“A rose in a pot,” said her mother.
Peggy laughed. “Oh, mother, you are ’way off. It has feathers.”
“You haven’t bought a canary-bird?” Mrs. Owen said in tones of dismay.
“No, mother, she is much more useful. It is a hen, and her name is Henrietta Cox, and Miss Betsy gave me a young cock because he crowed so he woke up the neighbors; and we haven’t any near neighbors. And his name is Henry Cox.”
“A hen and a cock! Peggy, what will you think of next!”
“You said I could get anything I liked, mother, and I am sure a hen is much more useful than a doll’s carriage. I’ll let you have one of her eggs every third morning for your breakfast.”
“Did you ever stop to think how they were to be fed? Grain is so high now many people have stopped raising hens.”
“Miss Betsy says the Rhode Island Reds aren’t so particular as some hens. She says you can feed them partly with sour milk and scraps off the table.”
“Sour milk!” said Mrs. Owen; “it’s all very well for Miss Betsy to talk about sour milk, for her brother keeps a cow, and he sends her all the skim milk she can use. I am surprised she let you have a hen and cock without consulting me.”
“She did say she would send them up this afternoon by old Michael if you would let me have them,” faltered Peggy. “But, oh, mother dear, I do want them so much. It isn’t as if I had spent my money on something foolish, like candy.”