“For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Stokes, give me the value of your poultry, or say you will not. Do one thing or the other.”
“Oh, well, dear love your heart, I reckon I had last year nigh about the same as I’ve got this.”
“Then tell me how many dollars’ worth you have now, and the thing’s settled.”
“I’ll let you see for yourself,” said Widow Stokes; and taking an ear of corn between the logs of the cabin, and shelling off a handful, she commenced scattering the grain, all the while screaming or rather screeching: “Chick! chick! chick! chickee! chickee! chickee-ee!”
Here they came, roosters, hens, pullets, and little chicks; crowing, cackling, chirping, flying, and fluttering against her sides, pecking at her hands, and creating a din and confusion altogether indescribable. The old lady seemed delighted, thus to exhibit her feathered “stock,” and would occasionally exclaim:
“A nice passel! ain’t they a nice passel!”
But she never would say what they were worth, and no persuasion could bring her to the point. Our papers at Washington contain no estimate of the value of the Widow Stokes’s poultry, though, as she said herself, she had a “mighty nice passel.”
XIII.
A FAMILY PICTURE.[[9]]
Mr. Hill, in one of his many visits “down east,” was belated one evening, and was compelled to seek shelter at a small farm-house. He thus describes the family party and the family doings on that evening.
The heads of the family were a Mr. and Mrs. Jones, who were honoured, on this occasion, with a visit from a plain sort of man, who told me, said Mr. Hill, that he teached school in winter, and hired out in haying time. What this man’s name was, I do not exactly recollect. It might have been Smith, and for convenience sake, we will call him John Smith. This Mr. Smith brought a newspaper with him, which was printed weekly, which Mr. Jones said—as it did not agree with his politics—was a very weakly consarn.