her sharp bill in the sand and gravel, which she scratched up and
turned over with her strong claws.

"What are you doing?" asked Dorothy.

"Getting my breakfast, of course," murmured the hen, busily pecking away.

"What do you find?" inquired the girl, curiously.

"Oh, some fat red ants, and some sand-bugs, and once in a while a tiny
crab. They are very sweet and nice, I assure you."

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Dorothy, in a shocked voice.

"What is dreadful?" asked the hen, lifting her head to gaze with one
bright eye at her companion.

"Why, eating live things, and horrid bugs, and crawly ants. You ought
to be 'SHAMED of yourself!"

"Goodness me!" returned the hen, in a puzzled tone; "how queer you
are, Dorothy! Live things are much fresher and more wholesome than
dead ones, and you humans eat all sorts of dead creatures."

"We don't!" said Dorothy.

"You do, indeed," answered Billina. "You eat lambs and sheep and cows
and pigs and even chickens."

"But we cook 'em," said Dorothy, triumphantly.