had been doing for some moments past.

"Why, we are not far from land!" exclaimed the hen.

"Where? Where is it?" cried Dorothy, jumping up in great excitement.

"Over there a little way," answered the hen, nodding her head in a
certain direction. "We seem to be drifting toward it, so that before
noon we ought to find ourselves upon dry land again."

"I shall like that!" said Dorothy, with a little sigh, for her feet and
legs were still wetted now and then by the sea-water that came through
the open slats.

"So shall I," answered her companion. "There is nothing in the world
so miserable as a wet hen."

The land, which they seemed to be rapidly approaching, since it grew
more distinct every minute, was quite beautiful as viewed by the little
girl in the floating hen-coop. Next to the water was a broad beach of
white sand and gravel, and farther back were several rocky hills, while
beyond these appeared a strip of green trees that marked the edge of a
forest. But there were no houses to be seen, nor any sign of people
who might inhabit this unknown land.

"I hope we shall find something to eat," said Dorothy, looking eagerly
at the pretty beach toward which they drifted. "It's long past
breakfast time, now."

"I'm a trifle hungry, myself," declared the yellow hen.

"Why don't you eat the egg?" asked the child. "You don't need to have
your food cooked, as I do."

"Do you take me for a cannibal?" cried the hen, indignantly. "I do not
know what I have said or done that leads you to insult me!"

"I beg your pardon, I'm sure Mrs.--Mrs.--by the way, may I inquire your
name, ma'am?" asked the little girl.

"My name is Bill," said the yellow hen, somewhat gruffly.

"Bill! Why, that's a boy's name."

"What difference does that make?"

"You're a lady hen, aren't you?"

"Of course. But when I was first hatched out no one could tell whether
I was going to be a hen or a rooster; so the little boy at the farm
where I was born called me Bill, and made a pet of me because I was the
only yellow chicken in the whole brood. When I grew up, and he found
that I didn't crow and fight, as all the roosters do, he did not think
to change my name, and every creature in the barn-yard, as well as the
people in the house, knew me as 'Bill.' So Bill I've always been
called, and Bill is my name."

"But it's all wrong, you know," declared Dorothy, earnestly; "and, if
you don't mind, I shall call you 'Billina.' Putting