pretty bad time. They were nearly all plucked and rubbed with the
ointment. It was a craze, a rage with the farmers, and those hens
who could retain a vestige of their plumage esteemed themselves
fortunate.

It was a sad sight to see all the feathered creatures fly at the
sight of a human being. They knew by bitter experience what to
expect. Alas! with all these attempts with roosters, chickens,
ducks, and turkeys, none had the desired effect. They long
remained scented and devoid of plumage, that was all. We must take
it that no subject as good as Yollande presented itself. Nature
makes these queer incomprehensible distinctions, you know, which
we just can't understand. There was _one_ Curly-Haired Hen,
there was to be no other! For, since her metamorphosis, for a
reason unknown to this day, the Curly-Haired Hen absolutely
refused to lay eggs. This was, I must confess, a great
disappointment to Sir Booum. Like the good American he was, he
would have liked to continue the race.

He had perforce to content himself with portraits of her from the
pen of M. Vimar. One of these was sent, affectionately dedicated
by Yollande, to her good Mother Etienne, who regards it as her
greatest treasure, and keeps it, elegantly framed, above the
mantelpiece in her bedroom. Never a day passes but the good woman
looks at it with tender, motherly affection.

Father Gusson is now the owner of a pretty little house and
cultivates his own garden, in which is a corner reserved for
Neddy, for he too has earned his rest.