Harriet had sacrificed the promising careers of two young
roosters upon the altar of this important occasion. I may say in passing
that Ann Spencer is more celebrated in our neighbourhood by virtue of
her genius at frying chicken, than Aristotle or Solomon or Socrates, or
indeed all the big-wigs of the past rolled into one.
So we fell to with a silent but none the less fervid enthusiasm. Harriet
hovered about us, in and out of the kitchen, and poured the tea and the
buttermilk, and Ann Spencer upon every possible occasion passed the
chicken.
"More chicken, Mr. Grayson?" she would inquire in a tone of voice that
made your mouth water.
"More chicken, Dick?" I'd ask.
"More chicken, Mr. Grayson," he would respond--and thus we kept up a
tenuous, but pleasant little joke between us.
Just outside the porch in a thicket of lilacs a catbird sang to us while
we ate, and my dog lay in the shade with his nose on his paws and one
eye open just enough to show any stray flies that he was not to be
trifled with--and far away to the North and East one could catch
glimpses--if he had eyes for such things--of the wide-stretching
pleasantness of our countryside.
I soon saw that something mysterious was going on in the kitchen.
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