“God bless you, honey! the owls destroyed in and about the best half that I did raise. Every blessed night that the Lord did send, they’d come and set on the comb of the house, and hoo, hoo; and one night in particklar I remember, I had just got up with the nightshed salve to ’int the little gal with—” “Well, well, what was the value of what you did raise?” “The Lord above look down! They got so bad—the owls did—that they tuk the old hens as well as the young chickens. The night I was a tellin’ ’bout, I heard somethin’s s-q-u-a-l-l! s-q-u-a-l-l! and says I: ‘I’ll bet that’s old Speck, that nasty awdacious owl’s got, for I see her go to roost with the chickens up in the plum-tree, forenenst the smoke-house.’ “So I went to whar old Miss Stringer was sleepin’, and says I: “‘Miss Stringer! oh, Miss Stringer! sure’s you’re born, that owl’s got old Speck out’n the plum-tree.’ “Well, old Miss Stringer she turned over ’pon her side like, and says she: “‘What did you say, Miss Stokes?’ “And says I:—” We began to get very tired, and signified the same to the old lady, and begged her to answer us directly, and without circumlocution. “The Lord Almighty love your dear heart, honey, I’m tellin’ you as fast I kin. The owls they got worse, and worse; after they’d swept old Speck and all _her_ gang, they went to work on t’others; and Bryant (that’s one of my boys), he ’lowed he’d shoot the pestersome creeturs. And so one night arter that we hearn one holler, and Bryant he tuk the old musket and went out, and sure enough there was owley (as he thought) a sittin’ on the comb of the house, so he blazed away, and down come—what on airth _did_ come down, do you reckon, when Bryant fired?” “The owl, I suppose.” “No sich thing; no sich thing; the owl warn’t thar. ’Twas my old house cat came a tumblin’ down spittin’, sputterin’, and scratching and the fur a flyin’ every time she jumped, like you’d busted a feather-bed open. Bryant he said the way he come to shoot the cat, instead of the owl, he seed somethin’ white—” “For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Stokes, give me the value of your poultry, or say you will not. Do one thing or the other.” “Oh, well, dear love your heart, I reckon I had last year nigh about the same as I’ve got this.” “Then tell me how many dollars’ worth you have now, and the thing’s settled.” “I’ll let you see for yourself,” said Widow Stokes; and taking an ear of corn between the logs of the cabin, and shelling off a handful, she commenced scattering the grain, all the while screaming or rather screeching: “Chick! chick! chick! chickee! chickee! chickee-ee!” Here they came, roosters, hens, pullets, and little chicks; crowing, cackling, chirping, flying, and fluttering against her sides, pecking at her hands, and creating a din and confusion altogether indescribable. The old lady seemed delighted, thus to exhibit her feathered “stock,” and would occasionally exclaim: “A nice passel! ain’t they a nice passel!”