Mrs. R. Well, I’ve had bad luck too. Billy’s hound-dogs broke up most all my nests.
Mrs. B. Well, so they did me, Miss Reed. I always did despise a hound-dog upon the face of yea’th.
Mrs. R. Oh, they’re the bawllinest, squallinest, thievishest things ever was about one; but Billy will have ’em, and I think in my soul his old Troup’s the beat of all creaters I ever seed in all my born days a suckin’ o’ hen’s eggs—He’s clean most broke me up entirely.
Mrs. S. The lackaday!
Mrs. R. And them that was hatched out, some took to takin’ the gaps, and some the pip, and one ailment or other, till they most all died.
Mrs. S. Well I reckon there must be somethin’ in the season this year, that an’t good for fowls; for Larkin Goodman’s brother Jimme’s wife’s aunt Penny, told me, she lost most all her fowls with different sorts of ailments, the like of which she never seed before—They’d jist go ’long lookin’, right well, and tilt right over backwards, (Mrs. B. The law!) and die right away, (Mrs. R. Did ever!) with a sort o’ somethin’ like the blind staggers.
Mrs. B. and Mrs. R. Messy on me!
Mrs. B. I reckon they must have eat somethin’ didn’t agree with them.
Mrs. S. No they didn’t, for she fed ’em every mornin’ with her own hand.
Mrs. B. Well, it’s mighty curious!