“‘Good evening kindly and good luck. How are you feeling to-day?’ ses the hen.
“‘Just about the same as ever,’ ses the pig. ‘Sure, ’tis a sad world for us all!’
“‘’Tis, God help us!’ ses the hen. ‘But don’t start me crying again, this sorrowful day, for ’tis myself who has shed a bucketful of tears, since my poor grandmother was choked this morning.’
“‘I wouldn’t be crying about that, if I were you,’ ses the pig. ‘Sure, ’tis as good to be choked as to have your head cut off with a rusty knife.’
“‘’Tisn’t about that in particular that I have fumed and worried, and wept so copiously,’ ses the hen.
“‘And about what then?’ ses the pig.
“‘About everything in general. The ingratitude of man, the presumption and assumption of women, and the consumption of ham and eggs,’ ses the hen.
“‘Ah, wisha, God knows,’ ses the pig, ‘you couldn’t waste your tears over a more worthy and likewise unworthy object. And like the pessimist that I am, myself, ’tis but little respect that I have for man or woman either. Only for the fact that I have still some pride left, and wouldn’t like to disgrace my own family, I’d end my miserable existence by committing suicide, and drown myself in the horse pond.’
“‘If you were to do the likes of that, you would sin against tradition, and only be sold as sausages. Whereas, if you were to die a natural death by strangulation, amputation of the head, or bisection of the windpipe, you would be sent to the best butcher’s shop in the town, and the different parts of your anatomy would be sold at the very highest rates, the same as all your family, relations and ancestors,’ ses the hen.
“‘Don’t mention my family or my ancestors to me. They were all snobs, each and every one of them,—father, mother, sisters, and brothers. ’Twas little respect they ever had for myself, and always said that I was only fit to be used for sausages, anyway. As though, indeed, I didn’t come of as good a stock as the best of them.’