Kabnis hurls a slipper against the wall. The hen flies from her perch and cackles as if a skunk were after her.
“Now cut out that racket or I’ll wring your neck for you.”
Answering cackles arise in the chicken yard.
“Why in Christ’s hell cant you leave me alone? Damn it, I wish your cackle would choke you. Choke every mother’s son of them in this God-forsaken hole. Go away. By God I’ll wring your neck for you if you dont. Hell of a mess I’ve got in: even the poultry is hostile. Go way. Go way. By God, I’ll...”
Kabnis jumps from his bed. His eyes are wild. He makes for the door. Bursts through it. The hen, driving blindly at the window-pane, screams. Then flies and flops around trying to elude him. Kabnis catches her.
“Got you now, you she-bitch.”
With his fingers about her neck, he thrusts open the outside door and steps out into the serene loveliness of Georgian autumn moonlight. Some distance off, down in the valley, a band of pine-smoke, silvered gauze, drifts steadily. The half-moon is a white child that sleeps upon the tree-tops of the forest. White winds croon its sleep-song:
rock a-by baby..
Black mother sways, holding a white child on her bosom.
when the bough bends..