Later my uncle told me that it was a hen chick and would be laying eggs in four months.

He added: "It's the only thing it can do, an' if it's let alone it'll be sure to do it.

Follows a kind of a compass that leads to the nest every time." This chicken grew into a little spotted hen.

She became my sole companion in many a lonely hour when Uncle Peabody had gone to the village, or was working in wet ground, or on the hay rack, or the mowing machine where I couldn't be with him.

She was an amiable, confiding little hen who put her trust in me and kept it unto the day of her death, which came not until she had reached the full dignity of mature henhood.
She was like many things on the farm--of great but unconsidered beauty.
No far-fetched pheasant was half so beautiful as she.