The Chinaman glanced up at a huge chicken head that smiled down at him through the slats on the fence, and taking off his hat he made a very polite bow.
“Glood mornings,” said the little chap. “It muchee clold mornings.”
“Cold!” exclaimed the old hen, “I should say it was! I feel just like a feathered icicle and I wish I had a pair of nice warm felt boots for my feet—they’re as cold as a doorknob.”
“Allee same me muchee sorry and me will give you me muffler,” said the little fellow, unwinding the tiny scarf from about his neck.
“I’m much obliged, I’m much obliged, but, whistling gizzard, that little muffler of yours wouldn’t keep my little toe nail warm,” laughed the old hen. “However, there is something you can do for me which would help me a great deal.”
“Allee same you tell me and me be muchee glad to help,” cried the Chinaman.
“Well,” said Mother Bunch, for that was the old hen’s name, “I’m as dry as a Saratoga chip. I haven’t had a drink for three days. There’s a pan of water in my coop, but it’s froze. I beg your pardon, I mean frozen. I’ve pecked at the ice with my bill until it’s as sore as an ingrowing pin feather and I haven’t made a dent in it.”
“Allee same me tell Gleneral and he come up klick and chop hole in ice,” shouted the Chinaman.
“That’s the idea! That’s the idea!” exclaimed the old hen. “You see the folks who feed me just throw the corn into the pen and they never look at the pan of water and of course they never suspect that it’s frozen. If you’ll tell the General to come over and cut a hole so I can get a drink you will be doing an old lady a great favor.”
“Me tell’m klick,” cried the Chinaman, and off he ran for the shoe house as fast as he could.