“You’re right,” said Flaps.  “It is an odd thing, for times out of mind I’ve heard our old friend, the farmer, say, ’If you want a thing done—­Go; if not—­Send.’  This time I shall go.  Cuddle close to each other, and keep up your spirits.  I’ll find us a good home yet.”

The fowls were much affected by Flaps’ magnanimity, and with one voice they cried:  “Thank you, dear Flaps.  Whatever you decide upon will do for us.”

And Mark added, “I will continue to act as watchman.”  And he went up to the top of the tree as Flaps trotted off down the muddy road.

All that evening and far into the night it rained and rained, and the fowls cuddled close to each other to keep warm, and Flaps did not return.  In the small hours of the morning the rain ceased, and the rain-clouds drifted away, and the night-sky faded and faded till it was dawn.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” said Mark, and all the fowls woke up.

“What do you see and hear from the tree-top, dear Mark?” said they.  “Is Flaps coming?”

    “Not a thing can I see
    From the top of the tree,
    But a long, winding lane
    That is sloppy with rain;”

replied Mark.  And the fowls huddled together again, and put their heads back under their wings.

Paler and paler grew the grey sky, and at last it was broken with golden bars, and at the first red streak that caught fire behind them, Mark crowed louder than before, and all the hens of Hencastle roused up for good.

“What do you see and hear from the tree-top, dear Mark?” they inquired.  “Is Flaps coming?”

    “Not a sound do I hear,
    And I very much fear
    That Flaps, out of spite,
    Has deserted us quite;”

replied Mark.  And the fowls said nothing, for they were by no means at ease in their consciences.

Their delight was proportionably great when, a few minutes later, the sentinel sang out from his post,

    “Here comes Flaps, like the mail! 
    And he’s waving his tail.”

“Well, dear, dear Flaps!” they all cackled as he came trotting up, “where is our new home, and what is it like?”

“Will there be plenty to eat?” asked the cocks with one crow.

“Plenty,” replied Flaps.

“Shall we be safe from mice, owls, wild beasts, and wild men?” cried the hens.

“You will,” answered Flaps.

“Is it far, dear Flaps?”

“It is very near,” said Flaps; “but I may as well tell you the truth at once—­it’s a farmyard.”

“Oh!—­” said all the fowls.

“We may be roasted, or have our heads chopped off,” whimpered the young cockerels.

“Well, Scratchfoot was roasted at Hencastle,” said Flaps; “and he wasn’t our only loss.  One can’t have everything in this world; and I assure you, if you could see the poultry-yard—­so dry under foot, nicely wired in from marauders; the most charming nests, with fresh hay in them; drinking-troughs; and then at regular intervals, such abundance of corn, mashed potatoes, and bones, that my own mouth watered at—­are served out—­”