“Don’t you know that a hen that’s all the time skeered won’t lay?” was the lesson she tried to impress on him as she punished him.

But the thing I liked best of all was to see Betty’s seven white ducks crowd up to the kitchen door every time any one appeared with a pan of scraps.  Such gabbling and quacking, such pushing and such stepping on each other and on the chickens, in their eagerness to get there first, was almost laughable.  In fact, the pink-toed pigeons that walked up and down the ridge of the barn roof, did make fun of them openly.  Had I not known the ducks were well fed and so fat they could scarcely waddle, I might have thought they were really hungry, but I soon discovered that they were simply greedy.

Standing on tiptoe and stretching up their long necks they often seized the food before it had a chance to fall to the ground.  By this good management they usually got more than the chickens.  Joe accused Betty of being partial to the ducks.

“You allus give ’em the best of everything, and twice as much as you do the chickens,” he complained.

“They get the most because they’ve got the most confidence in me,” said Betty, putting on a very wise look.  “They come close up to me, while a chicken shies off and misses the goodies coz she’s silly enough to be afraid.  Besides, the ducks are mine.  I raised ’em.  I paid twenty cents a setting for the eggs out of my own money, and when you raise a thing you generally like it the best.  Ducks are a heap smarter’n chickens, anyway,” she asserted.  “I never can get one of the chickens to feed out of a spoon, and the ducks like it the best kind.”  To convince him she held toward them a large baking spoon of soured milk.  This milk was thickened into a paste or ball by being put on the stove and separated from the whey, or watery part, by the action of the heat.

It was a favorite dish with the fowls, and they all smacked their lips when they saw it coming.

As fast as Betty could fill the spoon it was emptied by the ducks, who stuck their big yellow bills into it and devoured the contents, letting the chickens below scramble and push and pick each other for any stray bits that fell to the ground.

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Betty triumphantly.  “Them chickens had just as good a chance as the ducks, but they wouldn’t take it.”

“Huh!” answered Joe.  “Their necks ain’t long enough, is what’s the matter.”

There were several trees in the yard, and often when the fowls were fed, birds flew down from their leafy recesses to pick up the crumbs left lying about.  How I used to wish they would come near enough to my cage that I might converse with them, but it always happened that just at the time when one of them would settle close to the house, either Joe’s little dog, Colly, would run across the yard, or Betty or her mother would appear at the door and frighten my feathered friend away.  Only once did I exchange a word with any of these birds, and that for but a few short minutes.