Baker came across the yard, bristling like a frightened
porcupine.
"What have you been doing to my hens?" she demanded.
Mrs. Brown, like the efficient woman she was, saw her opportunity
and rose to the occasion.
"Your hens, Mrs. Baker, why nothing. I have been in the kitchen all
the morning until I just came out to call Willie to dinner. Willie
has been keeping the hens out of my garden, not your hens, you know
you have assured me your hens never come over here."
Thinking discretion the better part of valor Mrs. Baker suddenly
remembered something that needed immediate attention and she
hastened to attend to it.
Mrs. Brown watched her out of sight, smiling in appreciation of the
genius she had raised, then she turned and confronted Mrs. Jones,
coldly angry.
"What do you mean, Mrs. Brown, by tagging my hens until they look
like a mark down sale?"
"What are you talking about, Mrs. Jones? Your hens couldn't have
been over here could they? I am sure neither Willie nor I have been
out of the yard."
"I smell something burning."
In spite of the fact that the Jones homestead was quite a distance
and the wind in the direction to blow all odors in the opposite
direction Mrs.
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