pigs had cooled us in the matter of live stock for
profit.

Still, we did love chickens in their proper place--that is to say, with
dumplings or dressing and some of the nice jellies and things which
Elizabeth had made during those autumn months of our arrival. It seemed
extravagant to have them often; chickens had become chickens since our
long-ago early acquaintance with them, when "two bits" had been a fancy
price for broilers and old hens. Elizabeth finally conceded that perhaps
a few chickens--a very few, kept in a neat inclosure away from the
garden--might be desirable. It would be so handy to have one when we
wanted it. She even hinted that the sound of a satisfied and reflective
hen singing about the barn would add a rural note to our pastoral
harmony. Then, of course, there would be the eggs.

Fate produced a man, just at that moment, who had chickens to sell. He
had been called away, and would let his flock go cheap--he had about a
dozen, he thought, assorted as to age and condition. We could have them
for fifty cents each. It seemed an opportunity. William Deegan was
instructed to prepare the neat inclosure, which he did with enthusiasm,
William being enamoured of anything that was alive.

The man who had been called away had made a poor count of his flock. He
arrived with nearly twice as many as he said, but we were in the mood by
that time, and took over the bunch. They were not a very inspiring lot.
They were of no special breed, but just chickens--a long-legged,
roostery set, with a mixture of frazzled hens of years and experience.
We said, however, that food and care would improve them. Remember what
it had done for Mis' Cow.

"Ye'll be after eatin' thim roosters, prisently," William commented, as
we looked at them through the inclosing wire, "before they be gettin'
much older. Ye'll be wantin' eggs from the hins."

William's remark seemed wise. We were wanting the eggs, all right, and
those ten or twelve speedy-looking roosters ought to go to the platter
without much delay. We would feed liberally and begin on the best ones,
forthwith.

Still, we did not have chicken that day, nor the next. There is nothing
so perverse as the human appetite. Those were not really bad chickens,
and in a few days they were much better. If any one of those middle-aged
roosters had been brought to us by the butcher we would have paid the
usual dollar for it, and, baked and browned and served with fixings, it
would ha