“Fluttering fool-hens!” explodes Magpie, fanning himself with his civilized hat.
I looks and swallers uh chaw uh natural leaf.
“Do—do you see it, too?” asks Chuck.
“Just exactly,” states Magpie. “What is it?”
“If it ain’t the granddaddy uh all blue grouse I’ll eat my hat,” orates Chuck. “Yuh see I been down to Piperock for three days, trying to bust Buck’s wheel, and drink all the hooch in town. I comes along the road this morning, singing merrily, when I happens to see that busted crate in the road. I pulls up to see what it is, and my bronc danged near dumps me off. He’s scared at something in the brush, and when I spurs him over to see what it is, we scares out that blasted thing!
“Not being responsible for my actions I takes down my rope and proceeds to annex the thing. Between that thing and my bronc, they makes life miserable for me, so I gets off and leaves ’em to their fate. The rope is wound around the bush between ’em so they can’t do nothing but stand there and contemplate each other.”
“I don’t reckon there’s any doubt about it being uh grown bird,” states Magpie, fussing with uh cigaret.
“Your perceptions are wide open, Magpie,” nods Chuck. “Wonder where it flew from. It ain’t no grouse nor yet it don’t partake of any of the requirements of the fool-hen. It might uh been uh hummingbird about the time this here world was started.”
“She’s sure uh hummer,” I agrees. “If I’d been born with uh neck like that I’d uh died from delirium tremens years ago.”
“I’d opine that somebody done lost that crate off uh wagon, and maybe there’s something around to tell what and whose it is,” says Magpie.