As they came near an old brown hen sitting in the grass, Laurie laughed with delight when she got up, and a whole brood of downy yellow chicks ran from under her wing.
Uncle Sam now took Laurie back to the barn to see the milking, and they threaded their way through the dim twilight of the stable, past the tired horses munching their oats, to the cow-shed, frightening an old hen off her nest, where she had laid her eggs away from prying eyes in a corner of the hay.
Laurie thought he had never smelt anything so delicious as the odor of the sweet clover grass that hung down between the boards of the flooring of the hay loft, and when a mouse would scurry away, he would laugh at its being afraid of him.
Outside in the gathering twilight, the pigeons were wheeling and circling overhead, and dipping to the ground for the corn that lay scattered among the pebbles.
High overhead, was the dove-cote on the wagon house. “Do the pigeons fly far away, Uncle Sam? and what are they always doing?” asked Laurie when he had watched them for some time. “They fly ever so far away, Laurie,” answered Uncle Sam, “but always come back again. Some pigeons you know, the carrier pigeons, carry messages, but I do not think this kind is used for that purpose.” Meantime Aunt Laura had come out to scatter corn to the chickens, who, seeing her approach, hurried to meet her on all sides, until she stood surrounded by the pretty feathered creatures. Laurie begged for a handful of corn to throw to them, but started back in dismay, when an old turkey-gobbler reached up and picked a grain out of his hand. “What a rude old bird,” he said, “but I wasn’t a bit afraid of him, he only surprised me,” he explained to Aunt Laura quickly, for fear she would think him timid. Just then the turkey, who was a pompous sort of creature, cocked his head on one side, and looked at Laurie for a moment as though he understood, then turned away.
“What a rude old bird,” said Laurie.
“I’m afraid you have hurt his feelings,” said Aunt Laura, “you see he is not used to little boys calling him names”—“Well, I’ll not do it any more, I’m sure I didn’t know he minded,” replied Laurie, “but still,” he continued, “it’s not as if he really understood, he couldn’t unless he were a fairy—but turkeys, and cows and pigeons on farms are not fairies, are they, Aunt Laura?” “I can’t tell you that, Laurie,” said Aunt Laura, “for I’ve never seen any fairies—some animals are more sensible than others, and some like to be petted, and are fond of being with people—if that is what you mean.” “No, that is not what I mean altogether, it’s only part of what I mean,” he answered; “if the turkey-gobbler wasn’t a fairy, it ought not to make any difference to him, my calling him rude or not, for he couldn’t understand, but he looked at me in such a funny way, with his head on one side, that he must have known what I was saying.”