“Shut up, hussy. And I tried to inveigle them to come to a wake, but they all had previous engagements.”
“You’re Irish!” Richard guessed.
“Young man,” Phœbe eyed him, “you are too smart for these parts. You remind me of the wisdom of our chief-of-police Casey. A German tourist-party motored into Penn Yan one afternoon and interrogated Casey. The German said, ‘Bleeze, I sprech not Englisch. Mine name ist Schmidt. Bleeze, who is Elm Street?’ And Casey looked hard at him and exclaimed, ‘By Golly, you’re a Dutchman!’ Irish? Of course I’m Irish——”
“Oh, you’ll enjoy ‘Jawn,’” exclaimed Richard.
“Mebbe,” said she. “Wait. I’m Irish and I’m English and I’m Scotch and the Lord knows what else. How do you expect to keep a strain pure in this country where everybody pens up together and eats out of the same dish? It’s hard enough to keep the feathers off the legs of my white Orpingtons and get any kind of ribbon at the Yates county fair.”
“She’s strong on chickens, Richard,” said Jerry. “Look out! She’s awful touchy on white Orpingtons!”
“And so would you be if you paid good money for the pure stock, penned them in until they couldn’t breathe, and then watched them grow all kinds of things on their legs, things that are not in the books. I’ve only got six clean-legged hens out of a batch of forty. It gives me the jumps every time I see a dandelion thistle blow by. Pfitt! Is that one?... Well, what are you laughing at?”
She had made such a delicious face as she grabbed an imaginary thistle that laughter was compulsory.
“Sure, and isn’t it the wind that carries the pollen and spoils your best flowers by mixin’ ’em——”
Jerry screamed at the thought, and covered her face.