Aunt Rhody stopped her work and turned upon them all the dignity of two hundred pounds of flesh.
“How de hens gwine lay w'en dey's done been eaten up?” she demanded.
“Isn't there a single chicken left?” hopelessly persisted the old lady.
“Who gwine lef' 'em? Ain' dose low-lifeted sodgers dat rid by yestiddy done stole de las' one un 'um off de nes'?”
Mrs. Lightfoot sternly remonstrated.
“They were our own soldiers, Rhody, and they don't steal—they merely take.”
“I don' see de diffunce,” sniffed Aunt Rhody. “All I know is dat dey pulled de black hen plum off de nes' whar she wuz a-settin'. Den des now de Yankees come a-prancin' up en de ducks tuck ter de water en de Yankees dey went a-wadin' atter dem. Yes, Lawd, dey went a-wadin' wid dey shoes on.”
The old lady sighed.
“I'm afraid there's nothing, Betty,” she said, “though Congo has gone to town to see if he can find any fowls, and I'll send some over if he brings them. We had a Sherman pudding for dinner ourselves, and I know the sorghum in it will give the Major gout for a month. Well, well, this is war, I reckon, and I must say, for my part, I never expected it to be conducted like a flirtation behind a fan.”
“I nuver seed no use a-fittin' unless you is gwine ter fit in de yuther pusson's yawd,” interpolated Aunt Rhody. “De way ter fit is ter keep a-sidlin' furder f'om yo' own hen roos' en nigher ter de hen roos' er de somebody dat's a-fittin' you.”