The Diary of a Goose Girl | Page 7

{Cornelia and the web-footed Gracchi: p29.jpg}
The brown hen that we have named Cornelia is the best mother, the one
who waits longest and most patiently for the web-footed Gracchi to
finish their swim.
When a chick is taken out of the incubytor (as Phoebe calls it) and

refused by all the other hens, Cornelia generally accepts it, though she
had twelve of her own when we began using her as an orphan asylum.
"Wings are made to stretch," she seems to say cheerfully, and with a
kind glance of her round eye she welcomes the wanderer and the
outcast. She even tended for a time the offspring of an absent-minded,
light-headed pheasant who flew over a four-foot wall and left her
young behind her to starve; it was not a New Pheasant, either; for the
most conservative and old-fashioned of her tribe occasionally commits
domestic solecisms of this sort.
{An orphan asylum: p30.jpg}
There is no telling when, where, or how the maternal instinct will assert
itself. Among our Thornycroft cats is a certain Mrs. Greyskin. She had
not been seen for many days, and Mrs. Heaven concluded that she had
hidden herself somewhere with a family of kittens; but as the supply of
that article with us more than equals the demand, we had not searched
for her with especial zeal.
{Phoebe and I followed her stealthily: p31.jpg}
The other day Mrs. Greyskin appeared at the dairy door, and when she
had been fed Phoebe and I followed her stealthily, from a distance. She
walked slowly about as if her mind were quite free from harassing care,
and finally approached a deserted cow-house where there was a great
mound of straw. At this moment she caught sight of us and turned in
another direction to throw us off the scent. We persevered in our
intention of going into her probable retreat, and were cautiously
looking for some sign of life in the haymow, when we heard a soft
cackle and a ruffling of plumage. Coming closer to the sound we saw a
black hen brooding a nest, her bright bead eyes turning nervously from
side to side; and, coaxed out from her protecting wings by youthful
curiosity, came four kittens, eyes wide open, warm, happy, ready for
sport!
The sight was irresistible, and Phoebe ran for Mr. and Mrs. Heaven and
the Square Baby. Mother Hen was not to be embarrassed or daunted,
even if her most sacred feelings were regarded in the light of a cheap

entertainment. She held her ground while one of the kits slid up and
down her glossy back, and two others, more timid, crept underneath her
breast, only daring to put out their pink noses! We retired then for very
shame and met Mrs. Greyskin in the doorway. This should have
thickened the plot, but there is apparently no rivalry nor animosity
between the co-mothers. We watch them every day now, through a
window in the roof. Mother Greyskin visits the kittens frequently, lies
down beside the home nest, and gives them their dinner. While this is
going on Mother Blackwing goes modestly away for a bite, a sup, and a
little exercise, returning to the kittens when the cat leaves them. It is
pretty to see her settle down over the four, fat, furry dumplings, and
they seem to know no difference in warmth or comfort, whichever
mother is brooding them; while, as their eyes have been open for a
week, it can no longer be called a blind error on their part.
{Coaxed out . . . by youthful curiosity: p33.jpg}
When we have closed all our small hen-nurseries for the night, there is
still the large house inhabited by the thirty-two full-grown chickens
which Phoebe calls the broilers. I cannot endure the term, and will not
use it. "Now for the April chicks," I say every evening.
"Do you mean the broilers?" asks Phoebe.
"I mean the big April chicks," say I.
"Yes, them are the broilers," says she.
But is it not disagreeable enough to be a broiler when one's time comes,
without having the gridiron waved in one's face for weeks beforehand?
{Nine huddle together: p34.jpg}
The April chicks are all lively and desirous of seeing the world as
thoroughly as possible before going to roost or broil. As a general thing,
we find in the large house sixteen young fowls of the contemplative,
flavourless, resigned-to-the-inevitable variety; three more (the same
three every night) perch on the roof and are driven down; four (always

the same four) cling to the edge of the open door, waiting to fly off, but
not in, when you attempt to close it; nine huddle together on a place in
the grass about forty feet distant, where a small coop formerly stood in
the prehistoric