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7/30/2025, 8:52:12 PM
>>149631017
>She shuddered. Shrugging it off as another Cowpie County peculiarity, Grace decided to document this oddity. Her diary, a sleek, leather-bound testament to her urban sensibilities, awaited her.
>Meanwhile, across the creek, at the heart of the muddiest farm in Cowpie County, Billie and Nellie were already hard at work.
>The sun had barely kissed the highest peaks, but the sounds of clucking chickens and grunting pigs were strangely muted.
>Nellie, a whirlwind of brown hair and boundless energy, was feeding the pigs, but even they seemed off. They usually stampeded the trough like a tiny, squealing avalanche, but today they just stared, wide-eyed and twitching.
>Billie, her hands already coated in a fine layer of chicken feed, was attempting to collect eggs from the coop. But the chickens… they were in a state of complete, feathery shock. They huddled in corners, clucking nervously, their eyes darting around as if a ghost had just offered them a banjo lesson. And not a single egg had been laid.
>"Nellie-bug!" Billie hollered, her voice thick with that deep Appalachian drawl, "Did you go an' scare these here critters yesterday? They're all spooked up like a long-tailed cat in a room full o' rockin' chairs!"
>Nellie, who had been meticulously arranging a pile of mud pies for the pigs, shook her head vigorously, a cascade of brown hair flopping over her eyes. She then pointed a tiny, mud-caked finger at Billie, then jabbed it repeatedly towards a suspicious cluster of muddy footprints near the chicken coop entrance. "You. Mud. No eggs." Her voice was quiet, a stark contrast to Billie's booming one, but her meaning was clear.
>Billie's brow furrowed. "What in the tarnation are you yammerin' 'bout, Nellie? You sayin' I spooked 'em? Don't you go tryin' to pin this on me, you little mud-sprite!" She felt a flash of irritation. Nellie was always trying to blame her for somethin'.
>She shuddered. Shrugging it off as another Cowpie County peculiarity, Grace decided to document this oddity. Her diary, a sleek, leather-bound testament to her urban sensibilities, awaited her.
>Meanwhile, across the creek, at the heart of the muddiest farm in Cowpie County, Billie and Nellie were already hard at work.
>The sun had barely kissed the highest peaks, but the sounds of clucking chickens and grunting pigs were strangely muted.
>Nellie, a whirlwind of brown hair and boundless energy, was feeding the pigs, but even they seemed off. They usually stampeded the trough like a tiny, squealing avalanche, but today they just stared, wide-eyed and twitching.
>Billie, her hands already coated in a fine layer of chicken feed, was attempting to collect eggs from the coop. But the chickens… they were in a state of complete, feathery shock. They huddled in corners, clucking nervously, their eyes darting around as if a ghost had just offered them a banjo lesson. And not a single egg had been laid.
>"Nellie-bug!" Billie hollered, her voice thick with that deep Appalachian drawl, "Did you go an' scare these here critters yesterday? They're all spooked up like a long-tailed cat in a room full o' rockin' chairs!"
>Nellie, who had been meticulously arranging a pile of mud pies for the pigs, shook her head vigorously, a cascade of brown hair flopping over her eyes. She then pointed a tiny, mud-caked finger at Billie, then jabbed it repeatedly towards a suspicious cluster of muddy footprints near the chicken coop entrance. "You. Mud. No eggs." Her voice was quiet, a stark contrast to Billie's booming one, but her meaning was clear.
>Billie's brow furrowed. "What in the tarnation are you yammerin' 'bout, Nellie? You sayin' I spooked 'em? Don't you go tryin' to pin this on me, you little mud-sprite!" She felt a flash of irritation. Nellie was always trying to blame her for somethin'.
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