340 Next to the Ground 



cord, which the turning twists loose so 

 gradually as to prevent hemorrhage. A 

 chick just hatched is not pretty — it sprawls 

 and spraddles, sways a weak head from side 

 to side, and wears a wet coat, depressingly 

 clammy to the touch. But three hours 

 of mother warmth make it quite another 

 creature. The coat dries to the softest silky 

 down, the eyes grow bright, the head is 

 pertly erect — ■ if placed upon a plane surface 

 Master Chicky makes the funniest clumsy 

 staggers at walking, stretching his winglets 

 in the attempt to balance himself, exactly as 

 a baby balances with his arms before the 

 first step. 



Indeed there is no prettier sight in all the 

 life of the farmlands than a nest whose 

 maker has discharged the whole duty of a 

 hen. Brooding twenty eggs, she has probably 

 hatched seventeen. There may have been 

 a difference of twenty-four hours in the time 

 of hatching. With the eldest of her children 

 running up over her back and beginning to 

 cheep hunger, she knows it is time to go off 

 with her brood. So she steps out, clucking 

 and scowling. The nest may be three feet 

 above ground, but she will get every chick 

 that is dry out of it, no matter how feeble. 

 If any are just coming out of the shell, and 

 cry pitifully as they miss her warm breast, 



