Isaac slalomed through the bustling crowd. He pulled his scarf tight around his neck and adjusted his hat. It was cold, the wind blowing off the Mississippi River chilling him to the bone. He passed boutique shops with ladies' clothing displayed in the windows in fine fashion, cafes filled to overflowing, the aroma of hot coffee and pastries lingering on the cold air. And butcher shops with Christmas turkeys and chickens and ducks and an occasional goose, clean-plucked and hanging naked in the windows. Isaac couldn't help but laugh. When his mother wanted chickens for supper, he just went to the barnyard and called two or three up with a handful of corn and wrung their necks on the spot. If it was turkey she wanted, Jonathan could always bring one in from the woods, shot through with his squirrel rifle, never disturbing the meat.