“So dey won’t git trompled under foot, son. De hens is greedy, an’ a mule’s foot is blind. Whilst de mules is chawin’ an’ droppin’ grains, dey feet’ll step on a hen same as on pine straw.”
“Send de chickens home now,” Big Sue asked again with such a warm smile that he put down his fork full of hay and, standing in the stable door, waved his big arms and shouted:
“Shoo outa here, chickens! Git on home! Be quick as you kin! I hate to git a stick after you to-day! Dis is Sunday! Git on out an’ go home!”
The chickens became terribly excited. Some of them huddled in the straw, trying to hide, others cackled and ran. The hens with little chickens clucked briskly and hurried away, for Uncle Bill’s face was hard until every feather was out of sight.
The straw lay still. The dust whirling in the sunlight took its time and dawdled. Stable flies, with shiny wings and short fat bodies, strutted out in buzzing circles. Uncle Bill’s practised eyes spied a scarlet comb away under a trough, far back in a corner.
“Who dat hidin’?” he demanded sternly, and a shamefaced young cockerel cackled out in terror.
“Didn’ I told you to go home?” Uncle Bill asked him. “You ain’ know yet you got to mind me? I ain’ got time to be foolin’ wid such as you. No, suh! I’m too busy.”
The poor frightened creature made a few weak gaggles and tried his best to hide.
“You’ head will be chop off to-morrow. I’d do it now if it wa’n’t Sunday. Dem I can’ rule, I kills. I don’ mean to mistreat nothin’, Miss Big Sue, but I got to be strict.”
He sighed as he came out and closed the door behind him. “Dat’s a fine young rooster. I was gwine to keep him for seed. I sho’ hates to kill him.”