"Pleasant!" exclaimed a young white and buff hen, tossing her pretty head, "it appeared to me she was making fun of us."
"Will you be quiet, you cackling old hens?" roared Mr. Rooster, giving them a swift glance from one eye, while furtively watching me with the other. "What business is it of yours what the intentions of this intrusive person may be? I am the one to decide that question. What do females know about war, anyway, especially hens? If she means fight, why——"
"You'll run, no doubt, and hide behind your wives," I interrupted, feeling the old fellow to be a boaster. "I've a notion to scale the fence and see," I added mischievously.
He stepped back a pace or two in evident alarm.
"Never fear," I hastened to say. "Only cowardly hearts find pleasure in giving pain to innocent and defenseless creatures. My only object in stopping was to view your happy family and—and—in fact, Mr. Rooster, to interview yourself."
"Interview me?" he exclaimed. "Well, I never!" and filled with a sense of his importance the old fellow set up such a crowing that even a Jersey cow, munching grass by the wayside, paused to ruminate over what it might mean.
"A reporter," sneered the ill-natured young hen. "A woman reporter! How unnatural!"
"Louisa Mercedes," sharply cried the rooster, "how many times have I told you to bridle your tongue?"
"I'm not a horse," sulkily replied Louisa, "and what's more, I think if you would bridle your vanity it would be much more to your advantage. You want to do all the talking—and eating, too," she added in an undertone.
"She's but a young thing," loftily said Mr. Rooster, "and I have to overlook much of her insolence, you know. Another year will find her less spirited, like Georgiana and Marthena and Sukey over there. But let us resume our conversation. About what do you want to interview me?"