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Updated: May 2, 2025
How they would search these bleak wintry fastnesses for him, while he was gone sailing with the mist! What would they say at home and at Birk's Mill? One last thought of the "pea-fowel," and he seemed to slide swiftly away from the world with the snow. He was unconscious probably only for a few minutes.
As he began to re-load his gun, the small boys clustered around him, their hands in the pockets of their baggy jeans trousers, their heads inquiringly askew. "They air a-goin' ter hev a pea-fowel fur dinner down yander ter Birk's Mill," Rick remarked. The smallest boy smacked his lips, not that he knew how pea-fowl tastes, but he imagined unutterable things.
When he reached it, the wintry sun was low in the western sky, and the very bones of the "pea-fowel" were picked. On the whole, it seemed a sorry Christmas Day, as Rick could not know then indeed, he never knew what good results it brought forth.
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