coming to his inches, that is all she seems to understand or care about.
And when you tell her this, her clouded reason gives a momentary gleam--
[_Calling towards the basket._] Hey, old lady, he is growing!

ALL THE HENS
He is growing!

[_The lid of the basket is suddenly lifted, and a bristling aged hen's
head appears._]

THE PIGEON
[_To the_ OLD HEN, _gently and feelingly._] Does it make you happy,
mother, to think of him grown to a big fine Cock?

THE OLD HEN
[_Nodding, sententiously._] Happy?--Wednesday's crops do credit to
Tuesday! [_She disappears, the lid drops._]

THE TURKEY
She opens now and then, like that, and ping! shoots at us some such
pearl of homely lore--

THE PIGEON
[_To the_ WHITE HEN.] White Hen!

THE TURKEY
--not always wholly without point!

THE OLD HEN
[_Reappearing for an instant._] In the Peacock's absence, the Turkey