At present one was
devoted to a couple of mothers with clutches of ten and twelve
chickens--all white Orpingtons. The mothers were stately, comfortable
dames, and the chicks, round little creamy balls, very tame and
fascinating. They came quite close to Norah as she stooped to feed
them, and one chick, bolder than his brethren, even stood on the back
of her hand. Wally admired without stint, and proceeded to discharge
the practical duty of rinsing out the water tins and filling them
afresh.
In the other yard a number of older chickens grew and prospered; these
also were all white, of the Leghorn breed, and Norah was immensely
proud of them. She sat down on the end of a box and pointed out their
varied beauties.
"I should have more--lots more," she said, dolefully. "But I've had
horrible trouble with pigs. Why anybody keeps pigs at all I can't
imagine!"
"They're handy when preserved," Wally remarked. "But what did they do
to you?"
"I had a lot of hens sitting this year," said the owner of the
yard--"sitting on lovely eggs, too, Wally! Some I got from Cunjee, and
some from Westwood, and two special sittings from Melbourne. I was
going to be awfully rich! You couldn't imagine all I'd planned with the
immense sums I was going to make."
"There's a proverb," said Wally, sententiously, "about counting your
chickens.
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