Through the Deep Waters Read Online Free PDF Page B

far, the man’s words had proven true.
    Of course, the hens were tricky about it, laying an egg in twenty-five-hour cycles and only when the sun shone. So his egg retrieval had to change every day according to the hens’ schedule. There’d be fewer eggs in the wintertime, too, with the shorter days. But even so, he was happy with his choice of the Leghorns. They were certainly the best egg-laying chickens a man could own.
    He fingered the eggs, thinking. At twenty cents per dozen, with four dozen hens laying, he could make eighty cents a day. If he doubled his flock, then he could make a dollar and sixty cents a day. A dollar and sixty cents times 360 days came to—
    With a wry chuckle, he stopped himself. He sent a grin in the direction ofthe two hens. “What now, am I counting eggs before you even lay them? I should know better.”
    He took hold of the handle of his wagon and headed for the barn door. The wagon was nothing more than a child’s toy, but it worked for transporting his eggs into town. He’d spent every one of his carefully saved pennies plus the money Pa had given him—what Pa called an early inheritance—to buy the farm and chickens, so he couldn’t afford a horse to get his eggs to those who would buy them. But it was less than two miles into Florence. Even with his bum hip, he could make it. Hadn’t the Lord been good to lead him to a farmstead close enough to town for him to walk? Thank You, dear Lord .
    The wooden wheels moaned like rusty hinges, and the pair of chickens scattered, clucking in alarm when he pulled the little cart from the barn. “Now, now, you are fine. It’s only noise. It can’t harm you.”
    Without warning, words he’d heard in the past taunted his memory. His mother always quoted the rhyme about sticks and stones breaking his bones but words not hurting. Ma had been right about most things but not that.
    Words did hurt, and even remembering them hurt.
    But he was far from those who had tormented him, so he pushed aside the remembrances and addressed the chickens once more. “Be good and stay on the ground. No flying up in trees. I’ll be back soon.”
    He headed down the dirt road, his wagon squeaking behind him. Was it foolish to talk to chickens? Most people would probably think so, but sometimes a man needed to say things out loud. There wasn’t anyone else around to listen. His heavy boots scuffed up dust, but the Kansas wind whisked it away. He watched his long shadow stretch toward the scrubby brush alongside the road, and a hint of melancholy struck. If only the shadow were another person walking with him.
    “Now that I’m settled,” he said to his shadow, “I should get myself a dog. A dog could walk to town with me.” Maybe he could even get two—one to go with him and one to stay behind and keep watch over the chickens. Not that he worried much about predators during daylight hours. Even so, extra precaution wouldn’t be foolish. He’d ask in town about litters of puppies.
    Some dogs chased chickens, he knew, but they could be trained not to do so. His pa had trained their dog by hanging a dead chicken around its neck and then beating it. Afterward, the dog had been afraid of chickens, but it had also been afraid of Pa. So Amos wouldn’t train his dogs in such a heartless manner. He wouldn’t want his dogs skulking away from him in fear.
    He paused, checked to be sure the eggs weren’t bouncing together, switched hands on the handle, then set off again. Yes, it would be nice to have a dog or two to sit beside the table when he ate his meals or to trot along with him when he did his chores. He’d look less silly talking to a dog than to the chickens. Dogs were good companions.
    But even better than a dog would be a wife.
    Sweat dribbled into his eyes, and he winced. He yanked off his hat, cleared the moisture from his forehead with his shirt sleeve, then tied the handkerchief he always carried in his pocket around his head to catch any other