THE WISE MAMMA GOOSE

Mamma Goose was trying to think.  She had left the barnyard because it was so noisy there that she could not collect her wits, and had hidden herself between the rows of tall red hollyhocks which border one side of the garden.  Here, at least, it was quiet.

Thinking had always been hard work for Mamma Goose.  And besides, her family kept her so busy that she had no time for it anyway.  There was always something to be done for the babies.

For Mamma Goose had a whole dozen of the dearest little goslings, and she was very proud of them.  They were soft, and round, and fluffy, like little yellow balls, and besides being prettier than any other babies in the barnyard, they were so bright, too, and knew as much as any gosling could be expected to know,—­far more than little Red Hen’s chicks, even though she did make such a fuss about them!

The goslings could hunt for their breakfasts almost as well as their mother, while little Red Hen had to scratch up every thing her children ate.  And as for the water—­well, the chicks were simply not in it there!  They did not like to be in the water at all, but the goslings loved their morning bath in the brook better than anything else in the whole day.

Yes, her goslings were by far the finer babies!  Mamma Goose swelled with pride when she thought of it, and carefully smoothed her feathers.  She could have been perfectly happy except for just one thing.  She was afraid that before long something dreadful might happen to the goslings, and once more she settled herself to think.

There was something wrong in the barnyard.  What could it be that came each night when every one was sound asleep?  And what was it that carried one of the chickens away each time so that, when the next morning came, there was always one less than there had been the day before?  Whatever it was, it made no noise.  Only, always the next morning some one was missing, and usually it was a little baby chick that was gone.  The worst of it was that no one else knew any more about it than she did.  To be sure, little Bantam Rooster had said it was the hawk.  But then Bantam always thought he knew everything, and was almost always wrong, so that nobody ever believed anything he said.

Besides, if it had been, the big white cock would have known it, for the big white cock knew everything.  He was the king of the barnyard, and took care of them all.  He had a bright red comb and beautiful, long, green tail-feathers, and Mamma Goose thought him the most wonderful being in the whole world.

But something seemed to be wrong with him, too.  He did not crow half so often as he used to, and his beautiful red comb did not stand stiff and straight any more.  It drooped to one side and he looked very tired and very unhappy, as if he, too, had been trying to think.  But if he did not know what it was that came night after night, then nobody knew.