Jake Corey was refreshingly frank. He would give me a quizzical look,
shift his quid, and begin:

"Spent a sight o' money on hens, hain't ye? Wall, by next year I guess
you'll find out whether ye want to quit foolin' with hens or not. Now,
my hens doan't git no condition powder, nor sun-flower seeds, nor no
such nonsense, and I ain't got no bone cutter nor fancy fountains for
'em; but I let 'em scratch for themselves and have their liberty, and
mine look full better'n your'n. I'll give ye one p'int. You could save a
lot by engagin' an old hoss that's got to be killed. I'm allers looking
round in the fall of the year for some old critter just ready to drop.
Wait till cold weather, and then, when he's killed, hang half of him up
in the hen house and see how they'll pick at it. It's the best feed
going for hens, and makes 'em lay right along. Doan't cost nothin'
either."

I had been asked to give a lecture in a neighboring town, and, to change
the subject, inquired if he thought many would attend. Jake looked
rather blank, took off his cap, scratched his head, and then said:

"I dunno. Ef you was a Beecher or a Gough you could fill the hall, or
may be ef your more known like, and would talk to 'em free, you might
git 'em, or if you's going to sing or dress up to make 'em larf; but as
'tis, I dunno." After the effort was over I tried to sound him as to my
success. He was unusually reticent, and would only say: "Wall, the only
man I heard speak on't, said 'twas different from anything he ever
heard." This reminded me of a capital story told me by an old family
doctor many years ago. It was that sort of anecdote now out of fashion
with raconteurs--a long preamble, many details, a gradual increase of
interest, and a vivid climax, and when told by a sick bed would