“I don’t mind if I do,” he said, as he sat down and selected a plump bird that Amos had carefully prepared for his own eating. He had opened it out by a cut down the breast bone, laid the broad bare back on the wood coals, and in the cup-like cavities of the breast had placed a pat of butter, with pepper and salt. The juices of the bird had gathered in these cavities, and Amos had just cut off a slice of bread to serve as a plate when old Pike forestalled him.
“That’s my bird,” said Topper, fiercely.
“Just yeard you say ’twas a frog,” grunted Abe, as he dug his knife into the earth to clean it.
“I said it was a frog, but it’s a sure enough bird now—blow you!”
“Go slow, sonny, go slow,” said Abe, between the mouthfuls. “Stick to one thing at a time. Once a frog always a frog.”
“Humph,” said Amos, as he picked out another bird from the heap. “I s’pose you never heard frogs whistling of a night?”
“Well, of course.”
“What do they whistle for, eh, if they’re not fitting themselves for the bird life—tell me that?” And Amos looked at us triumphantly.
“They whistle for the rain, you donderkop.”
“P’raps, then, you can tell us where these birds come from, as you’re so mighty clever.”