CHAPTER VII.
July 12th.
O the pathos of a poultry farm! Catherine of Aragon, the black Spanish hen that stole her nest, brought out nine chicks this morning, and the business-like and marble-hearted Phoebe has taken them away and given them to another hen who has only seven.

Two mothers cannot be wasted on these small families--it would not be profitable; and the older mother, having been tried and found faithful over seven, has been given the other nine and accepted them.

What of the bereft one?
She is miserable and stands about moping and forlorn, but it is no use fighting against the inevitable; hens' hearts must obey the same laws that govern the rotation of crops.

Catherine of Aragon feels her lot a bitter one just now, but in time she will succumb, and lay, which is more to the point.
We have had a very busy evening, beginning with the rats' supper--delicate sandwiches of bread-and-butter spread with Paris green.
We have a new brood of seventeen ducklings just hatched this afternoon.
When we came to the nest the yellow and brown bunches of down and fluff were peeping out from under the hen's wings in the prettiest fashion in the world.
"It's a noble hen!" I said to Phoebe.
"She ain't so nowble as she looks," Phoebe answered grimly.

"It was another 'en that brooded these eggs for near on three weeks and then this big one come along with a fancy she'd like a family 'erself if she could steal one without too much trouble; so she drove the rightful 'en off the nest, finished up the last few days, and 'ere she is in possession of the ducklings!" "Why don't you take them away from her and give them back to the first hen, who did most of the work ?" I asked, with some spirit.
"Like as not she wouldn't tyke them now," said Phoebe, as she lifted the hen off the broken egg-shells and moved her gently into a clean box, on a bed of fresh hay.