“Count your chickens,” said Mr. Denville.
“Can't,” said the farmer, “they're scattered.”
“Do you find any large feathers?” asked Mr. Denville.
“No,” said the farmer, “not one. I guess you're right. Morning will tell, anyway. Mona and Barlo will keep the old fellow from making any more visits.”
Morning did tell the same story. The owl had pulled a number of feathers out of the chickens, but he had not got one of the little creatures. They were wiser chickens after that, and Beauty was a wiser mother. Every night we saw her going to bed nice and early in the hen-house with her fine brood behind her. She told Serena that it was a dreadful thing for a mother hen to lead her chickens into such danger, and she said that they suffered more during the long night when they crouched in the grass, and behind the woodpile, and under the veranda, than when the owl was attacking them. They were a scattered family. Beauty was a very young hen. Everybody called her old, but she really had not had much experience in bringing up chickens.
CHAPTER XIX
THE CLOSE OF THE SUMMER
I am ashamed to say that weeks and weeks have gone by since I have sat down at night and had a good think over things that are going on about me.
I have been happy and busy. All day long something was happening on the farm to keep us interested, and nearly every night Serena and I would run about and play, till we were so tired that we just tumbled into our nice beds.
It seems impossible to think that the summer is about gone. “Why, Aunt Tabby,” I said to her just now, “surely it was only yesterday that I asked you why Farmer Gleason made nice little beds for the seeds to go to sleep, and then kept fussing with them till I was sure he would wake them up.”
Aunt Tabby smiled. “You were a very ignorant little city cat. Now you know something about grubs and worms, and the constant care a farmer has to put forth to keep his crops from being eaten up.”