The man who fust brought the breed into this kuntry ought tew own them all and be obliged tew feed them on grasshoppers, caught bi hand.
I never owned but one and he got choked tu deth bi a kink in a clothes line, but not until he had swallered 18 feet ov it.
Not enny shanghi for me, if yu pleze; i wuld rather board a travelling kolporter, and as for eating one, give me a biled owl rare dun, or a turkee buzzard, roasted hole, and stuffed with a pair ov injun rubber boots, but not enny shanghi for me, not a shanghi!
Speaking ov hens, leads me tew remark, in the fust place, that hens, thus far, are a suckcess.
They are domestick, and occasionally are tuff.
This iz owing tew their not being biled often enuff in their younger daze; but the hen ain’t tew blame for this.
Biled hen iz universally respekted.
Thare iz a grate deal ov originality tew the hen—exactly how mutch i kant tell, historians fight so mutch about it. Sum say Knower had hens with him in the ark and sum say he didn’t. So it goes, which and tuther.
I kant tell yu which waz born fust, the hen or the egg; sumtimes i think the egg waz—and sumtimes i think the hen waz—and sumtimes i think i don’t kno, and i kant tell now, which way iz right, for the life ov me.
Laying eggs iz the hen’s best grip.