University of Virginia Library

SHE GOT THAT CHICKEN HERSELF.

IT is just as necessary to have poultry for a Thanksgiving dinner as it is to have light. A Danbury couple named Brigham were going to have poultry for their dinner. Mr. Brigham said to his wife the day before the event,—

"I saw some splendid chickens in front of Merrill's store to-day; and I guess I'll get one of them this afternoon for to-morrow."

"I am going to tend to that myself," said Mrs. Brigham quickly.

"But I can get it just as well: I'm going right by there."

"I don't want you to get it," she asserted. "When I eat chicken, I want something I can put my teeth in." And a hard look came into her face.

He colored up at once.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Just what I say," she explained, setting her teeth together.

"Do you mean to say I don't know how to pick out a chicken?" he angrily demanded.

"I do."

"Well, I can just tell you, Mary Ann Brigham, that I know more about chickens in one minute than you could ever find out in a lifetime; and, furthermore, I am going to buy that chicken, if one is bought at all in this house." And he struck the table with his fist.

"And I tell you, John Joyce Brigham," she cried, "that you don't know any more how to pick out a good chicken than an unweaned mud-turtle; and, if you bring a chicken in this house, it will go out again quicker'n it come in; and you can put that in your pipe an' smoke it as soon as you want to."

"Whose house is this, I want to know?" he fiercely demanded.

She frankly replied at once,—

"I suppose it belongs to a flat-head idiot with a wart on his nose. But a woman who knows a spring chicken from a hump-back camel is running the establishment; and, as long as she does, he can't bring no patent-leather hens here to be cooked."

"You'll see what I'll do!" he yelled; and he pulled his coat on, and jammed his cap on his head, with the forepiece over his left ear.

"You bring a chicken here if you think best, Mister Brigham," she replied.

"You see if I don't!" he growled, as he passed out, and slammed the door behind him.

That evening there was a nice, fine chicken in the pantry: but he didn't bring it. Perhaps he forgot to get his.

Dinner came the next day. Mr. Brigham took his seat at the table as usual; but it was evident that he intended mischief. Mrs. Brigham filled a plate with chicken, mashed potatoes, and boiled onions. It was a tempting dish, emitting a delicious aroma. She passed it to Mr. Brigham. He did not look towards it.

"Brigham," said she, "here's your plate."

"I don't want any chicken," he said, looking nervously around the room.

"Are you going to eat that chicken?" she demanded in a voice of low intensity.

"No, I ain't. Wooh! ouch! ooh!"

She had sprung to her feet in a flash, reached over the table, caught him by the hair, and had his face burrowing in the dish of hot onions. It was done so quick, that he had no time to save himself, and barely time to give utterance to the agonizing exclamations which followed upon his declaration.

"Are you going to eat that chicken?" she hoarsely demanded.

"Lemme up!" he screamed.

She raised his head from the dish, and jammed it on the table.

"John Joyce Brigham," she hissed between her set teeth, "this is a day set apart by the nation for thanksgiving and praise. I got that chicken to celebrate this day, and I ain't going to have my gratitude and devotion upset by such a runt as you are. Now I want to know if you are going to eat that chicken like a Christian, or if you are going to cut up like a cantankerous heathen. Answer me at once, or I'll jam your old skull into a jelly."

"I—I'll eat it!" he moaned,

Then she let him up, and he took his plate; and one Thanksgiving meal, at least, passed off harmoniously.