6

Habits





WE are enthroned in the back yard. The big hen, white as a cream
cheese, is brooding in the depths of a basket near the coop whose
imprisoned occupant is rummaging about. But the black hen is free to
travel. She erects and withdraws her elastic neck in jerks, and
advances with a large and affected gait. One can just see her
profile and its twinkling spangle, and her talk appears to proceed
from a metal spring. She marches, glistening black and glossy like
the love-locks of a gypsy; and as she marches, she unfolds here and
there upon the ground a faint trail of chickens.

These trifling little yellow balls, kept always by a whispering
instinct on the ebb-tide to safety, hurry along under the maternal
march in short, sharp jerks, pecking as they go. Now the train comes
to a full stop, for two of the chickens are thoughtful and immobile,
careless of the parental clucking.

"A bad sign," says Paradis; "the hen that reflects is ill." And
Paradis uncrosses and recrosses his legs. Beside him on the bench,
Blaire extends his own, lets loose a great yawn that he maintains in
placid duration, and sets himself again to observe, for of all of us