But really, it didn’t need all of this clamor to get the McBirneys out of bed. Since sunup, Thomas McBirney had been planting cotton on the red clay terraces of his mountain farm; and Mary McBirney, his wife, had been busied laying her hearth-fire, getting the breakfast and feeding the crowing, cackling, gobbling creatures in the yard. And three times she had thrust her head in at the door of the lean-to to say that if she were a boy she’d get up and see what a pretty day it was.
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