“Dear me!” she exclaimed, in surprise; “have you been here all night, too?”

“Of course,” answered the hen, fluttering her wings and yawning.  “When the coop blew away from the ship I clung fast to this corner, with claws and beak, for I knew if I fell into the water I’d surely be drowned.  Indeed, I nearly drowned, as it was, with all that water washing over me.  I never was so wet before in my life!”

“Yes,” agreed Dorothy, “it was pretty wet, for a time, I know.  But do you feel comfor’ble now?”

“Not very.  The sun has helped to dry my feathers, as it has your dress, and I feel better since I laid my morning egg.  But what’s to become of us, I should like to know, afloat on this big pond?”

“I’d like to know that, too,” said Dorothy.  “But, tell me; how does it happen that you are able to talk?  I thought hens could only cluck and cackle.”

“Why, as for that,” answered the yellow hen thoughtfully, “I’ve clucked and cackled all my life, and never spoken a word before this morning, that I can remember.  But when you asked a question, a minute ago, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to answer you.  So I spoke, and I seem to keep on speaking, just as you and other human beings do.  Strange, isn’t it?”

“Very,” replied Dorothy.  “If we were in the Land of Oz, I wouldn’t think it so queer, because many of the animals can talk in that fairy country.  But out here in the ocean must be a good long way from Oz.”

“How is my grammar?” asked the yellow hen, anxiously.  “Do I speak quite properly, in your judgment?”

“Yes,” said Dorothy, “you do very well, for a beginner.”

“I’m glad to know that,” continued the yellow hen, in a confidential tone; “because, if one is going to talk, it’s best to talk correctly.  The red rooster has often said that my cluck and my cackle were quite perfect; and now it’s a comfort to know I am talking properly.”

“I’m beginning to get hungry,” remarked Dorothy.  “It’s breakfast time; but there’s no breakfast.”

“You may have my egg,” said the yellow hen.  “I don’t care for it, you know.”

“Don’t you want to hatch it?” asked the little girl, in surprise.

“No, indeed; I never care to hatch eggs unless I’ve a nice snug nest, in some quiet place, with a baker’s dozen of eggs under me.  That’s thirteen, you know, and it’s a lucky number for hens.  So you may as well eat this egg.”

“Oh, I couldn’t POSS’BLY eat it, unless it was cooked,” exclaimed Dorothy.  “But I’m much obliged for your kindness, just the same.”

“Don’t mention it, my dear,” answered the hen, calmly, and began preening her feathers.

For a moment Dorothy stood looking out over the wide sea.  She was still thinking of the egg, though; so presently she asked: 

“Why do you lay eggs, when you don’t expect to hatch them?”

“It’s a habit I have,” replied the yellow hen.  “It has always been my pride to lay a fresh egg every morning, except when I’m moulting.  I never feel like having my morning cackle till the egg is properly laid, and without the chance to cackle I would not be happy.”