"No, he won't, Parry," said Uncle Joe, as he leaned over the barn-yard fence. "Don't you see what I've done for him?"
"You've let the chickens all out. Yes, and there's Bayard. Isn't he pretty?"
"Yes, he's pretty enough, but that isn't all. What did we name him Bayard for?"
"'Cause he isn't afraid. But won't he hurt some of the other roosters?"
"I've shut 'em up. See him!"
The game-cock was indeed a beautiful fowl, and he seemed to know it too, for he was strutting around in the warm sun, and stopping every minute or so to flap his wings and crow. His comb and wattles were of a bright crimson, his wings and feathers of a brilliant black and red, and his long, arching tail feathers were remarkably graceful and glossy. He was not a large fowl, but he was a very well-shaped and handsome one.
"There comes that dog, Uncle Joe, right over the fence."
"Yes, there he comes."
"Won't you throw a stone at him, and drive him away?"
"Then he'd come again, some time when we were not here to throw stones at him."