"What does that mean?" I said, stepping up to him.
"How do I know? " said the man, "and what do you want to know fur?"
"Just out of curiosity," I said; "I have often noticed it. I think you can tell me what it means, and if you will do so, I'll give you a dollar."
"And keep mum about it?" said the man.
"Yes," I replied, taking out the dollar.
"All right!" said the tramp. "That sign means that the man that lives up this lane is a mean, stingy cuss, with a wicked dog, and it's no good to go there."
I handed him the dollar, and went away perfectly satisfied with my reputation.
I wish here to make some mention of Euphemia's methods of work in her chicken-yard. She kept a book, which she at first called her "Fowl Record," but she afterwards changed the name to "Poultry Register," I never could thoroughly understand this book, although she has often explained every part of it to me. She had pages for registering the age, description, time of purchase or of birth, and subsequent performances of every fowl in her yard. She had divisions of the book for expenses, profits, probable losses, and positive losses; she noted the number of eggs put under each setting hen; the number of eggs cracked per day, the number spoiled, and finally, the number hatched. Each chick, on emerging from its shell, was registered, and an account kept of its subsequent life and adventures. There were frequent calculations regarding the advantages of various methods of treatment, and there were statements of the results of a great many experiments—something like this: "Set Toppy and her sister Pinky,
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