"So I tied a bit of black stuff on the gate and went back to bed," said Norah, pensively.
Wally grinned. "And what became of Mrs. Peter?"
"Oh, Mrs. Peter was a lovely hen," Norah said, "and very healthy. She never seemed to feel any of Peter's delicacy. He was a very refined bird. There was another show coming on at Mulgoa, and I found among the other fowls another Mr. Peter, and it struck me I would have a try for the prize. Mrs. Peter was so good that I felt I'd get it unless the five-guinea Plymouth Rock man came up. So I fed up the new Peter and had them looking very well the day before the show. And then—"
"Yes?" said Wally, as she paused.
"Then a new dog of Burton's killed Mrs. Peter," said Norah, "so I gave up showing poultry!"
"I should think you did," said the sympathetic auditor. "What did your father say?"
"He was very nice; and very angry with the dog; but he didn't buy me any more valuable fowls—and I expect that was just as well," said Norah, laughing. "I don't seem to have luck when it comes to keeping poultry. Jim says it's management, but then Jim never kept any himself. And it does make a difference to your views if you keep them yourself."
"It does," Wally agreed. "I used to lose ever so many in Queensland, but then things are really rough on fowls up there—climate and snakes and lots of odd things, including crocodiles! When I came down to school I left a lot of hens, and twelve eggs under one old lady hen, who should have hatched 'em out a few days after I left. And the whole lot went wandering and found some poison my brother had put out for a cat!" Wally wiped his eyes elaborately.
"And died?"
"It was suicide, I think," said Wally, nodding. "But I always had comfort about that lot, because I still have hopes that those twelve eggs hadn't hatched."