"Oh, do you know about chickens, Mrs.--I mean, Aunt Mary?" I asked as I
clung to the hand to which father was not clinging.

"Bless my heart, what's that I see setting up on old Madam Craddock's
cushions? Is it a rooster or a dream bird?" she answered me by exclaiming
as she caught sight of Mr. G. Bird sitting in lonely state, but as good as
gold, upon the rose-leather cushions. "I thought I feathered out the finest
chickens in the Harpeth Valley, but this one isn't human, you might say,"
and as she spoke she shook off father and me, and approached the carriage
and peered in with the reverence of a real poultry artist. "Bless my
heart!" she again exclaimed.

"Those are just Miss Nancy's whims to take the place of her card-routs and
sinful dancing habits," said Uncle Cradd, with a great and indulgent
amusement as all the little crowd of native friends gathered around to look
at the Bird family.

"Say, that rooster ought to have been met with a brass band like they did
Mr. Cummins' horse, Lightheels, after he won all those cups up in the races
at Cincinnati," said the tallest of the young farmers, whose ears had begun
to assume their normal color.

"And a sight more right he has to such a honor, Bud Beesley," replied Aunt
Mary, with spirit, as she stroked the proud head of the Golden Bird. "It
takes hens and women all their days to collect the money men spend on
race-horses sometimes, my son."

"Well, Mary, I reckon you aren't alluding to this pair of spanking grays
I've got; but in case you are getting personal to them, I think we had