“Shut the gate,” said Barbara, “you have no business in our garden; and as for your hen, I shall keep it; it is always flying in here, and plaguing us, and my father says it is a trespasser; and he told me I might catch it and keep it the next time it got in, and it is in now.” Then Barbara called to her maid, Betty, and bid her catch the mischievous hen.
“Oh, my guinea-hen! my pretty guinea-hen!” cried Susan, as they hunted the frightened, screaming creature from corner to corner.
“Here we have got it!” said Betty, holding it fast by the legs.
“Now pay damages, Queen Susan, or good-bye to your pretty guinea-hen,” said Barbara, in an insulting tone.
“Damages! what damages?” said Susan; “tell me what I must pay.”
“A shilling,” said Barbara.
“Oh, if sixpence would do!” said Susan; “I have but sixpence of my own in the world, and here it is.”
“It won’t do,” said Barbara, turning her back.
“Nay, but hear me,” cried Susan; “let me at least come in to look for its eggs. I only want one for my father’s supper; you shall have all the rest.”
“What’s your father, or his supper to us? is he so nice that he can eat none but guinea-hen’s eggs?” said Barbara. “If you want your hen and your eggs, pay for them, and you’ll have them.”