thing that annoyed the Count in his new residence was that every morning the sweet sleep he was enjoying by the side of his Lucretia was broken by the shrill cackling of a hen in an adjoining apartment. He at last lost all patience with his inconvenient neighbour, and vowed to twist its neck about if ever it fell into his hands. “Nay,” said his wife, “that will never do; that hen lays an egg every morning that we could ill spare.” Not a little was the Count astonished to hear one formerly so profuse and prodigal, talk of an egg as the wife of a peasant might do. “I have sacrificed my whole estate to you,” cried he, “and you now hesitate to sacrifice a pitiful hen to my repose! It is impossible you can have ever loved me.”
The young wife patted her spouse’s cheek: “Learn, naughty grumbler,” said she, “that the hen which so disconcerts thee is our best friend. Every morning it lays a golden egg in my mother’s chamber, where it has its meals from her own hand, and where it takes its nightly roost. For nineteen years has it daily paid us this important tribute; and hence thou may’st judge whether, in accepting thy presents heretofore, I was actuated by any mercenary consideration. I took them not on account of their intrinsic value, but as so many proofs of thy devotion, a devotion thou shalt find repaid thee. When we married, thou acceptedst me with, as it seemed,
