Luce sprank lightly to the ground and the two seated themselves on the rude wooden bench upon the porch. As the girl removed her bonnet her reddish hair clung in a mass of shining wave about her neck, the warmth of the summer sun was in her cheek, and stood in a delicate moisture above her full lip. The elder woman settled her glasses and regarded her.
“Law, yes,” she said. “I had gizzards saved up sence ’way back ’fore Chris’mus two year ago, but Gabe’s las wife wuz sick quite a spell—she jes died this spring—and the gizzards jes’ did hold out. She mighty nigh lived on chicken gizzard tea toward the las’. I give it ter all o’ his wives. Gabe’s be’n married moren’t onct or twict,” she said explanatorily; “he don’t have no luck with his wives. The fust one died in no time, an’ the next one didn’t live so very long—she wuz the mother o’ these two chillun; the las’ one never had none. Gabe’s a master han’ fer marryin’.”
Just then Gabe and the two girls and the dog, in wild pursuit of the long shanked rooster, the feathered legs well in the lead, rushed pell-mell around the house.
“What’s them girls’ names?” asked Luce.
“Liz an’ Bet,” replied their grandmother. “The’r ma wuz name’ Lizabet’, an’ when the twins wuz born I sez: ‘Well, ef it had er be’n jes’ one we’d er called it Liz, an’ sence it’s two we’ll call ’em Liz an’ Bet.’ An’ so ’twuz. They’ll be fourteen year ole three days afore this comin’ Fourth o’ July. I ain’t never fergot, kase I didn’t want ’em ever axed no questions about the’r age thet they couldn’t answer. I ain’t ever knowed jes’ how ole I wuz, an’ sometimes I kinder wisht I did. My ole man, he used ter figger on it, but I never could feel no ways certain. I wuz married when I wuz fifteen, an’ from then on I kep’ ercount o’ things jes’ in my head. Like them hats in thar tells me how many year I be’n er livin’ on this mountain.”
She motioned her hand toward the open door, and Luce shifted her position to get a better view of a string of wool hats swung across from one joist to the other.
“Yer see, thar’s eleven of ’em. The ole man, he bought a new one ever’ two year—that would make twenty-two; an’ he’s be’n dead two year, which makes twenty-four sence me an’ him moved into this yere house. I never could bear to see nothin wasted, so ever’ time he quit wearin’ one I jes’ strung it up thar on the j’ist, an’ sence he’s be’n gone I ain’t never had the heart to take ’em down.”
A great flapping of wings and squawking under the lean-to at the rear of the house announcing that the remedy for Gran’pap Bozeman’s “mizry” was in hand, if not in sight, Luce, conscious of the press of time, rose to be ready to receive it. Gabe came round holding the feathered legs in one hand and a strip of old cloth in the other. As he saw the girl’s look full upon him, he straightened himself and quickened his gait.
“They do say,” said old Mrs. Freeler, “that a green gizzard ain’t nigh the good that a dry one is. Ef I kin git holt o’ ary other black chicken I’ll save it and dry it out fer yer.”