I went to the window. Paul was surrounded by our flock of twenty-seven half-grown chickens and five hens. In one hand he held his little tin pail of corn; with the other he dealt out one grain at a time to each in turn, calling the fowl by name and reproving those that tried to snatch the others' share. "Jeremiah, here's yours--come along Aunt Noddy," I heard him say coaxingly. I sat down again and stared at Marion hopelessly; she responded with a gaze of mute despair; then we both studied the tablecloth without speaking, feeling that the skeleton we had ignored for months had at last stalked unbidden from the closet. As I thought the matter over I could see that Marion was entirely to blame for this hopeless complication. If she had allowed me to get eggs from pure-bred stock for setting we would have had twenty-seven chickens of exactly similar appearance that Paul never could have individualized, never have named, never have loved with the passionate fervor that he bestowed on each one of the variegated specimens hatched from eggs at ten cents a dozen. My eggs, I computed, would have cost not more than five dollars; so in order to save four dollars and a half, Marion had saddled us with a flock as unapproachable from a culinary stand-point as so many sacred cows. This conclusion presented itself with such clearness that I was on the point of submitting it to Marion when I remembered how unpleasant it was to me to listen to wholesome truths, so I merely looked unselfish and hummed thoughtfully. My wife regarded me with suspicion, her frown deepening. "I have asked you repeatedly," she said, with frosty distinctness, "not to hum, and not to look like that." My complaisance vanished. I am not easily irritated, and I try to avoid answering back, but I cannot stand being told not to look like that. "Marion," I retorted, "I don't wonder you feel annoyed, but you may as well face the difficulty now. I'm tired of people asking me how we like living in the country, and then remarking that it must be fine to have your own chickens. Of course, I'm willing to keep up appearances and to make-believe that having our own chickens is one of our many daily luxuries; but now that your Aunt Sophy is coming we've got to eat them, or she'll know the reason why. Oh, yes, I know," I added, as she tried to interrupt--"I know we can't have them in the abstract. We've got to kill and cook and pick the bones of Abner, Jeremiah, Lucy, or some other of the boy's pets; but if I had had my way about the eggs he couldn't have told one from another, and we might have had an occasional fowl without these painful personal associations." I regretted my rashness when I saw Marion's look of calm scorn, her manner leading me to expect a revival of some of my mistakes. I can evolve plausible theories, but she usually shatters them with the most distracting personal applications.