io8 
NATURE NOTES 
the charge of a kind old hen, who had just hatched off some 
little ducklings. Some hens would have killed the small intruder, 
but this was a nice, stupid fat old hen, who never noticed the 
difference between her yellow ducklings and little brown guinea 
chick. 
The little thing throve wonderfully with her foster mother, 
was on friendly terms with the ducklings, went out walks 
with them, tried to swim with them, nearly got drowned in 
the rash attempt, and soon left off her shy way of squatting 
in the grass when she saw me coming. Little ducks are always 
tame, and when they ran to meet me Jenny came too, and from 
being petted more than the ducklings became much tamer than 
they, often perching on my shoulder, or on my wrist, and nestling 
in my lap when I was reading in the garden. Soon she deserted 
her ducks and foster mother, though always on excellent terms 
w'ith them, and devoted herself wholly to me, following me all 
over the garden and into the house, if allowed. The cats and 
Jenny are fast friends, indeed I believe she fancies herself a 
cat, she runs about so much with them. She eats out of the 
same plate with them, and often picks one end of a bone while 
pussy is eating at the other end. The kittens have fine games 
with Jenny, playing with her tail and taking flying leaps right 
over her back, and Jenny takes it all in good part. Often when 
I am in my bedroom with the window open there comes a whirr 
of wings, and there is Jenny flying in at the window and nestling 
at my feet. If the window is shut and she can find a door open, 
she hops upstairs instead. She lives almost entirely in the 
flower garden, and does mischief there. At night she perches on 
a tree outside the servants’ bedroom, just where the light falls 
on her when Mary goes to bed. Curiously enough that is the 
only bedroom window near which she can perch, and the spot 
where she sits is quite the nearest to the window. Mary, who 
is fond of her, says, “Good-night, Jenny,” and Jenny never 
fails to give a responsive chirp. If wet or cold, I put her in the 
stable with the cats. One night it came on wet and stormy after 
dark, and in the morning she did not come down at all. So I 
stood on the steps and held a long-handled rake up to her, and 
Jenny stepped gingerly upon the rake and quietly sat on it while 
1 descended the steps — Jenny, rake and all. Poor little bird, she 
was benumbed with cold, and felt, I suppose, unable to fly down. 
1 took her to the kitchen fire, rubbed her dry and fed her. Then 
I left her for a time, and when I went to look at her again, there 
she was perched on the back of a kitchen chair before the fire. 
Jenny never attempted to join her parents: there is also a 
flock of guinea fowl on an adjoining farm, and she can hear their 
cry of “ Come back, come back,” but she never responds to 
them, and never goes near them. At breakfast and dinner time 
she never fails to come on the window-sill outside the room 
where we are sitting, and gently taps the window with her beak 
for a piece of bread. At other times if 1 am sitting near the 
