the 'eena' on the
end makes it a girl's name, you see."

"Oh, I don't mind it in the least," returned the yellow hen. "It
doesn't matter at all what you call me, so long as I know the name
means ME."

"Very well, Billina. MY name is Dorothy Gale--just Dorothy to my
friends and Miss Gale to strangers. You may call me Dorothy, if you
like. We're getting very near the shore. Do you suppose it is too
deep for me to wade the rest of the way?"

"Wait a few minutes longer. The sunshine is warm and pleasant, and we
are in no hurry."

"But my feet are all wet and soggy," said the girl. "My dress is dry
enough, but I won't feel real comfor'ble till I get my feet dried."

She waited, however, as the hen advised, and before long the big wooden
coop grated gently on the sandy beach and the dangerous voyage was over.

It did not take the castaways long to reach the shore, you may be sure.
The yellow hen flew to the sands at once, but Dorothy had to climb over
the high slats. Still, for a country girl, that was not much of a
feat, and as soon as she was safe ashore Dorothy drew off her wet shoes
and stockings and spread them upon the sun-warmed beach to dry.

Then she sat down and watched Billina, who was pick-pecking away with
her sharp bill in the sand and gravel, which she scratched up and
turned over with her strong claws.

"What are you doing?" asked Dorothy.

"Getting my breakfast, of course," murmured the hen, busily pecking
away.

"What do you find?" inquired the girl, curiously.

"Oh, some fat red ants, and some sand-bugs, and once in a while a tiny
crab. They are very sweet and nice, I assure you."

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Dorothy, in a shocked voice.

"What is dreadful?" asked the hen, lifting her head to gaze with one
bright eye at her companion.

"Why, eating live things, and horrid bugs, and crawly ants. You ought
to be 'SHAMED of yourself!"

"Goodness me!" returned the hen, in a puzzled tone; "how queer you are,
Dorothy! Live things are much fresher and more wholesome than dead
ones, and you humans eat all sorts of dead creatures."

"We don't!" said Dorothy.

"You do, indeed," answered Billina. "You eat lambs and sheep and cows
and pigs and even chickens."

"But we cook 'em," said Dorothy, triumphantly.

"What difference does that make?"

"A good deal," said the girl, in a graver tone. "I can't just 'splain
the diff'rence, but it's there. And, anyhow, we never eat such
dreadful