“Now, just look at that,” I said as I opened the top of the long box that is called a brooder and is supposed to supplement the functions of the metal incubator mother in the destiny of chicken young.  It has feed and water-pans in it, straw upon the floor as a carpet, and behind flannel portieres is supposed to burn a lamp with mother ardor sufficient to keep the small fledglings warm, though orphaned.  Did the week-old babies Leghorn have to be content with such mechanical mothering?  Not at all!  Right in the middle of the brooder sat the old Red Ally, and her huge red wings were stretched out to cover about twenty-five of the metal-born babies and part of her own fifteen, and spread in a close, but fluffy, circle around her were the rest of her adopted family all cosily asleep and happy at heart.  “I left the top of the brooder open while I went for water the second day after hers and the incubator’s had hatched, and when I came back she was just as you see her now, in possession of the entire orphan-asylum.”

“Oh, look, she’s putting some out from under her and taking others in.  Oh, Ann!” exclaimed Bess as she dropped on her knees beside the long box.

“Yes; she changes them like that.  I’ve seen her do it,” I answered, with my cheeks as pink with excitement as were those of my sympathetic friend, Elizabeth Rutherford.  “And you ought to see her take them all out for a walk across the grass.  They all peep and follow, and she clucks and scratches impartially.”

“Ann,” said Bess, with a great solemnity in the dark eyes that she raised to mine, “I suppose I ought to marry Owen this June.  I want to have another winter of good times, but I—­I’m ashamed to look this hen in the face.”

“Owen is perfectly lovely,” I answered her, which was a very safely noncommittal answer in the circumstances.

“He carries one of the chickens he bought from you in his pocket all the time, with all necessary food, and it is much larger than any of mine or his in my conservatory.  Owen is the one who goes in to tend to them when he brings me home from parties and things and—­and—­”

“Matthew took off all of his and Polly’s little Reds yesterday, and I’ve never seen him so—­so—­” I paused for a word to express the tenderness that was in dear old Matt’s face as he put the little tan fluff-balls one at a time into Polly Corn-tassel’s outstretched skirt.

“Matthew is a wonder, Ann, and you’ve got to come to this dance he is giving Corn-tassel Saturday—­all for love of you because you asked him to look after her.  He is the sweetest thing to her—­just like old Mrs. Red here, spreads his wings and fusses if any man who isn’t a lineal descendant of Sir Galahad comes near her.  He’s going to be awfully hurt if you don’t come.”

“Then I’ll tear myself away from my family and come, though I truly can’t see that I wished Polly Corn-tassel upon all of you.  You are just as crazy about the apple-blossom darling as I am, you specially, Bess Rutherford,” I answered, with pleased indignation.