It is a curious thing that the eggs of hens should always be hatched in just three weeks, and I must stop to tell you a story about this. A man who pretended to be good and religious, told one of his neighbors that his hens always hatched on Sunday, and he wondered what the reason was. “I can tell you,” said the neighbor; “it is because you set them on Sunday!” Thus we see that the improper conduct of the pretended good man was exposed.
But to return to Jack. About the time the hen was to hatch, he went every day to see if the chickens had come along. He could not help wondering at the patience of the old hen, in sitting night and day so faithfully upon her eggs. He noticed that she went off her nest but once a day; that she was then in a great hurry to get a little food and drink, and return to her duty, as if she was afraid her eggs would suffer. He observed that nothing could tempt her from her charge; the other hens were out in the fields, scratching the earth, feasting on worms and insects, and delighting in the spring time; but the old hen, forsaking these pleasures, remained upon her eggs. Though she was wasted by hunger, thirst and fever, nothing could induce her to betray her trust. There she continued, obeying that voice within, which we call instinct.
On the twenty-first day of the hen’s sitting, Jack went early in the morning to the nest, and his delight knew no bounds, when he heard, on approaching it, the chickens peeping under the old biddy’s feathers. The good mother herself seemed to be filled with a sort of quiet ecstacy. When she heard the gentle cries of her offspring she endeavored to hush them to rest by a few low notes, as much as to say,—
“Hush, my dear—lie still and slumber.”
All this day, the hen remained on her nest, and Jack gave her a little Indian meal mixed with water, to eat. The next day, twelve of the thirteen eggs were hatched, and the old hen, with an air of importance, and great caution, set forth with her brood. It was interesting indeed to witness the scene.
No sooner had the mother and her flock issued from the shed in which the hatching or incubation had taken place, than she began to scratch away the leaves and grass with all her might. The chickens kept close to her side, and though but a day old, seemed to know perfectly well what it all meant. They picked up the little seeds and insects and swallowed them down, taking care to avoid stones and dirt, and things that are not fit for food. How could these little creatures know so much? That is a curious question, and I can only answer, that God has made them so!
The old hen went on from place to place, clucking all the time, and taking the utmost pains to keep her brood together, and under her own immediate inspection. She made her legs fly merrily among the leaves, and many a bug and grub and worm did she discover for her little ones. She would eat nothing herself, but gave everything to her chickens, except once in a while she came across a beetle or other insect, too big for her infant flock, and then she swallowed it.
Nothing could exceed the industry, energy and watchfulness of the old biddy. For hours together, she continued to scratch and dig for her young ones, as if life depended upon it. And all this time, it was delightful to see how careful she was of her brood. Her head was bobbing up and down every instant, and her sharp eye was turned on every side, to see if there was danger. Not a bird flew over unmarked, and if it was in any degree threatening in its appearance, the whole flock was instantly drawn to a place of safety. If a cat or dog came near, they were sure to repent it, and learn better manners for the future.
When, at last, the young emigrants had filled their little crops, and become weary, the old hen gathered them under her wings. There is nothing in all nature more pleasing than a hen brooding her chickens. The little creatures themselves are marked with a singular smoothness, beauty and look of innocence. Those which are most weary bury themselves deep in the plumage of their mother’s breast, and here, cherished by a genial warmth, embedded in down, and every want and fear appeased, they fall to sleep. Those which are not yet so drowsy, peep out their heads from their mother’s feathers, and look around; or they linger outside and pick among the gravel for food; or they nibble at the old hen’s beak; or perchance they smooth some bit of their delicate plumage that is ruffled; or possibly climb up the old hen’s back. The look of innocence, peace and happiness displayed by the chickens, and the mingled aspect of care and content borne by Mistress Biddy, afford a touching and delightful picture. Who can witness it and not feel that the God of love is the author of what we call nature?
All these things were noted by Jack, and after he had observed them a long time, he went for his aunt. He found her quite busy, but he could not be contented till she left her work and went with him to see the hen and her chickens. After looking at them a long time, they went to the house, and some days after the following conversation took place: