Senator Money of Mississippi asked an old colored man what breed of chickens he considered best, and he replied:
"All kinds has merits. De w'ite ones is de easiest to find; but de black ones is de easiest to hide aftah you gits 'em."
Ida Black had retired from the most select colored circles for a brief space, on account of a slight difficulty connected with a gentleman's poultry-yard. Her mother was being consoled by a white friend.
"Why, Aunt Easter, I was mighty sorry to hear about Ida—"
"Marse John, Ida ain't nuvver tuk dem chickens. Ida wouldn't do sich a thing! Ida wouldn't demeange herse'f to rob nobody's hen-roost—and, anyway, dem old chickens warn't nothing't all but feathers when we picked 'em."
"Does de white folks in youah neighborhood keep eny chickens, Br'er Rastus?"
"Well, Br'er Johnsing, mebbe dey does keep a few."
Henry E. Dixey met a friend one afternoon on Broadway.
"Well, Henry," exclaimed the friend, "you are looking fine! What do they feed you on?"
"Chicken mostly," replied Dixey. "You see, I am rehearsing in a play where I am to be a thief, so, just by way of getting into training for the part I steal one of my own chickens every morning and have the cook broil it for me. I have accomplished the remarkable feat of eating thirty chickens in thirty consecutive days."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed the friend. "Do you still like them?"
"Yes, I do," replied Dixey; "and, what is better still, the chickens like me. Why they have got so when I sneak into the hen-house they all begin to cackle, 'I wish I was in Dixey.'"—A. S. Hitchcock.
A southerner, hearing a great commotion in his chicken-house one dark night, took his revolver and went to investigate.
"Who's there?" he sternly demanded, opening the door.
"Who's there? Answer, or I'll shoot!"
A trembling voice from the farthest corner: "'Deed, sah, dey ain't nobody hyah ceptin' us chickens."
A colored parson, calling upon one of his flock, found the object of his visit out in the back yard working among his hen-coops. He noticed with surprise that there were no chickens.
"Why, Brudder Brown," he asked, "whar'r all yo' chickens?"
"Huh," grunted Brother Brown without looking up, "some fool niggah lef de do' open an' dey all went home."
The Southern planter heard a commotion in his poultry house late at night. With shot gun in hand, he made his way to the door, flung it open and curtly ordered:
"Come out of there, you ornery thief!"
There was silence for a few seconds, except for the startled clucking of the fowls. Then a heavy bass voice boomed out of the darkness:
"Please, Colonel, dey ain't nobody here 'cept jes' us chickens!"