Road with the baby asleep over her shoulder.

Just at this moment, Cindy found occasion to summon Mother Mayberry
to the chicken yard on account of a dispute that had arisen between
old Dominick and one of the ungallant roosters that had resulted in
an injury to one of the small fry, which lay pitifully cheeping on
the back steps. Dominick, with every feather awry, was holding
command of the bowl of corn-meal while her family feasted, and the
Plymouth rooster stood at a respectful distance with a weather eye
on both the determined mother and Cindy's broom. Retribution in the
form of Mother Mayberry descended upon him swiftly and certainly,
and he lost no time in seeking seclusion under the barn.

And by the time order and peace were restored to the barn-yard,
Mother came in to dinner and spent an hour in interested hen-lore
with the singer lady, who was really fond of hearing about the
feathered families when she saw how her interest in them pleased
Mrs. Mayberry. The subject of the Doctor, his absence and the
probable time of his return was not mentioned by his mother, and for
the life of her Miss Wingate could not muster the courage for a
single question. She felt utterly unable to stand even the most mild
eulogy on the peony-girl and was glad that nothing occurred to turn
the conversation in that direction. She was silent for the most
part, and most assiduous in her attentions to Martin Luther, whose
rapidly filling outlines were making him into a chubby edition of
the Raphaelite angel. Martin had landed in the garden of the gods
and was making the most of the golden days. He bore his order of
American boyhood with jaunty grace, and the curl had assumed a
rampant air in place of the pathetic.