‘Cluck-cluck-cluck-ca-da-cut!’ called the hens, not wishing to be left out of the conversation. ‘We are going on a pleasure trip, for pleasure only. We don’t know whether we are coming back or not. We belong to Farmer Hill.’
‘I never heard of Farmer Hill,’ barked Twinkle, ‘but he can’t be as good as Jimmy. Jimmy is the best little boy that ever lived.’
‘He isn’t any better than Patty,’ spoke up loyal Polly. ‘Patty is the best little girl to live with that any dolly ever knew.’
‘Does she throw sticks in the water for you to bring out?’ asked Twinkle. ‘Jimmy does.’
‘No,’ answered Polly, ‘but she takes me out for a walk every day.’
‘Does she run races with you up to the big tree and back?’ asked Twinkle. ‘Jimmy does.’
‘No,’ answered Polly, ‘but she brushes my hair and rocks me to sleep and we often have parties together, Polly and I.’
‘Does she give you chicken bones, always the drumstick and sometimes more?’ asked Twinkle. ‘Jimmy does.’
But before Polly could answer, and indeed at the very mention of chicken bones, all the hens began to squawk and shriek and cluck until the noise grew so disturbing that a trainhand put his head in the doorway of the car to see what was the matter.
You may be sure that Polly and Twinkle made never a sound. So the trainman only shook his cap at the boxful of fluttering hens and called out, ‘S-sh-sh, Biddy, s-sh-sh!’ Then he went away.