scratcher and as capable a head of a family as any half-dozen
sensible hens could desire.

I can't say that at first Mrs. Feathertop was a very sensible hen.
She was very pretty and lively, to be sure, and a great favourite
with Master Bolton Gray Cock, on account of her bright eyes, her
finely shaded feathers, and certain saucy dashing ways that she had
which seemed greatly to take his fancy. But old Mrs. Scratchard,
living in the neighbouring yard, assured all the neighbourhood that
Gray Cock was a fool for thinking so much of that flighty young
thing; THAT she had not the smallest notion how to get on in life,
and thought of nothing in the world but her own pretty feathers.
"Wait till she comes to have chickens," said Mrs. Scratchard; "then
you will see. I have brought up ten broods myself--as likely and
respectable chickens as ever were a blessing to society--and I think
I ought to know a good hatcher and brooder when I see her; and I know
THAT fine piece of trumpery, with her white feathers tipped with
gray, never will come down to family life. SHE scratch for chickens!
Bless me, she never did anything in all her days but run round and
eat the worms which somebody else scratched up for her."

When Master Bolton Gray heard this he crowed very loudly, like a cock
of spirit, and declared that old Mrs. Scratchard was envious, because
she had lost all her own tail-feathers, and looked more like a worn-
out old feather-duster than a respectable hen, and that therefore she
was filled with sheer envy of anybody that was young and pretty. So
young Mrs. Feathertop cackled gay defiance at her busy rubbishy
neighbour, as she sunned herself under the bushes on fine June
afternoons.