“I'd like to punish her,” I said angrily. “I love that big Wyandotte. He is so noble and generous about the hens.”
“He hasn't talked to them for two days,” said Serena. “I too liked to hear him say, 'Come, girls,' as he led them down to the meadow for worms. I can tell you how to get ahead of her, Black-Face, if you will. I'd do it myself, only I don't want to attract attention.”
“How?” I asked eagerly.
“Get up and travel after her, till some one notices you. If you take to chasing, you'll be remarked.”
My blood was boiling at the meanness of the guinea-hen. Why didn't she go play with her sister, instead of chasing the poor Wyandotte! So I gladly adopted Serena's suggestion, and started in pursuit of the little miscreant, keeping about three feet behind her. She didn't like it, and kept looking over her shoulder, but I didn't care. I kept on trotting, but I got terribly tired, for we went for an hour before any one but Serena noticed us. My sister lay under the bushes, encouraging me by kind glances whenever we went near her, but the poor Wyandotte in his despair led us a dance all over the place, and we seldom got near the rose-bushes.
Strange to say, the first one to notice us was Mr. Denville. Like most men brought up in the country, he was a very shrewd observer. About the middle of the afternoon he came out of the house to get a drink from the old well, where he said a moss-covered bucket had hung when he was a lad on the farm. There was a fine pump in the kitchen now, but he always came for his drinks to the well that he had had cleaned out, and equipped with a sanitary drinking fountain.
After he had satisfied his thirst, his eyes roamed over the meadows, and the pasture, and the hills in the distance, all of which were visible from the high land at the back of the house.
I saw his lips form the word “Beautiful!” The Wyandotte was just sprinting down from the barn to the chip yard. Mr. Denville barely noticed the three of us as we tailed by, but when, after leading us round the house, and the old orchard, back to the side door, the Wyandotte made again for the well, Mr. Denville gave us a puzzled glance.
I threw him an appeal over my shoulder as we went travelling up to the spring where the trout lived. It was not a very hot day, but there is no fun in running when you don't want to, and I was getting tired.
Mr. Denville took the hint and followed us. When we got back of the barn the Wyandotte flopped and lay with his beak open and his eyes shut. Guinea stood patiently watching him. I hissed at her, but she didn't care. Just as the poor rooster was rousing himself, preparatory to a fresh start, Mr. Denville arrived on the scene.