“A black chickin? Co’se yer kin hev the blackest one we’ve got. Chicken gizzard tea is mighty good fer the mizry in the side. My ole aunt used to keep ’em dried and ready. Ever’ time she’d kill a black chickin she’d save the gizzard an’ jes’ string it up ’gainst the time when some o’ the folks or the neighbors would be tuck down. She wuz a master han’ fer chicken gizzard tea. But git down an’ come in; settin’ in a cheer is jes’ as easy as on the back o’ that thar critter. “Gabe, ketch that long shanked young rooster I be’n er-saving—the one with feathers on his legs. G’long, chillun an’ he’p yer pap run that chicken down! An’ don’t yer be long about it, fer the sun’ll be gittin’ low afore she gits back over t’other side the mountain.” Luce sprank lightly to the ground and the two seated themselves on the rude wooden bench upon the porch. As the girl removed her bonnet her reddish hair clung in a mass of shining wave about her neck, the warmth of the summer sun was in her cheek, and stood in a delicate moisture above her full lip. The elder woman settled her glasses and regarded her. “Law, yes,” she said. “I had gizzards saved up sence ’way back ’fore Chris’mus two year ago, but Gabe’s las wife wuz sick quite a spell—she jes died this spring—and the gizzards jes’ did hold out. She mighty nigh lived on chicken gizzard tea toward the las’. I give it ter all o’ his wives. Gabe’s be’n married moren’t onct or twict,” she said explanatorily; “he don’t have no luck with his wives. The fust one died in no time, an’ the next one didn’t live so very long—she wuz the mother o’ these two chillun; the las’ one never had none. Gabe’s a master han’ fer marryin’.” Just then Gabe and the two girls and the dog, in wild pursuit of the long shanked rooster, the feathered legs well in the lead, rushed pell-mell around the house. “What’s them girls’ names?” asked Luce. “Liz an’ Bet,” replied their grandmother. “The’r ma wuz name’ Lizabet’, an’ when the twins wuz born I sez: ‘Well, ef it had er be’n jes’ one we’d er called it Liz, an’ sence it’s two we’ll call ’em Liz an’ Bet.’ An’ so ’twuz. They’ll be fourteen year ole three days afore this comin’ Fourth o’ July. I ain’t never fergot, kase I didn’t want ’em ever axed no questions about the’r age thet they couldn’t answer. I ain’t ever knowed jes’ how ole I wuz, an’ sometimes I kinder wisht I did. My ole man, he used ter figger on it, but I never could feel no ways certain. I wuz married when I wuz fifteen, an’ from then on I kep’ ercount o’ things jes’ in my head. Like them hats in thar tells me how many year I be’n er livin’ on this mountain.” She motioned her hand toward the open door, and Luce shifted her position to get a better view of a string of wool hats swung across from one joist to the other.