Megan's Choice

As the frolic drew near, Megan pushed aside all thoughts of the Harringtons. Daydreaming of lively music and pleasant conversation Megan stepped into the morning sunshine a week later. The glowing sun felt good after the chilly September evenings they were having. The stone house held the night coolness long into the day.

Humming softly, she took the feed pail from its peg and opened the sack of cracked corn. When she bent over the bag a strange, acrid smell made her draw back. She wrinkled her nose and peered down into the almost empty bag. Rolling down the top of the sack so she could see better she stirred the damp corn with the edge of the pail. A sticky film was over the grain.

Pulling in her bottom lip between her teeth, she considered the unopened sack of feed Steve had bought on their last trip to town. He had told her to finish the old bag before using the new one. she'd better do as he said. He might be angry if she didn't. She scooped her pail into the corn and, holding it at arm's length, walked quickly to the hen yard. To her relief the six hens and two roosters attacked the feed with their usual energy.

Good, she thought. If that's the case, why not give them the rest of the bag? Then it will be finished, and I won't have to handle the smelly stuff again.

Holding it like an irritated mother holds a child's mud-covered shoes, she carried the offensive sack to the yard and shook it out. The greedy chickens scurried around clucking, fighting and scratching frantically.

The unpleasant job finished, she took the empty sack back to the stable. By the time she went into the henhouse to gather the eggs, her mind had wandered again to the upcoming frolic and the dress she had almost finished. Her imagination could already hear the music and the laughter-filled conversations. The henhouse became a ballroom and her gingham housedress was a ballgown.

But when she returned to the henhouse door the sight of the hen yard shocked her out of her fantasy.

One hen lolled her head from side to side and made a strange squeaking noise. Another walked in circles, her beak almost touching the ground. A rooster fluttered his wings and crowed, "Gobble-gobble-goo!"

Megan stared. She gasped when a hen fell to its side kicking convulsively.

"What did you feed them chickens, Miss Megan?" Banjo asked from the front of the stable. He propped a shoulder against the stable wall and looked on with interest, a smirk hovering about his face.

"What's wrong with them, Banjo?" she cried in alarm. She made a wide circle around the crazy chickens, watching them warily. "I gave them their corn a few minutes ago."

"That wet sack I moved for you a week or so ago?"

She nodded. Her dismay grew when the rooster flapped his wings for another crow and landed in a heap.

"They'll be all right by supper time." Banjo chuckled, softly.

"What's so funny?" She demanded, eyes flashing. "They might be poisoned. We could lose our eggs. I don't think that's anything to laugh about!"

"They're not poisoned." He chuckled at her indignation, and succeeded in fueling it further. "They're drunk. Ever hear of corn likker? Home brew?"

"Drunk?"

Cluck-clucking a hen walked head-on into the henhouse wall.

Megan's face was pink, her ears were hot, and she could hardly speak.

"This'll be whopper of a story, Miss Megan," Banjo said, grinning widely and shaking his head. "A real whopper."

"Don't tell Steve," she begged, putting her hand on his arm. "Please, Banjo!"

"Don't tell Steve what?" a familiar voice asked.

She whirled around and there was Steve, his expression an identical twin to Banjo's. Face flaming, she looked from Steve's grin to Banjo's poorly muffled laughter and back again. without another word she did an about-face and marched to the house, her head held high and her back board straight.

She couldn't bear to look at either of them that night at supper. The thought of what she had done set her cheeks on fire. Both men were on their best behavior. They seemed completely unaware of her lingering embarrassment. By the time she served their after-dinner coffee she was ready to believe they had forgotten all about the chickens. She breathed still easier when they rose to do the evening choring.

"Do me a favor, will you, Megan?" Steve asked before following Banjo. His hand was on the latch as though he had almost forgotten to tell her something.

"Yes?" Puzzled, she looked at him. His face was expressionless except for the smallest hint of a twinkle.

"Don't ever feed the horses." With a friendly, teasing smile he closed the door quickly behind him. Her first impulse was to fling her coffee cup after him, but her temper quickly dwindled.

"He couldn't resist," she said, chuckling. For some obscure reason she kept feeling an urge to laugh as she cleared away the supper dishes that evening.