“Oh! the guinea-hens,” said the sharp, young Della, who seemed to know all her father's business. “Do you s'pose, Bill Seaforth, that they'll actshually scare the hawks?”
“Well, if we ain't all black liars up on the Little Purple Hill, they do,” drawled the man.
“Denno says it's all bosh,” remarked Della, “however, I'll tell pa.”
The man did not seem at all offended with her, and she hurried to the barn.
In a few minutes Mr. Gleason appeared, and seizing the box and followed by the man, he made his way to the hen-house.
Mary who was delighted with this new happening, followed closely behind, and I kept at the heels of her pretty Boston shoes. Della wore brass-toed ones.
Arrived at the hen-house, the farmer called us all in, closed the door, and let the guinea-hens out. Mary was convulsed with amusement. It seemed she had never seen any creatures like this before, and her fascinated eyes followed them, as they went round and round the hen-house uttering plaintive, little cries, and walking with mincing steps like two little old women.
“They look as if they had little gray shawls on,” said Mary. “Oh! how queer they are—what tiny heads.”
“Ain't as brainy as hens,” said the man who had brought them, “and they wander powerful. You'll have to keep 'em in limbo for a while.”
They all stood for a long time watching the guinea-hens. I used to marvel at the amount of time everybody had in the country. Nobody hurried, and yet they worked for a longer time each day than the people in Boston.