“I saw it lying down here somewhere, once,” said he, “but I can’t find it now.”
“Why didn’t you pick it up and put it away in some safe place?” said Stuyvesant, “or get it put on?”
“Why, I don’t know,” said Phonny. “You see we don’t want to shut up the hens much in the summer.”
“No,” replied Stuyvesant; “but it is a great deal better to have the doors all in order.”
“Why is it better?” asked Phonny.
“It is more satisfactory,” said Stuyvesant.
“Satisfactory!” repeated Phonny. “Hoh!”
Stuyvesant went into the hen-house. Phonny followed him in.
It was a small room, with a loft upon one side of it. The floor was covered with sticks, straw and litter. In one corner was a barrel, three quarters filled with hay. There were two or three bars overhead for the hens to roost upon. Stuyvesant looked around upon all these objects for a few minutes in silence, and then pointing up to the loft, he asked,