hen

"My name is Bill," said the yellow hen, somewhat gruffly.

But when I was first hatched out no one could tell whether I was going to be a hen or a rooster; so the little boy at the farm where I was born called me Bill, and made a pet of me because I was the only yellow chicken in the whole brood.

"Oh, I don't mind it in the least," returned the yellow hen. "It doesn't matter at all what you call me, so long as I know the name means ME."

She waited, however, as the hen advised, and before long the big wooden coop grated gently on the sandy beach and the dangerous voyage was over.

The yellow hen flew to the sands at once, but Dorothy had to climb over the high slats.

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

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

"Goodness me!" returned the hen, in a puzzled tone; "how queer you are, Dorothy!

"But you eat the chickens that eat the bugs," retorted the yellow hen, with an odd cackle.

As for the yellow hen, she continued to peck away at the sand busily, and seemed quite contented with her bill-of-fare.

I know a rock from metal, I guess," said the hen. "There's a different feel to it."

"What did I tell you?" cried the hen, with a cackle of triumph.

"I can't say," replied the hen. "You ought to know more about locks and keys than I do."