The Curly-Haired Hen | Page 2

wasn't there in that prodigious poultry-yard?
Mother Etienne spent most of her time there, for the smaller and more
delicate the creatures the more interest and care she gave them.
"The weak need so much protection," this excellent woman would say,
and she was right.
So for the baby ducks her tenderness was limitless. What dangers had
to be avoided to raise successfully all these tiny folks!
Did a pig escape? Immediately danger threatened the poultry-yard. For
a pig has terrible teeth and he doesn't care what he eats--he would as
soon crunch a little duckling as a carrot. So she had to watch every
minute, every second even. For besides, in spite of the vigilance of
"Labrie," the faithful watchdog, sometimes rats would suck the blood
of the young pigeons. Once even a whole litter of rabbits was destroyed
that way.
To dispose of the products of her farm, Mother Etienne drove twice a
week to market in her market-cart drawn by Coco.
She was famed for the best vegetables, the purest and creamiest milk;
in short, the eggs she sold were the freshest, the poultry and rabbits the

tenderest and most juicy to be had. As soon as she and Coco came
trotting into the market there was a rush to get to her first.
There, as everywhere, everyone loved Mother Etienne.
CHAPTER II
A MOTHER'S DEVOTION
Thus time passed peacefully at the big farm.
One day, however, the quiet was disturbed by a little drama which
convulsed the calm but busy spot.
Mother Etienne had given to a Cochin-China hen, which she had
christened Yollande, some white duck's eggs to sit on. The batch of
fifteen eggs had all come out. It was really wonderful to see these
fifteen baby ducks, yellow as canaries, beaks and webbed feet pink,
swarming around the big patient sitting mother, ducking under her
wings, to come out presently and clamber helter-skelter onto her broad
back. As often happens with nurses, Yollande loved the ducklings as
her own children, and without worrying about their shape or plumage,
so different from her own, she showered upon them proofs of the
tenderest affection. Did a fly pass within their reach, all these little ones
jumped at it--tumbling in their efforts to catch it. The little yellow balls
with their wide-awake air never took a second's rest.
Well cared for and well fed, they grew so rapidly that soon they had to
have more space. Mother Etienne housed them then on the edge of the
pond in a latticed coop opening onto a sloping board which led down to
the water. It was, as it were, a big swimming bath, which grew
gradually deeper and deeper. The ducks and geese loved to plunge in
and hardly left the water except to take their meals.
Yollande felt very out of place in this new dwelling. The ducklings on
the contrary, urged on by their instinct, madly enjoyed it and rushed
pell-mell into the water.

This inexplicable impulse terrified their mama. She was, in fact, "as
mad as a wet hen."
She ran up and down, her feathers on end, her face swollen, her crest
red, clucking away, trying to persuade her babies not to venture into the
water. For hens, like cats, hate the water. It was unspeakable torture to
her. The children would not listen; deaf to her prayers, her cries, these
rascally babies ventured farther and farther out. They were at last and
for the first time in their favourite element, lighter than little corks, they
floated, dived, plunged, raced, fought, playing all sorts of tricks.
Meanwhile, Yollande was eating her heart out. She rushed to and fro,
keeping her eyes glued on the disobedient ones. Suddenly she saw a
mother-duck chasing her darlings. This was more than she could
bear,--driven by her maternal instinct she leapt like a fury to the aid of
her family.
A flap or two of her wings and she was above the water into which she
fell at the deepest part.
Splashing,--struggling madly in the midst of her frightened brood,--she
was soon exhausted and succumbing to syncope, she sank to the
bottom.
The surface of the water closed above her. The little ones did not
realize what had happened--very quickly recovering from their
momentary fright, they went on with their games--splashing the water
with their beaks and amusing themselves as though nothing were the
matter.
Mother Etienne, busy giving green apples to the pigs, bran to the
rabbits, and corn to the pigeons, came back presently, and could not see
the big Yollande beside the pond, only her children floating far, far
away on the water. Surprised she drew nearer, called, but in vain. The
mother-hen had disappeared. Then only did she understand the tragedy
that had occurred. She called