“Good!” exclaimed Whistler. “Between us both we might make quite a decent song.”
“That’s the song I like to hear,” said Clinton, as a hen, flying down from the box in which she had just deposited an egg, set up a noisy “Cut-cut-cut-cut-ca-dah-cut!” with the accent very strongly upon the last syllable but one.
“I suppose that’s what you call ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel,’” observed Whistler.
“Yes,” replied Clinton; “and if it isn’t good poetry, it is good poultry, which comes near enough to it.”
A flock of turkeys, which were at large, spying Clinton with his familiar peck measure, now approached the boys, pompously marching like a file of soldiers,—a solemn-looking gobbler taking the lead. A few handfulls of corn scattered among them, gave them plenty of business, and Clinton then turned his attention to the hens, which at this season of the year were confined within their own quarters, in consequence of their scratching propensity. Having fed them, and given them a dish of fresh water, he was ready to commence work in the garden. Whistler wanted a hoe, too; and he was provided with one, and set himself to work by the side of his cousin.
“I shouldn’t think there were many weeds here,” said Whistler, after hoeing a few minutes. “I can’t find hardly anything but grass.”
“I should say that was enough,” replied Clinton. “This witch-grass is about the worst stuff that ever got into a garden.”
“Do you call this witch-grass?” inquired his cousin.
“Yes, that’s one name for it,” replied Clinton. “Some people call it piper-grass. Just feel of the roots, and see how tough they are.”
“Why, they’re almost like wire!” said Whistler.