A Chicken Was There – A A Davenport (1)

And my missus replied, “Yes sir, they eat any scraps I dump out. They aren’t particular about it. We had fried chicken for our supper and now the chickens are having what’s left!” Mr. Clyman looked like he didn’t much approve of that, but George just wrinkled his brow and had a thoughtful expression on his face. Now I’m not saying that George got the idea from me, but I heard some time later that he and his whole wagon train got stuck in the snow on the way to Oregon, and let’s just say they didn’t starve to death, if you know what I mean.

When word got down to us at the fort of what had happened in the mountains, people were pretty upset about it. I’m not sure why they were so upset. If you’re hungry, you gotta eat, right? Besides, my missus always says you can’t understand a person until you have walked a mile in their shoes. Chickens don’t wear shoes, so I’m not sure about the shoes part, but I think it means that until you’ve been in the same situation as someone else, you don’t know what you would do.

Still, folks seemed pretty high and mighty about their opinions on the subject and everyone insisted that they wouldn’t have done it if it had been them. One morning, the blacksmith’s wife came over to visit with my missus and she brought a newspaper from California that told all about what happened to George Donner and his folks.

I had to chuckle a bit. That reporter sat down with one of the survivors of the Donner Party and actually asked her what it tasted like, and you’ll never believe what she said. She said, “It tasted like chicken.” 1kitap1.com/en Cascade, Montana 1897 get picked on a lot because I limp and kind of waddle when I walk. I’ve been this way ever since I hatched.

It doesn’t hurt too much, but I can’t get anywhere fast, and that has made me timid. I know I can’t outrun a fox or a bobcat, so I don’t like to venture far from the coop. When all my fellow chickens are out scratching around, I do my scratching close to home.

When the missus throws us table scraps after dinner, I don’t usually get there in time to get anything good. Even if I do get there in time, the other hens peck me and chase me away.

Gads Hill, Missouri 1874 probably shouldn’t say I met Jesse James. I didn’t actually meet him. In truth, he kicked me for being a distraction to him while he was robbing a train. So, maybe I can say I met his foot, or maybe his boot. But still, how many chickens can say Jesse James kicked them?

I bet you’re wondering what I was doing on that train in the first place since chickens don’t generally go riding around on trains. Well, the mister who takes care of me fancies himself a chicken expert and has several first- place ribbons from the Boston poultry shows to prove it. When he came west, he waited to get settled before he sent word back east that we were to be shipped out to him so he could start up his prize-winning ways in the West. Most folks in the West don’t have fancy purebred chickens like us.

We’re famous for laying a large number of eggs. I say that not to brag, but because it will become important to my story in a bit. So, we left Boston on the train. It was supposed to just take four days to get to the West Coast, but let me tell you, it was a lot longer than that. The problem with trains is that they don’t just go from one place to another. They have to stop eight million times on the way.

It’s a wonder anyone actually lives long enough to get to their destination. It seemed like we were lost a lot of the time, they kept taking us off one train and loading us onto another train. I don’t think anyone really knows where all these trains are going. If you get to where you are going, it’s what they call a miracle. Anyways, there was always a porter who was supposed to look after us, but to tell you the truth, those porters were pretty bad at their jobs because the longer we traveled, the worse we started to smell.

They made sure we had food and water, but no one bothered to clean our crate and no one collected the eggs, so it started to get crowded in there. Oh, I forgot to tell you it was me and three other hens in one crate, and a rooster in his own separate crate. The rooster got his own crate because he can’t behave himself. Don’t get me started.

Back to my story… We were chugging along when all of a sudden I heard a ruckus and the conductor put the brakes on really fast.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: db78dd3814be4da4
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 2,981,039 bytes (2.843 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• ISBN: 9798865271000
• Pages: 93
• Language: English (en)

Reading & Word Statistics

• Estimated Reading Time: 174.9 minutes
• Total Words: 34,980
• Total Characters: 180,461
• Average Words per Page: 376.13
• Average Characters per Page: 1940.44

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