the mixer from the start. Just this way--"

"Mother, oh, Mother," came a perturbed hail in Doctor Mayberry's
voice from the barn door, "Spangles is off the nest again--better
come quick!"

"Can't you persuade her some, Tom?" Mother called back from the
kitchen door as she peered anxiously across the garden fence and
over to the gray barn where the Doctor stood holding the door half
open, but ready for a quick close-up in case of an unexpected sally.
"My hands is in the biscuits and I don't want to come now. Just try,
Tom!"

"I have tried and I can't do it! She's getting the whole convention
agitated. You'd better come on, Mother!"

"Dearie me," said Mrs. Mayberry, as she rinsed her hands in the
wash-pan on the shelf under tin cedar bucket, "Tom is just as
helpless with the chickens at setting time as a presiding elder is
at a sewing circle; can't use a needle, too stiff to jine the talk
and only good when it comes to the eating, from broilers to frying
size. Just go on and mix the biscuits with faith, honey-bird, for I
mistrust I won't be back for quite a spell."

"Now let me see what all these conniptions is about," she said in a
commanding voice, as she walked boldly in through her son's
cautiously widened door gap.

And a scene of confusion that was truly feminine met her capable
glance. Fuss-and-Feathers, a stylish young spangled Wyandotte, was