Them chickens couldn't reach ground nohow.
We had to build a table for 'em to eat off, and when they went out rustlin' for themselves they had to confine themselves to sidehills or flyin' insects.

Their breasts was all right, though--"And think of them drumsticks for the boardinghouse trade!" says Tusky.
So far things wasn't so bad.

We had a good grubstake.

Tusky and me used to feed them chickens twict a day, and then used to set around watchin' the playful critters chase grasshoppers up an' down the wire corrals, while Tusky figgered out what'd happen if somebody was dumfool enough to gather up somethin' and fix it in baskets or wagons or such.
That was where we showed our ignorance of chickens.
One day in the spring I hitched up, rustled a dozen of the youngsters into coops, and druv over to the railroad to make our first sale.

I couldn't fold them chickens up into them coops at first, but then I stuck the coops up on aidge and they worked all right, though I will admit they was a comical sight.