you do make! Do go and get the chickens. I had rather make two fires than clean up after you.”
Taking the mare’s bridle on his arm, he put her in the barn; returning with the bridle in one hand, and a dish of corn in the other, he threw it among the fowls; as they were busily eating, he brought down the bridle on the flock with such force as to prostrate half a dozen, and picking them up, cut off their heads, and soon transferred them to the kitchen table.
“Why, Edmund,” cried his wife, looking them over, “what a careless creature you are! Half of these are old hens; and, as sure as I live, you’ve killed Winthrop’s setting hen. She was just ready to hatch. He will cry his eyes out. I do wish I’d gone myself; the chickens are all lost, and we shall have to throw the hen away. She’s all skin and bone.”
“Never mind, wife; the boy can set another. Have you got everything you want now?”
“No. I want you to wash yourself, and put on a clean shirt and clothes. They’re on the bed.”
“What’s the use, wife? I’m well enough.”
“I tell you, you shan’t come to dinner looking so!” she exclaimed, pushing him into the bedroom, and pulling the skein of yarn from his waist.