“They won’t?” “Well, very little.” I shook my head, then said, “They were just my chicks that grew into chickens and started laying eggs.
I never really thought of it as a business.” “Well, my runnin’ a tab has probably contributed to that, and I’m sorry.
I’ll be sure and get you the whole sum this week, but consider buying yourself a rooster with some of it.
I’ve got a friend down on Newcomb Street who is positively green over my deviled eggs.
I gave her my recipe, but she says hers just don’t taste the same.
She winked at me.I’m certain she’d pay handsomely for a supply of my secret ingredient if it became available.
She turned to go, then said, “By-the-by, Julianna, you have done a mighty fine job on that front yard. Most impressive!”
“Thanks, Mrs. Stueby,” I called as she slid open her patio door. “Thanks very much.”
I finished scooping up the piles I’d made and thought about what Mrs. Stueby had said.
Should I really get a rooster? I’d heard that having one around made chickens lay more, whether they were in contact with each other or not.
I could even breed my chickens and get a whole new set of layers.
But did I really want to go through all of that again? Not really.
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