CHAPTER VII
July 12th.
O the pathos of a poultry farm! Catherine of Aragon, the black Spanish
hen that stole her nest, brought out nine chicks this morning, and the
business-like and marble-hearted Phoebe has taken them away and given
them to another hen who has only seven. Two mothers cannot be wasted on
these small families--it would not be profitable; and the older mother,
having been tried and found faithful over seven, has been given the other
nine and accepted them. What of the bereft one? She is miserable and
stands about moping and forlorn, but it is no use fighting against the
inevitable; hens' hearts must obey the same laws that govern the rotation
of crops. Catherine of Aragon feels her lot a bitter one just now, but
in time she will succumb, and lay, which is more to the point.
We have had a very busy evening, beginning with the rats' supper--delicate
sandwiches of bread-and-butter spread with Paris green.
We have a new brood of seventeen ducklings just hatched this afternoon.
When we came to the nest the yellow and brown bunches of down and fluff
were peeping out from under the hen's wings in the prettiest fashion in
the world.
"It's a noble hen!" I said to Phoebe.
"She ain't so nowble as she looks," Phoebe answered grimly. "It was
another 'en that brooded these eggs for near on three weeks and then this
big one come along with a fancy she'd like a family 'erself if she could
steal one without too much trouble; so she drove the rightful 'en off the
nest, finished up the last few days, and 'ere she is in possession of the
ducklings!"
"Why don't you take them away from her and give them back to the first
hen, who did most of the work?" I asked, with some spirit.
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