“Ohio!” the old man’s face kindled with new interest. “Why, I come from the Buckeye country, too.”
“Did you really?” said Alta, alive with the thought; “what part?”
“Licking County.”
“Why, that’s not far from our old home. How interesting! Have you lived here many years?”
Before the old mountaineer could make reply, Fred broke out of the brush holding up the two birds he had killed. He stopped in astonishment as he caught sight of his friends, then he said warmly,
“How do you do, Uncle Dave?”
“Oh, it’s you, boy. Glad to see ye.”
“This is Miss Morgan. I brought her up to get a treat of chickens.”
“Well, ye seem to hev got ’em, boy. Them’s fine fries, tender enough fer any taste. It’s all right as long’s you don’t kill the mother bird. And don’t you shoot my biddies up by the spring. There’s a late brood there—hatched this month—that I’m watchin’. The old hen brings ’em up to the cabin to see me every mornin’ and to get the scraps I save fer ’em.”
Alta was all interest. “You surely don’t mean wild chickens, do you?”