Nettie laughed to the story-teller’s content.
“Now, I’ll tell you a chicken story. This happened to me. Aunt Rody often lets me help her feed the chickens. We had a brood of little chickens, and all died but two of them; I don’t know why, I took good care of them. One morning I found the mother dead. And what do you think?—those two poor motherless little sisters cuddled under their dead mother’s wing. I would like to write a poem about that, only it breaks my heart, and I like to write about happy things. The next day one of them died, and the left one hadn’t any chicken companion. And then, what do you think? A hen mother who had only one chicken, deserted that and went to roost; and this one little black chicken tried to make friends with the sisterless little white chicken. It was too pretty to watch them. The one whose mother deserted went into her little coop and called and called to the other one; but the white chicken didn’t understand at first; when she did understand, the black chicken made it so plain, and she ran to the coop, and the little black chicken and the little white chicken cuddled together as loving and happy as could be.”
“You can put that into a poem,” suggested Nettie, her eyes alight with Judith’s presence and stories.
“Nettie,” said Judith, impulsively, “I love to have you to tell things to.”
XI. HOW JEAN HAD AN OUTING.
“Is it warm in that green valley,
Vale of Childhood, where you dwell?
Is it calm in that green valley,
Round whose bourns such great hills swell?
Are there giants in the valley,