The six hens did their duty nobly during the summer and autumn and a part of the winter, and Pap had his egg unfailingly; but in December the long cold spell came, and the six hens struck. It was the longest and coldest spell ever known in Kilo, and it hung on and hung on until the entire hen population of Eastern Iowa became disgusted and went on a strike. Eggs went up in price until even packed eggs of the previous summer sold for twenty-seven and thirty cents a dozen, and angel-cake became an impossible dainty. The second morning that Pap Briggs ate this eggless breakfast he suggested that perhaps Sally might buy a few eggs at the grocery. “Pap Briggs,” she exclaimed reproachfully, “the idee of you sayin' sich a thin! As if I would cook packed eggs! No; we'll wait, and mebby the hens will begin layin' again in a day or two.” But they did not, and the days became a week, and two weeks, and still no eggs rewarded her daily search. Pap knew better than to repeat his suggestion of buying eggs, for Sally Briggs said a thing only when she meant it, and to mention it again would only exasperate her. “Our hens don't lay a blame egg,” Pap told Billings complainingly, “and Sally won't buy eggs, and I can't eat nothin' but eggs for breakfast, so I reckon I'll jist have to naturally starve to death.” “Why don't you try some of our hen-food?” asked Billings, taking up a package and reading from the label. “'Guaranteed to make hens lay in all kinds of weather, the coldest as well as the warmest' That's just what you want, Pap.” “Well,” said Pap, “I been keepin' hens off and on for nigh forty year, and I ain't ever seen any o' that stuff that was ary good; but I got to have eggs or bust, so I'll take a can o' that stuff. But I ain't no hopes of it, Billings, I ain't no hopes.” His pessimism was well founded. The cold spell was too much even for the best hen-food to conquer. No eggs rewarded him. One evening he was sitting in Billings', smoking his pipe and thinking. He had been thinking for some time, and at length a sparkle came into his eyes, and he knocked the ashes from his pipe and arose. “Billings,” he said, “mix me up about a nickel's wuth o' corn-meal, and a nickel's wuth o' flour, and”--he hesitated a moment and then chuckled--“and a nickel's wuth o' wash-blue.” “For heaven's sake, Pap,” said Billings, “have ye gone plumb crazy?” “No, I ain't,” said Pap. “I ain't lost all my brains yit, nor I ain't gone plumb crazy yit, neither. That's a hen food I invented.” “Hen-food!” exclaimed Billings. “You don't 'low that will make hens lay, do you, Pap?” “I ain't advisin' no one to use it that don't want to,” said Pap, “but I bet you I'm a-goin' to feed that to my hens”; and he chuckled again. “Pap,” said Billings, “you're up to some be-devilment, sure! What is it?” “You jist keep your hand on your watch till you find out,” answered Pap, and he took his package and went home.