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They ran about the mud on the edge of the grass, especially in the morning, looking like half-grown pullets. Their specialty was crab-fishing, at which they were highly expert, plunging into the water up to the depth of their legs, and handling and swallowing pretty large specimens with surprising dexterity. I was greatly pleased with them, as well as with their local name, "everybody's chickens."
There was a group of negro children on the steps, employed in the dangerous business of crab-fishing; at the foot, in his flat-bottomed boat, sat a wondering negro lad, who looked up in apprehension at his passengers. The lady seemed like a ghost. Old Peter, with whose scorn of modern beings and their ways he was partially familiar, old Peter was making frantic signs to him to put out from shore.
"Yes," I replied. "And you?" "I've been crab-fishing," he said solemnly, and he showed me his basket. "I'm a good fisher," he added. I looked at his wife, but she did not seem to see anything funny in his choice of pronouns. I tied another fly on my leader. "No good," he said. "Use crab meat. Fish don't like feathers." I made a couple of casts without making a strike. "No good!" he kept repeating.
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