information from a Rooster who was standing at his front gate
looking up and down the road, and wishing to heaven that somebody
would come along for him to talk to. They got, in fact, a good
deal more information than they asked for, for the Rooster was one
of those fine upstanding, bumptious skites who love to talk all
day, in the heartiest manner, to total strangers while their wives
do the washing.

"Singed possum," he exclaimed, when they had put the usual
question to him. "Now, what an extraordinary thing that you
should come along and ask me that question. What an astounding
and incredible thing that you should actually use the word `singed'
in connection with the word `possum.' Though mind you, the word I
had in my mind was not 'singed,' but `burning.' And not `possum'
but `feathers.' Now, I'll tell you why. Only this morning, as
I was standing here, I said to myself "somebody's been burning
feathers." I called out at once to the wife--fine woman, the wife,
you'll meet her presently--"Have you been burning feathers?" "No"
says she. "Well," said I, "If you haven't been burning feathers,
somebody else has." At the very moment that I'm repeating the word
"feathers" and "burning" you come along and repeat the words "singed"
and "possum." Instantly I call to mind that at the identical moment
that I smelt something burning, I saw a possum passing this very
gate, though whether he happened to be singed or not I didn't
inquire."

"Which way did he go?" inquired Bill excitedly.

"Now, let me see," said the Rooster. "He went down the road,
turned to the right, gave a jump and a howl, and set off in the