LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
Returning after a brief absence, he was asked, “How did those feathered frauds like their breakfast?”
“Oh, fine; they would eat live coals, I guess,—all but Mrs. Gummidge,”—a name he had given to a fussy, complaining old hen in a rusty black gown. “I first deferentially offered her the potatoes; she advanced mournfully, slowly drew up one foot, turned her head sideways, glared at them for one awful moment, and then turned scornfully away.”
“Why didn’t you try her with the hot Scotch?”
“I did; she took one nip, and walked off gloomily among the weeds.”
“Well, you see, Tom, down at Yarmouth Mrs. Gummidge ate marine food, and she isn’t quite used to mountain fare yet. I really think the poor old thing is homesick.”
A few days later he came in, shouting jubilantly, “Hurrah for Graham’s celebrated Poultry Tonic! Allow me, madam, to present you with the first product of our poultry-yard.”
“Oh, Tom, an egg! How lovely! Isn’t it white?”
“Yes, and uncommon large, don’t you think?”
“It is very large, and such a perfect oval!”
“I am inclined to think it’s a double-yolker,” he answered, eying it hungrily.
“Alas, Tom! the egg is but one, and we are two.”
A momentary struggle with self; then he said grandly,“ You cook it and eat it, Katharine.”
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