At the railroad one of them towerist trains had just slowed down to a halt as I come up, and the towerist was paradin' up and down allowin' they was particular enjoyin' of the warm Californy sunshine.

One old terrapin, with grey chin whiskers, projected over, with his wife, and took a peek through the slats of my coop.

He straightened up like someone had touched him off with a red-hot poker.
"Stranger," said he, in a scared kind of whisper, "what's them ?" "Them's chickens," says I.
He took another long look.
"Marthy," says he to the old woman, "this will be about all! We come out from Ioway to see the Wonders of Californy, but I can't go nothin' stronger than this.

If these is chickens, I don't want to see no Big Trees." Well, I sold them chickens all right for a dollar and two bits, which was better than I expected, and got an order for more.

About ten days later I got a letter from the commission house.
"We are returnin' a sample of your Arts and Crafts chickens with the lovin' marks of the teeth still onto him," says they.