"Why, Aunt Easter, I was mighty sorry to hear about Ida—"
"Marse John, Ida ain't nuvver tuk dem chickens. Ida wouldn't do sich a thing! Ida wouldn't demeange herse'f to rob nobody's hen-roost—and, any way, dem old chickens warn't nothing't all but feathers when we picked 'em."
"Does de white folks in youah neighborhood keep eny chickens, Br'er Rastus?"
"Well, Br'er Johnsing, mebbe dey does keep a few."
Henry E. Dixey met a friend one afternoon on Broadway.
"Well, Henry," exclaimed the friend, "you are looking fine! What do they feed you on?"
"Chicken mostly," replied Dixey. "You see, I am rehearsing in a play where I am to be a thief, so, just by way of getting into training for the part I steal one of my own chickens every morning and have the cook broil it for me. I have accomplished the remarkable feat of eating thirty chickens in thirty consecutive days."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed the friend. "Do you still like them?"