I was no chicken, I tell you.

From that day, Mark Forrester wrote himself down '_man_' And well he might, 'squire, and no small one neither.

Six feet in stocking-foot, sound in wind and limb--could outrun, outjump, outwrestle, outfight, and outdo anyhow, any lad of my inches in the whole district.

There was Tom Foster, that for five long years counted himself cock of the walk, and crowed like a chicken whenever he came out upon the ground.

You never saw Tom, I reckon, for he went off to Mississippi after I sowed him up.