One morning Sally startled him by saying: “Pap, I can't make them hens out. Here they are a-layin' right along, and all at once they quit layin' decent sized eggs like they ought, and begin layin' little mean things no better than banty eggs.”
Pap scratched his head.
“You must allow, Sally,” he said, “that it's quite a strain on a hen to keep a-layin' right along through such weather as this, and I'm only thankful they lay any. Mebby if you give them a leetle more o' that hen-food they'll do better.”
“I believe it,” said Sally. “Why, it's wonderful, Pap. I shouldn't be a bit surprised to find 'em layin' duck eggs if I jist give 'em enough o' that stuff.”
Pap looked closely at her face, but it was innocent of guile. She suspected nothing.
The next day the eggs were of the proper size.
“It's a real blessin' to have hens a-layin',” she said one day. “I took half a dozen over to the minister's wife this mornin', and she was so pleased! She said it was sich a blessin' to have fresh eggs again. She was gittin' sick o' them she's been buyin' at Billings'. She was downright thankful.”
About a week later she said:
“Them hens of ourn do beat all creation. I run out o' that hen-food a week ago, and I hain't give them a mite since, and they keep a-layin' jist the same. I can't make head nor tail of them, Pap.”
Pap squirmed in his chair.