While we stood passing the time of day there was a great fuss and flutter and Daddy Single-Comb came rushing along, his wings going, his tail feathers sticking out.
"Oh, here you are, here you are," he gasped, while I thought how queer it is that nearly every winged creature says a thing, then says it over again. We quadrupeds say a thing, and it's over.
"My dears, my dears," cackled Daddy, "come down to the river hollow, come down, come down. The early worms are out. Soon they'll get in. Is it to be in the ground or in our crops? Heyday! Pony, how are you? I like ponies, but how can I stop to talk? I'm in a rush, a rush," and he spread his big wings, but kept on talking.
"So many dears, so many cares; come on, my biddies, come on, come on. Follow me, follow me," and this time he did go with a spring and a flutter and they all chased after him, their hen minds on the worms.
He was very proud of his biddies, and I did not wonder. They were in prime condition, not too fat, not too lean, and not one with a pale head showing poor blood.
I heard him screaming after some wandering ones, "Not to the hill. No, no. Trust me. Cut cut cro! I know, I know. This way, dears. Quick, quick, such a worm—c-crack what a worm. Grab him quick. Biddy first, Biddy first."
I smiled at his jabber. Evidently he was the only rooster on the place, and he had his claws full with all those hens. Well, it was better to fuss than fight, as he would probably have done if there had been another rooster interfering with his route marches.
As I stood listening to their hen talk dying away in the hollow, the cows, led by Princess Pat, came from the little barn, their walk unhurried, for cows do hate a fuss and flutter.
Princess Pat paused beside Mr. Talker, who was returning from the house with empty pails.
"Near pasture, Pattie," he said and waved his hand up the hill.