LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
then fell back on “common sense” and his mythical experience at “Uncle Jim’s,” placing a partition in the barrel with a nest on each side of it,—an arrangement which seemed satisfactory to both parties. All went well for about a week, when it was found that the straw had sunk below the partition, and, the avoirdupois of Mrs. Pardiggle being the greater, the eggs had all rolled in to her nest. She was sitting on twenty-six, while poor Miss Flite had none; but as the latter seemed blissfully unconscious of any deficit, while the former, owing to her voluminous foliage, could easily cover all the eggs, we thought it best to leave their tranquillity undisturbed.
Thirteen chickens were the result of this coöperative incubation. Tom happened to be at the barn when the triumphant Pardiggle, with loud maternal cluckings, sailed out of it with the entire brood of fledglings at her heels. It seemed to him that a light suddenly shone in upon the befogged intellect of Miss Flite; for, screaming maniacally, she dashed from her compartment and flew into the midst of the brood, making frantic efforts to secure a fair division of the spoils.
“I hope you gave her some of them,” I said to Tom when he had finished his narration.
“Yes, six; though feeling that I was foolishly sentimental in doing it.”
“No, Tom, it was right and just,—a merited reward for twenty-one days of inefficient faithfulness.”
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