"It do seem kinder hard-hearted, but I 'low chick'ns wa' put on this green yearth fer the 'spress puppose er landin' in the fryin' pan. Every chick'n what the good Gawd don't expect sooner er later ter be et as a chick'n he done foreordained ter be et as a aig. The chick'ns ain't got no choice in the matter. They better be glad if it so happens a good cook has the finish of 'em an' they don't lan' on some po' white folks' table, all soaked up in grease the way mos' of 'em has er cookin'.
"But suppose the egg is never eaten and never hatches, Aunt Pearly Gates—just gets to be rotten. What do you think the good Lord is thinkin' about when he lets that happen?"
"Well, honey chil', I wouldn't call myse'f much of a Christian if I blamed the rotten aigs on the Almighty. Rotten aigs air the plain doin's of the debble, the debble 'long with the keerlessness er folks. If the folks hadn't er been keerless the debble couldn't er got in his work, either."
"How many—er—er—families have you raised, Aunt Pearly Gates?"
"I done los' track of them long time ago," chuckled the old woman. "I reckon I done partaken of the nature of a hen in mo' ways than one. I 'low a hen fergits 'bout her las'
