than we were and our own mess, by pouring in each man's cup a portion of the esculent.
Once more, at another time, in the extreme northern part of Illinois
, we had been very hungry for two days, but suddenly came upon a new cabin at the edge of the prairie that the pioneer sovereign squatter family had vacated and ‘skedaddled’ from for fear of losing their scalps.
There were plenty of chickens about the cabin, much hungrier than we ourselves were, if poverty is to test the matter, and the boys heard a voice saying ‘Slay and eat.’
They at once went to running, clubbing, and shooting them as long as they could be found.
Whilst the killing was going on I climbed to the ridge-pole of the smoke-house to see distinctly what I saw obscurely from the ground and behold!
the cleanest, sweetest jole I ever sawalone, half hid by boards and ridge-pole, stuck up no doubt for future use. By this time many of the chickens were on the fire, broiling, for want of grease or gravy to fry them in. Some practical fellow proposed to throw in with the fowls enough bacon to convert broiling into frying; the proposition was adopted, and they were soon fried.
We began to eat the tough, dry chickens with alternating mouthfuls of the jole, when Lincoln
came to the repast with the query, ‘Eating chicken, boys?’
‘Not much, sir,’ I responded, for we had operated principally on the jole, it being sweeter and more palatable than the chickens.
‘It is much like eating saddlebags,’ he responded; ‘but I think the stomach can accomplish much to-day; but what have you got there with the skeletons, George?’
‘We did have ’”