88 
TIIE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
herself. She had developed amid unusual surround¬ 
ings. Circumstances make the man; circumstances had 
made Victoria. Under circumstances she had become 
almost human—totally so—considering the natural 
drawbacks of her physical and mental organization. 
As a little chicken, Mrs. Stevenson bought her from 
the milkman, partly because Mrs. Stevenson had a pet 
theory that with one hen there would always be a fresh 
egg in the house, and partly to content Lavinia May, 
who had an uncomfortable way of saying every Satur¬ 
day night, “she guessed she would leave, the bouse 
was so lonesome.” 
The chicken being very small, they kept her for some 
time in a canary-bird cage, by the kitchen window. 
She was a sickly, little, ugly, scrawny thing, and in a 
weak moment Mrs. Stevenson fell into the habit cf 
holding her, and talking to her, until holding her and 
talking to her became a daily necessity for the family 
peace. A chicken is not a kitten, nor a soft little dog, 
and a fowl of any description is an uncomfortable ob¬ 
ject to rock to sleep in one’s arms, but as Victoria 
would not, or possibly could not sleep without this at¬ 
tention, Mrs. Stevenson wrapped her every night in a 
coarse towel—thereby making something tangible to 
hold, and either she or LavinaMay rocked and sang the 
bundle to sleep. Thus Victoria grew up, and growing 
became too big for the cage. At first they managed to 
get her in and out by twisting her neck a little. Then 
there came a time when twisting had certain dangers, 
and an elaborate structure was made by the fa mi ly 
carpenter, three partitions and several entrances. It 
took too men to carry it into the cellar and the price was 
so exorbitant that for three weeks Mrs. Stevenson re¬ 
fused to pay it. In the meantime Victoria continued 
to twist in and out. Her new lodgings were in the 
inner cellar near the furnace. Victoria got through the 
winter as most people do who live in darkened rooms 
and furnace heat—she just lived through it—that’s all, 
but the spring sunshine and the corner of the city gar¬ 
den brought roundness and plumpness. Cats, dogs, a 
gallant admirer of her own species, and small boys 
tumbled frequently over the fence. The fresh egg a 
day of Mrs. Stevenson’s vision became a white reality. 
The “Stevenson’s hen” had most friendly relations 
with them all. She had outgrown her nursery songs. 
“Rock me to sleep” was no longer a necessity. She 
was always tied by a string, for there were flower 
beds and a Strawberry bed, and a small Asparagus 
bed, in the limited space. Moreover, before the 
string, she had once followed Miss Stevenson to a 
garden party. 
Mr. Paul Myers was young, enthusiastic, interested 
in all about him and given to far-reaching flights of 
fancy. Just now his brain was more than usually ac¬ 
tive, for six of the young ladies were about to graduate. 
He came home that night with the six neatly-copied 
essays under his arm. On the hall table was a black 
bonnet trimmed with crape, a black straw hat trimmed 
with black lace and feathers, a yellow straw hat trimmed 
with white lace quillings and field Daisies and in the 
back porch a brown straw hat trimmed with red ribbon. 
To Paul Myers these hats meant an old lady, an oldish 
young lady, a young girl, and a maid-seiwant. It was 
late, the lights were out, he ventured into the drawing¬ 
room. An Afghan, half finished, lay on the sofa. Paul 
knew all the stages of an Afghan. He used to say that 
they reminded him of the Cathedral of Cologne. The 
first part in ruins before the last was completed. He 
took this up and looked at the first stripe with interest. 
A little faded, and lie ntll s have been in it,”he said. 
“ Commenced probably five years ago, brought it out 
here to finish—belongs to the oldish young lady.” Then 
he looked for the old lady’s knitting and the young 
girl’s embroidery. “A Wedding Journey” lay open 
on the table. “Ah, fond of reading,” he said; “prob¬ 
ably read aloud while the old lady rested and the other 
one worked on her Afghan,” and going up to bed he 
met the cat coming down. 
‘ Midsummer day ! How glorious to wake up in the 
country with no going back to town in the evening- 
train ! Birds, woods, roses, blue sky, orchards, cows— 
how delightful! ” Lydia Stevenson was decorating the 
dinner table with field Daisies; she wore the white hat 
with lace quillings, and a small sketch-book and more 
Daisies tucked into her belt. 
“ I could not make a pudding,” chanted Lavinia May. 
“ I couldn’t buy a single egg at the store: all the eggs 
we’ve got to depend on are Victoria’s; she’s lay’d two, 
I thought we’d better save ’em.” 
“Singular,” observed Mrs. Stevenson from the sofa, 
“that we have to bring a hen from the city to supply 
us with eggs! ” 
The party were resting after their individual capaci¬ 
ties. Mrs. Stevenson, by getting up at four—she 
couldn’t sleep in a strange bed—and wandering help¬ 
lessly about the house and garden with now and then a 
nap on the dining-room sofa, Lydia by getting up at 
ten and writing long letters to her five dearest friends— 
allusions to Daisies and Buttercups on every page; and 
Lavinia May by not sleeping at all, she being scared to 
death in that big room, with the cat going through at 
any hour of the night. Her days, however, were more 
restful. She was making a jacket; a small, white 
flower on a blue-black ground with a running vine 
stamped as a border. To Lavinia May the grass and 
trees, and Daisies and cows, were only seen through 
several yards of this pleasing blue calico. 
Victoria and the ghostly cat had become inseparable, 
and wandered—as far as the string would allow—side 
by side in the shady door-yard. Thomas, the gardener, 
surveyed the couple with amused interest. 
“Did you bring her from town?” he said. “Well, I 
declare ! ain’t you got any more? Why don't you keep 
two ? ” 
“We never keep but one,” said Lavinia in her most 
sublime manner. 1 ‘ She lays an egg every day:” 
“I don’t believe it,” said Thomas; “one hen alone 
never amounted to anything. Why, you couldn’t get 
one hen alone to lay ! Nobody ever heard of such a 
thing. Perhaps she’s related to the hen mentioned in 
the hymn,” and he went down the pathway singing : 
“ Our old speckled hen is dead, 
We ne’er shall see her more; 
She used to lay three eggs a day, 
On Sundays she lay’d four.” 
Mr. Myers regularly came home late, and slipped into 
the drawing-room. He was as keen as an Indian on 
the war-path. Mrs. Stevenson and Lavinia May he had 
met. The two young ladies he thought he knew well, 
from having studied their tastes in his midnight inves¬ 
tigations. 
The young girl, he reflected, was Victoria. Like her 
