tch it was nearly eleven.

"You mustn't go, of course, until you have seen the chickens," said Mr.
Sprig.

The chickens! Under the charm of the softly lighted room, the old
gentleman's quiet flow of half-whimsical, half-serious reminiscence,
they had been carried back to the rosy days that were before their
birth. Now they dreaded lest their host should show himself a little
mad, after all.

He lit a bedside candle, and at his request they followed him out upon a
sun parlour. And there, indeed, was a wire-enclosed runaway with a
white-washed shelf at the end supporting four sleeping forms. The candle
moved nearer, and there they were--beyond any possible doubt, Plymouth
Rocks.

To see them at night was a nice problem, he explained. Being a little
light-minded about sunshine, it seemed that they were unable to
discriminate between heaven's high lamp and the electric one on the
porch, and would dutifully arise when either appeared. Once down from
their perch, they would refuse to return until the sun was removed; and
when it chanced to be the one on the porch and was switched off, they
were unable to return because their endowment of optic nerve was small
and their homing instinct, so strong in bees and eagles, smaller. There
was created, accordingly, an _impasse_, but Mr. Sprig, who knew his
hens, circumvented it. He lit a bedside candle which merely troubled his
friends' sleep.

"The one on the extreme left is Helen of Troy. She is a stunning
creature, as you can see. She produced an egg for me only this morning.
Next is Malvolio. I confess I am partial to him. Then comes Little Nell.
She is extremely demure and inclined to be sentimental. And last is
Carol Kennicott, who chatters so much I am afraid I shall shortly have
to pop her into a pie." He gazed at her affectionately. "Well," he
continued as he led the way back into his library, "I have now shown you
my treasures. They, of course, seem a little crazy to you, and I hope
your lives will end so fully that you won't have to fall back on them.
But in case either of you should find yourself old and foolish and
alone, I can recommend them as pleasant and amiable companions. You will
find them curiously simple--they are not offended if you don't call upon
them or write them letters,--and then from time to time they yield up to
you the shining miracle of an egg, for which they ask no recompense; and
when they come to lay down their lives they do it with a gesture a