I AM very fond of the little ones, and like to have them around me, and as the puppies are in the majority it will be their turn to have a short story this time.

If you do not have to go home too soon perhaps I will have time to tell you more than one; we will see. Oh! the children are to stay to tea, are they? All right. Now, attention!

All those who would like to hear a story about a chicken—“a real truly story,” as the children say—wag your tails.

Those opposed, bark. Carried. The vote for the chicken story is about unanimous.

I suppose some of you have very poor opinions of chickens and hens; you think because they have but two legs, and are so easily frightened, they don’t amount to much; but the master and mistress think quite differently when they eat the nice fresh eggs which the hens furnish. Why, some of those proud young crowers have hearts as well as we. I remember so well a little old white blind hen which my master once had, and how kindly she was treated. (She could see just a little with one eye, but we called her blind.)

The young man who worked upon the place took a fancy to “Old Whitey,” as they called her, and when master wanted to send her to market this fellow pretended he couldn’t find her, so she was kept till very old.

The gallant young crowers which roosted in the same shed with her would never fight this old “grandmother,” but were just as kind to her as they knew how to be. Sometimes when one of them had found a nice lot of worms under something he had scratched over, “Whitey” would come along hungry, and he would leave the nice mess for her, and look further for himself.

Was not that gallant and kind? Would all of you do as well as that? Be as unselfish?

But this is not the chicken I was to tell you about. He was a poor orphan, his mother having died when he was but a little yellow ball upon two little pins of legs.

I had not much to do with this pet, only as I visited his home occasionally, and saw and played with him a little.

It was my cousin Tip who had most to do with this bright feathered fellow, and to whom he was indebted for most of his education.

Tip was a great favorite; in fact, his mistress was fond of all sorts of pets; had a name for each of her cows, and for every one of her hens, so she had a name for this chicken.

Tip used to go about wherever he pleased, and so did the chicken. My cousin was in the habit of taking almost anything he could find, and dragging it to the spot where he wished to lie, then make a bed of it and go to sleep.

His little friend the chicken for awhile watched him with envious eyes—for I regret to say Cousin Tip was too selfish to provide a bed for any one besides himself.

But this chicken evidently thought “what had been done could be done,” so he asserted his independence, and gathered up what he could carry or drag; put the articles—stockings, handkerchiefs or rags—in a heap near Tip’s bed, and would then tread them down as he had seen Tip do, and squat upon them for a make-believe nap. Now wasn’t that a pretty bright chicken, and was not Tip a pretty successful teacher for one so young?

No, that lesson wouldn’t be much for a bright little dog to learn; but we do not expect much intelligence in a hen or rooster.

I suppose they cannot understand what people say to them as we do. And some people do not seem to think we understand what they tell us to do or not to do, even when they tell us we have done well.

I remember so well when I was young, though almost as large as I am now, how I astonished a lady by acting as though I understood what she said to me.

It was in the country, where the houses were quite a distance apart. I had been caring for this woman’s little girl for more than a week, and had kept her out of lots of mischief, and prevented her from getting many an ugly fall, though I had never been asked to do it.

One day little Cynthia (that was her name) wanted to go over to see her grandmother, who lived in the next house, nearly a quarter of a mile away. The mother told her there was no one to go with her. She said she could go alone, and coaxed so hard that the mother said she might go. So Cynthia put her little hat on, and her mother kissed her good-by, and she started. Then her mother turned to me and said: “Major, you go with her and take good care of my darling; don’t you let anything hurt her.”

How proud I was! I went right by her side all the way, and never left her for one moment until she was safe at home.

Then the lady called me a “good, faithful fellow,” and I was very happy. But when the men came in at night and she told them what I had done, I felt ashamed to hear her say, “He acted just as though he knew what I told him.”

The idea! Why shouldn’t I understand, I would like to know? They talk about things which I do not understand, but when they give me such a plain direction as that I guess I can hear it, and know what they mean, too.

There goes the whistle, and you must scamper. Good-by!

G. R. A.