So her sot down for two days
more, an' did all a hen cud do to hatch that chick. No good; 'twudn'
budge. You niver seed a fowl that hurted in mind; but niver a
thought o' givin' in. No, sir. 'Twasn' her way. Her jes' cocked
her head aslant, tuk a long stare at the cussed thing, an' said, so
plain as looks cud say, 'Well, I've a-laid this egg, an' I reckon
I've a-got to hatch et; an' ef et takes me to th' aluminium, I'll see
et out.'"
"The millennium," corrected Mr. Fogo, who was much interested.
"Not bein' over-eddicated, sir," said Caleb, with unconscious
severity, "that old hen, I reckon, said 'aluminium.' But niver mind.
Her sot, an' sot, an' kept on settin', an' neglected the rest o' they
chicks for what seemingly to her was the call o' duty, till wan' by
wan they all died. 'Twas pitiful, sir; an' the wust was to see her
lay so much store by that egg. Th' ould Mennear was for takin' et
away; but 'twud ha' broke her heart. As 'twas, what wi' anxi'ty an'
too little food, her wore to a shadow. I seed her was boun' to die,
anyway; an' wan arternoon, as I was in the cowshed, I heerd a weakly
sort o' cluckin' overhead, an' went up to look. 'Twas too late, sir.
Th' ould hen was lying beside th' egg, glazin' at et in a filmy sort
o' way, an' breathin' terrable hard.
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