"Yes, yes," said Dame Scratchard, "she'll know what real life is now,
and she won't go about holding her head so high, and looking down on
her practical neighbours that have raised families."

"Poor thing! what'll she do with a family?" said Goody Kertarkut.

"Well, what business have such young flirts to get married?" said
Dame Scratchard. "I don't expect she'll raise a single chick; and
there's Gray Cock flirting about, fine as ever. Folks didn't do so
when I was young. I'm sure my husband knew what treatment a sitting
hen ought to have,--poor old Long Spur! he never minded a peck or so
and then. I must say these modern fowls ain't what fowls used to
be."

Meanwhile the sun rose and set, and Master Fred was almost the only
friend and associate of poor little Mrs. Feathertop, whom he fed
daily with meal and water, and only interrupted her sad reflections
by pulling her up occasionally to see how the eggs were coming on.

At last "Peep, peep, peep," began to be heard in the nest, and one
little downy head after another poked forth from under the feathers,
surveying the world with round, bright, winking eyes; and gradually
the brood were hatched, and Mrs. Feathertop arose, a proud and happy
mother, with all the bustling, scratching, care-taking instincts of
family-life warm within her breast. She clucked and scratched, and
cuddled the little downy bits of things as handily and discreetly as
a seven-year-old hen could have done, exciting thereby the wonder of
the community.