Ducks are a heap smarter'n
chickens, anyway," she asserted. "I never can get one of the chickens
to feed out of a spoon, and the ducks like it the best kind." To
convince him she held toward them a large baking spoon of soured milk.
This milk was thickened into a paste or ball by being put on the stove
and separated from the whey, or watery part, by the action of the heat.
It was a favorite dish with the fowls, and they all smacked their lips
when they saw it coming.
As fast as Betty could fill the spoon it was emptied by the ducks, who
stuck their big yellow bills into it and devoured the contents, letting
the chickens below scramble and push and pick each other for any stray
bits that fell to the ground.
"Didn't I tell you?" said Betty triumphantly. "Them chickens had just
as good a chance as the ducks, but they wouldn't take it."
"Huh!" answered Joe. "Their necks ain't long enough, is what's the
matter."
There were several trees in the yard, and often when the fowls were
fed, birds flew down from their leafy recesses to pick up the crumbs
left lying about. How I used to wish they would come near enough to my
cage that I might converse with them, but it always happened that just
at the time when one of them would settle close to the house, either
Joe's little dog, Colly, would run across the yard, or Betty or her
mother would appear at the door and frighten my feathered friend away.
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