s."

Upon this Mollie caught up the block lying in her lap, Florence
re-threaded her needle, Nellie Dimock hunted up her thimble, which had
rolled under the table, and industry was the order of the day.

And while they worked, Miss Ruth told the story of

THE WIDOW BANTAM.

"She belonged to our next-door neighbor, and we called her the Widow
because her mate--a fine plucky little bantam rooster--was one day slain
while doing battle with the great red chanticleer who ruled the
hen-yard.

"I took pity on the little hen in her loneliness, and singled her out
from the flock for special attention. She very soon knew my voice, would
come at my call, and used to slip through a gap in the fence and pay me
a visit every day. If the kitchen door were open she walked in without
ceremony; if closed, she flew to the window, tapped on the glass with
her bill, flapped her wings, and gave us clearly to understand that she
wished to be admitted. Once inside, she set up a shrill cackling till I
attended to her wants, and scolded me at the top of her voice if I kept
her long waiting. When she had eaten more cracked corn and Indian meal
than you would think so small a body could contain, she walked about in
a slow, contented way, and was ready for all the petting we chose to
give her.

"She was a pretty creature, with a speckled coat and a comb the color of
red coral: very small, but lively and vigorous, and exhibiting in all
her movements both grace and stateliness. She would nestle in my lap,
take a ride on my shoulder, and walk the length of my arm to peck at a
bit of cake in my hand, regarding me all the while with a queer
sidelong glance, and croaking out her satisfaction and content. When she
was ready to go she walked to the kitchen door, and asked in a very
shrill voice to be let out. She continued these visits till late in the
fall, when she was shut up with the rest of our neighbor's flock for the
winter.

"One bitter cold day in January we heard a faint cackle outside, and,
opening the kitchen door, found our poor widow in a sorry plight. One
foot was frozen, her feathers were all rough and dirty, her wings
drooping, her bright comb changed to a dull red. How she escaped from
the hen-house, surmounted the high fence, and hobbled or flew to our
door, we did not know; but there she was, half-dead with hunger and
cold.

"We did what we could for her. I bathed and bandaged the swollen foot,
and made a warm bed for her i