I had the following story from the bill of an old Spanish hen, an inveterate cackler, who used to fly over the neighbouring fence and wander, with happy, self-communing clucks about my vegetable garden.

"Yes young man you are young, you may feel bigger than I am, but you are not quite so tough, indeed toughness alone has saved me my life for a good many Christmas mornings. I am a tough old hen, I have seen the world; I have traveled. You know the island in the Napa River just above the railroad bridge? Well, I was wrecked there in my young days and it happened in this manner.

"The spring of the year 18— was a wet one; snow fell in the foothills and when it melted, the waters rushed down through the caÑons and filled the river. Our coop, (I say ours as I had a husband then,) stood near the bank, and the rising water carried it away. I shall never forget the night. It was Billy's last night on earth; Billy was my better half, and a handsome, young cock he was, all the young pullets in the yard had yellow combs, from envy, the day we were married. Old Partlett with her brood of twelve ducks tried her best to get him, but Billy said he didn't think it was quite the most moral thing in the world for a hen of her age to hatch out ducks and it set a bad example to the young 'broilers' who were growing up about us, so he declined her proposals with thanks and sent her off with her ugly-mouthed off-spring. Well, as I was saying, our coop was carried down the stream, Billy and I balancing ourselves on the upper roost and speaking words of comfort to cheer up each other's fast fainting gizzards. We hens have a proverb which says, 'A life without hope is an egg without a yolk, a gizzard without gravel,' and that night proved the words to be true. Suddenly down went Billy into the roaring flood. I can see his yellow spurs as he went under, and his clutching claws, those beautiful, shining claws that only walked the path of virtue, as far as I knew. Alas how I fluttered, I tried to crow for help but it was useless, I could no more do it than the hens of your genus can whistle. Billy went out forever.

"How I remember his kindness now; how he would find the best worms and grasshoppers and always call me to see them before he ate them, not as that old beast Cochin China does, who not even lets his wife look at the delicious morsels he swallows.

"Billy is gone, so I will not regret him for he is probably chief crower in St. Peter's hennery now. How Peter must blush when he hears Billy crow, if he has any shame for his past sins. They say St. Peter has to keep all the dead cocks as a sort of punishment and reminder.

"That night I pulled all the yellow feathers out of my tail, (I have Cochin blood in my veins,) and I have gone in black Spanish costume ever since out of respect for Billy.

"By morning I was cast with the coop upon a deserted island; there was nothing but a coarse grass that was eatable, but I was almost dead with hunger, and was about giving up in despair when a happy thought struck me, and, I laid an egg, which with a little grass made me a good meal. Each day I laid an egg and ate it, feeling that my life at least could be saved, though I must be forever without society, yet I thanked heaven that hens were made with such resources. Alas! I began to notice that the eggs grew smaller each day and I felt starvation again taking me by the wattles. To die without friends on a desert island, horrible! Alone! Why? Can I not hatch these eggs, can I not raise a brood of little pullets who shall lay eggs for themselves and me? Time passed and I brought from the shells eight little chicks, but alas they were all cocks; poor me. What are they good for on a desert island? They cannot even keep themselves. Perhaps I had thought too much of Billy during the setting and that influenced the eggs. But my complaint was punished, for all of the brood were caught one day in the current and carried away. Poor, little, posthumous chicks, how your father Billy would have loved you and taught you to crow. Again I tried; this time with more success and brought from the eggs six little, fluffy pullets. All lived and we took turns, off and on, supplying the family with eggs, till one day men passing in a row boat, saw us and took us aboard. We had been on the island for two months. All my six pullets lived and married, and are now in the yard over the fence."

All this time I had been so interested in the story, that I had not noticed the narrator who was in the midst of my lettuce bed busily pulling up the young plants.

"Shew there! What are you doing?" I cried. Off she flew with a cackle of derision.

Looking after her in astonishment and at my poor lettuce bed, I caught the eye of an old turkey, roosting in an apple tree; he was smiling grimly.

"So you have been taken in too," he said, with a suppressed gobble. "You needn't believe a word of that tale, and if you knew anything about raising poultry you would have seen the weak point in her story. It was only to play on your sympathy while she made a meal of your lettuce. That old hen is one of the toughest confidence operators in the yard, and if you take my advice, (and I have lived over four Thanksgivings,) you will keep an eye open for all black Spanish hens who have lost a husband."

I thanked the old fellow and came into the house, and since then have kept on the guard against widows of every genus, with better success than Mr. Weller the elder attained.