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Is this a very hungry angel, Joseph? Does thee think I'd better cook another chicken?" "He ought to be hungry, poor lad, but I doubt if he eats much. Does thee remember friend Randolph, Ruth?" "Of course I do. But he's been dead these ten years. Thee doesn't mean he's come back to breakfast with us?" Her husband put his hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. Then he kissed her.
This was in order to make home present the most agreeable appearance possible to her husband when he returned. Then she killed a chicken and dressed it, ready to broil for his supper made up a nice short-cake, and set the table with a clean, white table-cloth.
I 'ave my duties to perform. Really, sir, I " "Go out into the kitchen, Mr. Diggs," commanded Melissa sharply. "God gave you a tongue, but he didn't give you anything to hold it with." "Quite so, quite so," agreed the flustered Mr. Diggs, edging toward the kitchen whence through the open door came sounds of rattling pans and the penetrating but comforting scent of stewed chicken.
Those are the principal articles of the Brahmins' faith, which have lasted without interruption from immemorial times right to our day: it seems strange to us that among them it should be as grave a sin to eat a chicken as to commit sodomy. This is only a small part of the ancient cosmogony of the Brahmins.
And it met and exceeded our wildest anticipations, for, just fancy! We were served with a delicious boullion, then chicken, perfectly cooked, accompanied by some dish flavored with chile verde, creamy biscuit, fresh butter, and golden coffee with milk. There were three or four women and several officers in the party, and we had a merry breakfast.
We had chicken hash and batter cakes and dried venison that day. You be sure we knowed he was our friend and we catched what he had t' say. Before I'd allow my wife an' children to be sold as slaves, I'll wade in blood and water up to my neck'. "Now he said all that, if my mother and father were living, they'd tell y' the same thing. That's what Linkum said.
The supper itself was the most amusing affair you ever saw; for what must they do but flop down on the floor just where they stood, not minding the bare boards at all, and eat cold chicken and twist rolls from paper bags the footman threw to them.
"'Tis the rulin' of the port doctor. No intercourse with the shore till the ship is passed. What dire calamity to the confidin' native if chicken pox or whoopin' cough was aboard of you! Who is there to protect the gentle, confidin' Polynesian? I, Fulualea, the Feathers of the Sun, on my high mission." "Who in hell is the port doctor?" Grief queried. "'Tis me, Fulualea. Your offence is serious.
When he had departed, the sceptic turned to his wife: "This animal has been sniffing at the trail." "Truly but Mother of God where is the discretion of our friend. If he will continue to haunt the pueblo like a lovesick chicken, he will get his neck wrung yet."
"Frank," said he at length, "where does this Chicken Liver nigger go while the race is being run?" "Across the track to the infield. That was where he went yesterday. I was watching him." "The infield.... Hm-m-m.... Thank you, Frank." "You could tip it off to the judges," suggested the Kid, "and they'd have Chicken Liver searched. Like as not they'd rule Weaver off for life and set Murphy down "
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