"I'll take a look at the woods first," said David; "and then I want to make a place in the stable for the sheep, father. They must come under shelter to-night I'll fix new stalls for the horses inside where we used to have the corn crib. The cows can go where the horses have been, and the sheep can have the shed of the cows: it's better than nothing. I've been wanting to do this ever since I came home from college."
A thoughtless, unfortunate remark, as connected with that shabby, desperate idea of finding shelter for the stock—fresh reminder of the creeping, spreading poverty. His father made no rejoinder; and having finished his breakfast in silence, left the table.
His mother, looking across her coffeecup and biscuit at David, without change of expression inquired,—
"Will you get that hen?"
"WHAT hen, mother?"
"I told you last night the cook wanted one of the old hens for soup to-day. Will you get it?"
"No, mother; I will not get the hen for the cook; the cook will probably get the hen for me."
"She doesn't know the right one."
"But neither do I."
"I want the blue dorking."