“When did they come?” Franklin asked.
“Last night. And the house was built yesterday, while you were over at Fred’s. That’s Grandma’s present too.”
“Well, I’ll be—thunderstruck!” Franklin exclaimed. “Oh, I say, what a bully padlock! Isn’t Grandmother a brick? Are they in there now?”
“Go and see,” said his mother, handing him the key.
Franklin unlocked the door, with shining eyes and a new feeling of importance. There was money in chickens, everybody said.
A fine young rooster was standing solemnly in his pan of food, surrounded by five admiring wives, who cocked their heads at Franklin as he approached.
“Plymouth Rocks!” he exclaimed. “Oh, Mother, these are first-rate chickens!”
“Let them out!” Mrs. Wood called. “The little door lifts up.”
Franklin opened the door, and the fowls strutted out in thoughtful procession, winking their lemon-colored eyes at the sun. Then the rooster drew a long breath, raised his head to an alarming height, and, after several attempts, indulged in a strange sound which he had evidently planned for a crow. His wives all looked impressed; but Franklin laughed, and Eunice, who came running out in her coat and red “pussy” hood, asked: “Oh, Franklin, is that poor hen sick?” Mrs. Wood and Kenneth came out too, and discussed names for the new arrivals.
“They ought to have colonial titles,” Mrs. Wood said; “but I can’t think of anything but ‛Praise God Barebones,’ and that wouldn’t be handy to call one by.”