do it. Follows a kind of a compass that leads to the nest every time."

This chicken grew into a little spotted hen. She became my sole
companion in many a lonely hour when Uncle Peabody had gone to the
village, or was working in wet ground, or on the hay rack, or the mowing
machine where I couldn't be with him. She was an amiable, confiding
little hen who put her trust in me and kept it unto the day of her
death, which came not until she had reached the full dignity of mature
henhood.

She was like many things on the farm--of great but unconsidered beauty.
No far-fetched pheasant was half so beautiful as she. I had always
treated her with respect, and she would let me come and sit beside her
while she rolled in the dust and permit me to stroke her head and
examine her wonderful dress of glossy mottled satin. She would spread
her glowing sleeves in the sunlight, and let me feel their downy lining
with my fingers and see how their taut snug-fitting plumes were set.

I remember a day when she was sitting on her nest with that curious
expression in her eyes which seemed to say, "Please don't bother me now
for this is my busy time," I brought three little kittens from their
basket in the wood-shed and put them under her. The kittens felt the
warmth of her body and began to mew and stir about. I shall never forget
the look of astonishment in the little hen as she slowly rose in her
nest and peered beneath her body at the kittens. She looked at me as if
to say that she really couldn't be bothered with those furry things any
longer--they made her so nervous. She calmly took hold of one of them
with her bill and lifted it out of the nest. She continued this process
of eviction until they were all removed, when she quietly sat down
again.