The other day Mrs. Greyskin appeared at the dairy door, and when she had been fed Phoebe and I followed her stealthily, from a distance.  She walked slowly about as if her mind were quite free from harassing care, and finally approached a deserted cow-house where there was a great mound of straw.  At this moment she caught sight of us and turned in another direction to throw us off the scent.  We persevered in our intention of going into her probable retreat, and were cautiously looking for some sign of life in the haymow, when we heard a soft cackle and a ruffling of plumage.  Coming closer to the sound we saw a black hen brooding a nest, her bright bead eyes turning nervously from side to side; and, coaxed out from her protecting wings by youthful curiosity, came four kittens, eyes wide open, warm, happy, ready for sport!

The sight was irresistible, and Phoebe ran for Mr. and Mrs. Heaven and the Square Baby.  Mother Hen was not to be embarrassed or daunted, even if her most sacred feelings were regarded in the light of a cheap entertainment.  She held her ground while one of the kits slid up and down her glossy back, and two others, more timid, crept underneath her breast, only daring to put out their pink noses!  We retired then for very shame and met Mrs. Greyskin in the doorway.  This should have thickened the plot, but there is apparently no rivalry nor animosity between the co-mothers.  We watch them every day now, through a window in the roof.  Mother Greyskin visits the kittens frequently, lies down beside the home nest, and gives them their dinner.  While this is going on Mother Blackwing goes modestly away for a bite, a sup, and a little exercise, returning to the kittens when the cat leaves them.  It is pretty to see her settle down over the four, fat, furry dumplings, and they seem to know no difference in warmth or comfort, whichever mother is brooding them; while, as their eyes have been open for a week, it can no longer be called a blind error on their part.

When we have closed all our small hen-nurseries for the night, there is still the large house inhabited by the thirty-two full-grown chickens which Phoebe calls the broilers.  I cannot endure the term, and will not use it.  “Now for the April chicks,” I say every evening.

“Do you mean the broilers?” asks Phoebe.

“I mean the big April chicks,” say I.

“Yes, them are the broilers,” says she.

But is it not disagreeable enough to be a broiler when one’s time comes, without having the gridiron waved in one’s face for weeks beforehand?