ain.
Meanwhile it was hard on the hen.

Nothing of the sort happened; one, two, three months passed and
not the least vestige of down appeared on the hen, who had to be
protected like a human being from the changes of climate and so
forth. Like a well-to-do farmer's wife Yollande had her
linen-chest and a complete outfit.

It was, I assure you, my dear children, kept up most carefully.
There was always a button to sew on, a buttonhole to remake, or a
tear to be mended. Thus constantly in touch with the household
Madame Hen soon thought she belonged to it. Indeed, worn out by
the teasing of her companions, by the constant arguments she had
with them, and touched on the other hand by the affectionate care
of her mistresses, Yollande stayed more and more in the house.
Coddled and swathed in her fantastic costumes, she sat in the
chimney corner like a little Cinderella changed into a hen; from
this corner she quietly watched; nothing escaped her notice.

Meanwhile her reputation had grown, not only amongst her comrades,
but amongst all the animals of the neighbourhood, who, hearing her
discussed, were anxious to see her.

Woe to the cat or dog who dared venture too far into the room!
Very annoyed at this impertinent curiosity, she would leap upon
the importunate stranger and punish him terribly with her sharp
beak. Of course he would run off howling and frightened to death.
It was very funny to watch.

Mother Etienne and Germaine were much amused at these little
comedies, and whenever visitors came to the farm they would try to
provoke one. Everyone enjoyed them hugely.

Germaine treated Yollande like a doll. She made her all sorts of
fashionable clothes. The Cochin-China would be dressed sometimes
like a man, sometimes like a woman. She had made her quite a
collection of little trousers and vests, which had style, I can
tell you. She had copied, too, from a circus she had seen, an
English clown's costume which was most becoming. Nothing could be
funnier than to watch this tiny dwarf, to see her strut, jump,
dance, coming and going, skipping around suddenly,--one moment
skittish, the next very important.

Petit-Jacques loved to tease her, but not roughly; he would push
her with his foot, and make her jump at him impatiently, looking
perfectly ridiculous in her quaint dress. You could have sworn she
was a miniature clown. Add to all this, the queer inarticulate
sounds she made when she was angry, and even then you