An’ I could feel it in my hair,
An’ ist smell clover ever’where!
An’ a old red head flew
Purt’ nigh wite over my high chair,
When we et out on the porch!
CHAPTER IX.
THE PASSING OF THE PEACOCKS.
I would rather look at a peacock than eat him. The feathers of an angel and the voice of a devil.
The story of this farm would not be complete without a brief rehearsal of my experiences, exciting, varied, and tragic, resulting from the purchase of a magnificent pair of peacocks.