On the first morning that the fowls were shut in there, a very queer thing happened. The first Hen to go on a nest exclaimed, "Why, who was here ahead of me?"

n.o.body answered, and the Hen asked again.

At last the Speckled Hen said, "I think you are the first one to lay this morning."

"The first one!" exclaimed the Black Hen, for it was she, as she backed out onto the floor again. "You must not expect me to believe that I am the first when there is an egg in the nest already." As she spoke she pointed in with her bill, and the others came crowding around.

There lay a fine, large, and quite shiny egg. While they were still looking and wondering which Hen had laid it, the Brown Hen discovered that there was an egg in each of the six other nests. She was so excited that for a minute she could hardly cackle. The Black Hen began to look angry, and stood her feathers on end and shook herself in a way that she had when she was much displeased. She was not a good-natured Hen.

"You think that you are very smart," she said, "but _I_ think that you are very silly. Every fowl here knows that I always like to be the first on the nest in the morning, and yet seven of you must have laid in the night to get ahead of me. I don't mind having an egg in the nest. Every Hen likes to find at least one there. It is the mean way in which you tried to prevent my getting ahead of the rest of you."

The Hens insisted that they never took their feet from the perches all night long, and the Speckled Hen, who was a very kind little person, tried to show the Black Hen that it was all a mistake of some sort.

"Perhaps they were laid in there yesterday," said she, "only we did not notice them when we came in."

The c.o.c.ks kept still, although they looked very knowing. They did not want to offend any of the Hens by taking sides. At last the Brown Hen spoke. It always seemed that she made some trouble every time she opened her bill. "I remember," said she, "that there was not an egg there when I went to roost last night. The last thing I did before flying up onto my perch was to look in all the nests and try to decide which I preferred."

Then there was more trouble, and in the midst of it the Speckled Hen hopped into one of the nests. "Sorry to get ahead of you," she said politely to the Black Hen, "but the truth is that I feel like laying."

She gave a little squawk as she brushed against the egg there. "It is light!" she cried. "It is light and slippery! None of us ever laid such an egg as that."

"Of course not," said one of the c.o.c.ks, who now saw his way to stop the trouble. "Of course none of you lay that sort of eggs. I could have told you that long ago, if you had asked me."

When the fowls were all looking at each other and wondering what sort of creature it could be who had slipped in and laid the eggs there, a tiny door in the outside wall, just back of one of the nests, was opened, and the Man peeped in. All he saw was a number of fowls standing around and looking as though they had been very much surprised. Half of the Hens stood with one foot in the air. He dropped the door, which was hinged at the top, and then the fowls looked at each other again. It was a great comfort to them at times like these to be able to look both ways at once. "The Man opened those little doors while we were asleep, and put those eggs in," they said. "They are not Hens' eggs at all. Probably they are some that his table laid."

It was only a minute before all the nests were in use, and soon the noise of puzzled and even angry clucking was replaced by the joyous cackling of Hens who felt that they had done their work for the day.

"Of course," said the Speckled Hen, "those eggs cannot be so good as the ones we lay, but I do not mind the feeling of them at all. And I must say that finding them already in a strange nest makes it seem much more homelike to me. This Man acts as though he really understood Hens and wanted to make them happy."

THE WHITE PLYMOUTH ROCKS COME

Only a few days after the new poultry-house had been opened to the fowls on the place, the Man came home from town with a crate in his light wagon. In the crate were a c.o.c.k and ten Hens. All were very beautiful White Plymouth Rocks, and larger than any of the fowls on the place would have supposed possible. You can imagine what a scurrying to and fro there was among those who had always lived on the place, and how many questions they asked of each other, questions which n.o.body was able to answer.

"Are they to live on this farm?" said one.

"It must be so," answered another. "Don't you see that the Man is getting ready to open the crate?"

"Where do you suppose they came from?" asked a third. "Why, they are almost as big as Turkeys."

"Altogether too large, I think," said a Bantam. "It makes fowls look coa.r.s.e to be so overgrown."

"What is that?" asked the Shanghai c.o.c.k, sharply. He had come up from behind without the Bantam's seeing him, and she hardly knew what to answer. She lowered her head and pecked at the ground, because she did not know what to say. She dared not tell the Shanghai c.o.c.k, who was very tall, that she thought large fowls looked coa.r.s.e. So she kept still. It would have been much better if she had held up her head and told the truth, which was that she disliked to have large fowls around, since it made her seem smaller.

"I think," said the Shanghai c.o.c.k, "that if a fowl is good, the more there is of him the better. If he is not good, the smaller he is the better." He looked over towards the wagon as he spoke, but the Bantam knew that he meant her, and then she was even more uncomfortable. She thought people were all looking at her, and she felt smaller than ever.

The Man backed the wagon up to the outer gate of the second poultry-yard, which was just between the one where the Chickens were with their mothers and the one into which the older fowls were allowed to go. Then he loosened the side of the crate very carefully and took the new-comers out, one at a time. He had to hold the side of the crate with his hand, so the only way in which he could lift the fowls out was by taking them by the legs in his other hand and putting them, head downward, into the yard. One would think that it might be quite annoying to a fowl to have to enter his new home in that fashion, with all the others watching, but the White Plymouth Rocks did not seem to mind it in the least. Perhaps that was because they had been carried so before and were used to it. Perhaps, too, it was because they felt sure that the fowls who were standing around had also been carried by the legs. Perhaps it was just because they were exceedingly sensible fowls and knew that such things did not matter in the least. At all events, each Hen gave herself a good shake when allowed to go free, settled her feathers quickly, and began to walk around.

The c.o.c.k did the same, only he crowed and crowed and crowed, as much as to say, "How fine it is to be able to stretch once more! A fellow could not get room to crow properly in that crate."

[Ill.u.s.tration: TOOK THE NEW-COMERS OUT, ONE AT A TIME. _Page 88_]

Now everybody knows that the poultry who had been long on the place should have spoken pleasantly to the White Plymouth Rocks at once. It would have made them much happier and would have been the kind thing to do. They did not do it, and there were different reasons for this.

The Shanghai c.o.c.k was so used to saying disagreeable things every day to the fowls whom he knew, that now, when he really wanted very much to be agreeable, he found he did not know how. There are many people in the world who have that trouble. The Bantam Hen was cross, and walked away, saying to herself, "I guess they are big enough to take care of themselves." And that was a mistake, as you very well know, for n.o.body in this world is big enough to be perfectly happy without the kindness and friendship of others.

As for the rest of the fowls, some of them didn't care about being polite; some of them didn't know what was the best thing to say and so did not say anything; and some thought it would not do to talk to them, because they were not so large and fine-looking as the White Plymouth Rocks. They really wanted to do the kind thing, but were afraid they did not look well enough. As though kindness were not a great deal more important than the sort of feathers one wears!

The White Plymouth Rocks did the best that they could about it. They chatted pleasantly among themselves, saying that it was a fine day, and that it seemed good to set foot on gra.s.s once more, and that they had sadly missed having a bit of gra.s.s to eat with their grain and water while they were in the crate.

It was at this time that the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen in the next yard came over to the wire netting which separated the two. She would have come sooner if it had not been for her Chickens. Two of them had been quarrelling over a fat bug which they found, and she stayed to settle the trouble and scold them as they deserved. Now she came stepping forward in her very best manner to greet the strangers. She knew that she was not so large as they, and that her barred gray feathers were not nearly so showy as their gleaming white ones, but she also knew that somebody should welcome them to the farm, and she was ashamed that it had not been done sooner.

"Good-morning," said she. "I am very glad that you have come here to live."

"Oh, thank you," replied all the White Plymouth Rocks together. "We are very glad to meet you. We hope to be happy here."

"Have you come far?" asked the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen.

"Very far," said they. "Unless you have taken such a journey you can have no idea how glad we are to be free again."

"I have never taken any journey," said she, "except the time I came here to live, and that was when I was only a Chicken. I do not remember much about it. I fluttered out of a crate that was being carried in a wagon, and ran around alone until I happened to find this place."

"How sad!" exclaimed the c.o.c.k. "I hope you have had no such hard time since. They seem to have a good poultry-house here, although I have not yet been inside."

"It is a good one," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, "but I do not sleep in it these warm nights. I stay in a coop in my yard with my children." As she spoke she looked lovingly down at the white flock around her feet. They were growing finely and already showed some small feathers on their wings.

"Oh!" exclaimed the Hens in the other yard. "Oh, what beautiful Chickens! So strong! So quick! So well-behaved! How long is it since you hatched them?"

"Well," replied their mother, "I suppose I did not hatch them. I sat long enough on the nest and laid enough eggs, but the Man who owns the farm took away my eggs and brought me these Chickens. He has a sort of table down in his cellar which hatches out all the Chickens on the farm. I might just as well have saved myself all those tiresome days and nights of sitting if I had known how it would be."

"That is a good thing to know," said one of the new-comers. "On the farm from which we came, all the Chickens are hatched in that way. We never had a mother who was alive."

"Not until after you were hatched I suppose," remarked the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, who thought the other did not mean exactly what she had said.

"We had no real mother then," said the White Plymouth Rock Hen. "There were so many of us that we had to get along without. The Man who owned us had a lot of things to take the place of mothers. They were made of wood and some soft stuff and he used to set them around in the yards on pleasant days. We ate the food and drank the water that were brought to us, and then we played around in the gra.s.s near the make-believe mothers. When we were tired or cold we crawled under them and cuddled down, and when we were scared we did the same way. We were very well cared for by the Men, and we all grew to be strong and healthy fowls, but I sometimes wish that we could have had a live mother to snuggle under and to love."

The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen was greatly surprised. "I think it is well to save the Hens having to hatch out the broods," she said, "but they should be willing to care for the Chickens. There is nothing quite so good as a live mother."

Another Plymouth Rock Hen strolled up. "I have been in the pen and the scratching-shed," said she, "and I think them delightful."

"Are they at all like what you had before coming here?" asked the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen.

"Very much the same," was the reply. "Only on the farm from which we came there were a great, great many more pens. It took four Men to care for us all. Most of us were White Plymouth Rocks. What are those fowls outside? We never saw any that looked just like them."

"Oh," replied the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen with a little smile, "they don't know exactly what they are. The Shanghai c.o.c.k is a Shanghai, as any one can tell by looking at his long and feathery legs, but he and I are the only ones who belong to fine families. He is really an excellent fellow, although, of course, being a Shanghai is not being a Plymouth Rock."

"Of course not," agreed all the new fowls, speaking quite together.

"We understand perfectly. You mean that he is a very good Shanghai."

"Exactly," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen. "The other fowls think him rather cross, but he never has been cross to me. I think he gets tired of hearing some of them quarrel and fuss, and then he speaks right out."