them straight
again, for coolness. "I am tired of scrabbling in the dust, and
fly-catching is an amusement only suited to sparrows and such vulgar
birds."

This was a hit at one of the foreign hens, who had wandered away a
little and was pecking at flies on the wall. The two common hens were
very fond of vexing the foreign ones, for their feelings were hurt at
being reckoned less beautiful and rare.

The tufted fair one heard the remark, and called out spitefully from a
distance: "If certain people were not ignorant country bumpkins, they
would be able to tell a good story themselves."

"That remark can't apply to me, for I know a great number of stories,"
replied the common hen, turning her head on one side to show her
contempt. "For instance: once upon a time there was a hen who laid
nothing but soft-shelled eggs--"

"You can't mean _me_ by that story," said the tufted one, "for I have
only laid one soft-shelled egg in my whole life. So there! But do tell
me how your interesting story ends--I am so anxious to hear the end."

"You know that best yourself," retorted the other.

"Now I'm sure, dear Father Cock, you could tell us something really
amusing if you would be so kind," said the second common hen, who was
standing near him. "Those two make one's life a burthen, with their
everlasting wrangling and bickering."

"Hush!" said the cock, who was standing motionless with one leg in the
air, an attitude he often assumed when any very hard thinking had to be
done; "I was just trying to recollect one."

After a pause, he said in a solemn voice: "I will tell you the terrible
tale of the troubles of 'The Hens of Hencastle.'

"Once upon a time--it was the village fair week, when, as you know,
every one eats and drinks as much as he possibly can, and consequently a
great many animals are killed,--the farmer's cook came into the
fowlyard, and after carefully looking over all the chickens, remarked
that seven of them would be twisting merrily on the spit next morning.
On hearing this, all the fowls were plunged into the deepest despair,
for no one felt sure that he would not be of the seven, and no one could
guess how the victims would be chosen. Two young cockerels, in their
deep perplexity, at last went to the yard-dog, Flaps by name, who was a
very great friend of theirs, and to him they cackled out their woes.

"'Why do you stop here?' asked Flaps. 'If you had any pluck at all you
would run away.'

"'Ah! Per