certain pretty little attentions dear to a mother's heart? The chicks
would be pecking the food off her broad beak with their tiny ones, and
jumping on her back to slide down her glossy feathers. They would be far
nicer to cuddle, too, so small and graceful and light; the changelings
are a trifle solid and brawny. And personally, just as a matter of
taste, would she not prefer wee, round, glancing heads, and pointed
beaks, peeping from under her wings, to these teaspoon-shaped things
larger than her own? I wonder!

We are training fourteen large young chickens to sit on the perches in
their new house, instead of huddling together on the floor as has been
their habit, because we discover rat-holes under the wire flooring
occasionally, and fear that toes may be bitten. At nine o'clock Phoebe
and I lift the chickens one by one, and, as it were, glue them to their
perches, squawking. Three nights have we gone patiently through with
this performance, but they have not learned the lesson. The ducks and
geese are, however, greatly improved by the application of advanced
educational methods, and the _regime_ of perfect order and system
instituted by Me begins to show results.

There is no more violent splashing and pebbling, racing, chasing,
separating. The pole, indeed, still has to be produced, but at the first
majestic wave of my hand they scuttle toward the shore. The geese turn
to the right, cross the rickyard, and go to their pen; the May ducks turn
to the left for their coops, the June ducks follow the hens to the top
meadow, and even the idiot gosling has an inspiration now and then and
stumbles on his own habitation.

Mrs. Heaven has no reverence for the principles of Comenius, Pestalozzi,
or Herbert Spencer as applied to poultry, and when the ducks and geese