I wonder if the hen mother is quite, quite satisfied with her ducklings!  Do you suppose the fact of hatching and brooding them breaks down all the sense of difference?  Does she not sometimes reflect that if her children were the ordinary sort, and not these changelings, she would be enjoying certain pretty little attentions dear to a mother’s heart?  The chicks would be pecking the food off her broad beak with their tiny ones, and jumping on her back to slide down her glossy feathers.  They would be far nicer to cuddle, too, so small and graceful and light; the changelings are a trifle solid and brawny.  And personally, just as a matter of taste, would she not prefer wee, round, glancing heads, and pointed beaks, peeping from under her wings, to these teaspoon-shaped things larger than her own?  I wonder!

We are training fourteen large young chickens to sit on the perches in their new house, instead of huddling together on the floor as has been their habit, because we discover rat-holes under the wire flooring occasionally, and fear that toes may be bitten.  At nine o’clock Phoebe and I lift the chickens one by one, and, as it were, glue them to their perches, squawking.  Three nights have we gone patiently through with this performance, but they have not learned the lesson.  The ducks and geese are, however, greatly improved by the application of advanced educational methods, and the regime of perfect order and system instituted by Me begins to show results.

There is no more violent splashing and pebbling, racing, chasing, separating.  The pole, indeed, still has to be produced, but at the first majestic wave of my hand they scuttle toward the shore.  The geese turn to the right, cross the rickyard, and go to their pen; the May ducks turn to the left for their coops, the June ducks follow the hens to the top meadow, and even the idiot gosling has an inspiration now and then and stumbles on his own habitation.

Mrs. Heaven has no reverence for the principles of Comenius, Pestalozzi, or Herbert Spencer as applied to poultry, and when the ducks and geese came out of the pond badly the other night and went waddling and tumbling and hissing all over creation, did not approve of my sending them back into the pond to start afresh.

“I consider it a great waste of time, of good time, miss,” she said; “and, after all, do you consider that educated poultry will be any better eating, or that it will lay more than one egg a day, miss?”

I have given the matter some attention, and I fear Mrs. Heaven is right.  A duck, a goose, or a hen in which I have developed a larger brain, implanted a sense of duty, or instilled an idea of self-government, is likely, on the whole, to be leaner, not fatter.  There is nothing like obeying the voice of conscience for taking the flesh off one’s bones; and, speaking of conscience, Phoebe, whose metaphysics are of the farm farmy, says that hers “felt like a hunlaid hegg for dyes” after she had jilted the postman.