SUCCESS IN POULTRY CULTURE 
was in February, and you know the price 
that I paid for those eggs was a plenty. 
Well, I sat old Mrs. Incubator on those 
five hundred costly eggs, and took up my 
twenty-one days’ vigil. The old thing had 
no regulator, and, believe me, that was 
some vigil. At the end of that long 
twenty-one days I invited in the neighbors 
to see five hundred chickens pop out of 
those five hundred eggs like corn in a 
popper. Oh, you bet I was confident, but 
never a chick popped out. Some of the 
neighbors looked upon me with compas- 
sion, some with disgust, and some with 
derision. There were Irish families living 
in the neighborhood and present at the 
hatching (?), and auld Tim Moloney made 
the remark that he had ‘‘niver had sich a 
toim in all his loif,’’ and that he ‘‘would 
not have missed it for the prrice av a sack 
av tabaca.’’ 
The other Irishmen present made a 
number of those witty, cutting remarks 
that sting deep, without offending, so 
characteristic of the race; they felt free 
to do this on account of the Irish blood 
that they knew flowed in my veins, my 
father having come from the ‘‘auld sod’’ 
184 
