Mrs. Cochin went scratching in a flower bed. Ignored, he followed at a respectful distance, hissing at the pup who ambled near, striking a cat whose lithe body was poised for a spring at one of the chickens, and frightening away a brood of ducklings. All afternoon the faithful sentinel executed his self-imposed duty, and finally followed his charmer across the yard to the old workshop. “Do not go in there,” he cried, sharply. For answer Mrs. Cochin tripped over the threshold, clucking to her chicks. She flew upon the work bench, thence to a rafter and settled herself as if for the night. “What do you think I am going to do with these chickens?” grumbled Jeremiah, trying to arouse her maternal solicitude. “Let the rats catch them, I don’t care. They are not my chickens.” Mrs. Cochin looked down. She drooped a wing and shut an eye. Her attitude indicated that she would take proper care of her offspring as soon as their company had taken his welcome leave. Again Jeremiah went through the scene at the fence. He gabbled his vain protestations. He groveled in the dust. He flung his unwieldly weight against the work bench and made many futile attempts to rise to Mrs. Cochin’s superior elevation. “You distract, humiliate me,” he hissed. “Your heart is no larger than your head. You may stay there. I wash my feet of you,” and suiting the action of the word, he waddled into the water trough and fluttered there. The black pullet drew near. She was really a comely creature, Jeremiah thought, and he stopped fluttering. If it were not for the fatal glitter of Mrs. Cochin’s blonde beauty, he might learn to care for demure Miss Dominie. He didn’t know but he could, anyway, and gracefully curving his kingly neck he approached her. “Good evening, Miss Dominie. You are looking very charming.” Miss Dominie pretended not to hear. She was too young to be entirely unmoved by his apparent admiration and she felt vaguely sorry for him; but the sun was very low and the sand man had passed her twice. She was looking for a spring bed on one of the low limbs of the cottonwood tree. Jeremiah followed her, babbling the story of his wretched loneliness, until they unwittingly crossed the path of his enemy, the man. Jeremiah’s voice sank to a whisper and he hid behind a tree. Jeremiah is a goose about a good many things, but he knows when to lay dead.