by the pond for what she considers a decent, self-respecting length of
time, calling the ducklings out of the water; then, if they refuse to
come, the mother goes off to bed and leaves them to Providence, or
Phoebe.

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.

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.

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,