"I'm going to put all the egg chickens in it," she answered as we scuttled into the barn out of the wind.
"The lamp is out, but the eggs still feel warm to the hand," I said as I knelt in deep contrition beside the metal hen.
"Fill it and light it, and they'll soon warm up," advised Bess.
"There's no oil on the place. I forgot it," I again wailed.
"Isn't there room under the hen here?" asked Bess, with the brilliant mind she inherited from Mr. Rutherford running over the speed limit, and as she spoke she felt under the old Red Ally, who only clucked good naturedly.
"It feels like she is covering a hundred now, and there's no room for more," said Bess, answering herself with almost a wail in her voice. "What will we do? The book says April-hatched chickens are the best, and these would have come out in just a few days."
And then from somewhere in my heart, which had harbored the cuddle of the cold lamb babies against it, there rose a knowledge of first aid for the near-baby chickens.
"Oh, Bess," I exclaimed, "let's wrap the tray of eggs up in the quilt and take it up-stairs to bed with us. We are just as warm as the hen, and I'll get Rufus to go for Polly at daylight to fix the lamp while we stay in bed and huddle them until the incubator warms up, as it does in just an hour after it's lighted."
"Ann, you are both maternal and intellectual," said Bess, with the deepest admiration in her voice. "Let's hurry or we'll never get warmed up ourselves."
And in very much less time than could be imagined Bess Rutherford and I were in the middle of the four-poster, sunk deep into the feathers with the precious pearls of life carefully imbedded between us.