the family--Father and Mother, and both pups, were
taking a siesta. She went over to the cottage; a profound silence
reigned there also. She rambled around restlessly for a few moments,
then, taking "Ivanhoe" and a pocketful of cookies, went out into the
orchard. It was hot even there. The air seemed heavy and the birds
contented themselves with lazy chirpings. She swung herself up into her
favorite tree and began to munch and read.

But she did not read long. The charm of the green world around her was
greater than the pictured world of the book. Chicken Little fell to
making pictures of her own--dream pictures that changed quickly into
other dream pictures, as real dreams sometimes do. As she stared down
the leafy arcades between the rows of apple trees, she saw an immense
ball room hung in red, white, and blue bunting and filled with
astonishingly handsome young men in blue uniforms. Ernest was there. And
a tall, curly-headed Adonis, who looked both like, and unlike, the
good-natured, plump Carol of Old Centerville days, was close beside her.
But when the supposed Carol spoke, it was certainly Sherm's voice she
heard, and it was Sherm's odd, crooked smile that curved the dream
midshipman's lips. Chicken Little recognized the absurdity of this
herself and laughed happily. A bird on a bough nearby took this for a
challenge, and burst into an ecstasy of trills.

"Pshaw," she whispered to herself, "I wonder what it would really be
like." She kept on wondering. She felt as if she and the orchard were
wrapped about with a great cloud, like a veil, and that beyond this, all
the wonderful things that must surely happen when she grew up, were
hidden. The twilight was falling before she stretched her cramped limbs
and slid down the rough tree trunk. She picked up her neglected book,
which had fallen to the ground unnoticed, and said aloud, with a little
mocking curtsey:

"Your pardon, Sir Walter, but I made a romance of my own that
was--nicer."

Then she tucked the slighted author under her arm and flew to the house
before the pursuing shadows. Chicken Little was growing up.

THE END

Every grown-up will remember the time when

"Chicken Little"

was a most wonderful tale with which to open wide the eyes of children.

Many a fond mother will be glad to know of another "Chicken Little" just
brought to light in handsome book form under the alluring title

CHICKEN LITTLE JANE

A DELIGHTFUL STORY BY LILY MUNSEL