She erects and withdraws her elastic neck in jerks, and
advances with a large and affected gait. One can just see her
profile and its twinkling spangle, and her talk appears to proceed
from a metal spring. She marches, glistening black and glossy like
the love-locks of a gypsy; and as she marches, she unfolds here and
there upon the ground a faint trail of chickens.
These trifling little yellow balls, kept always by a whispering
instinct on the ebb-tide to safety, hurry along under the maternal
march in short, sharp jerks, pecking as they go. Now the train comes
to a full stop, for two of the chickens are thoughtful and immobile,
careless of the parental clucking.
"A bad sign," says Paradis; "the hen that reflects is ill." And
Paradis uncrosses and recrosses his legs. Beside him on the bench,
Blaire extends his own, lets loose a great yawn that he maintains in
placid duration, and sets himself again to observe, for of all of us
he most delights in watching fowls during the brief life when they
are in such a hurry to eat.
And we watch them in unison, not forgetting the shabby old cock,
worn threadbare. Where his feathers have fallen appears the naked
india-rubber leg, lurid as a grilled cutlet. He approaches the white
sitter, which first turns her head away in tart denial, with several
"No's" in a muffled rattle, and then watches him with the little
blue enamel dials of her eyes.
"We're all right," says Barque.
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