‘That,’ I regret to say, is a stone directed with unerring aim by Betty, and received by the hen on her shoulder with a shock that makes her bound, not only into the air, but ‘over the garden wall’ and into the yard beyond, with a haste that perhaps she calls undue. And now Susan has routed out the other two, and, with a cackling that would rouse the dead, they rush after their companion towards that spot in the wall that is easiest for the purposes of ingress and egress from the yard to the garden. Susan races after them, ‘shoo-ing’ with all her might, generously supported by Betty and her shower of small stones. So ardent, so bloodthirsty, is the chase, it is matter for wonder that the hens, having once gone through such an encounter, could ever brave it again. But hens are amongst the bravest things living—Amazons in their own line. It is indeed popularly supposed in our neighbourhood that the souls of those defunct termagants have entered into them, and, at all events, there does not rest a doubt now in the minds of Susan and Betty that in half an hour’s time those hens will have returned to the charge, as fresh as ever. ‘We must get a wire netting put up along there,’ says Betty angrily. ‘What’s the good of our planting seeds and roots and things for the amusement of those abominable hens? And why should they think there are more grubs under a picotee than under a common daisy?’ ‘I wish there was a netting put up,’ says Susan, who is distinctly flushed. ‘But who’s going to do it? Father won’t. Wiring costs something, and there would be a good bit of it to be put up there’—pointing to the long wall. ‘Maybe Dom would, when he gets his next half-year’s allowance.’ ‘I don’t think you ought to ask him,’ says Susan. ‘He is not our brother, you know.’ ‘He’s nearly as good,’ says Betty. ‘Still, he isn’t, and I, for one, wouldn’t ask him.’ ‘I would. The only thing is that perhaps father wouldn’t like it.’ ‘I know he wouldn’t.’ ‘What’s to be done, then? Are we to spend our time hunting these blessed hens until the day we die? If so’—tragically—‘I hope that day will come full soon. Oh, I declare, there’s the cock! Run, Susan, run! Oh, the villain! the ringleader! Catch him, Susan! Oh, there, he’s gone under the laurels! Oh, the artful thing!’ ‘No he isn’t,’ cries Susan; ‘he’s over there, near you. I see his leg. This side—this side, Betty. Ah, now you have him! Hold him—hold him tight.’ Betty has caught hold of the king of the yard, and is dragging him ruthlessly from his hiding-place. There are yells from the cock, and muttered execrations from Betty. But finally the cock has the best of it. With a whir and a whoop he makes a last grand sprint, and once again knows the splendours of freedom. Away he goes down the garden-path, and away go the girls after him. ‘Squawk, squawk, squawk!’ cries the cock; and ‘Oh, if I catch you!’ cries Betty, under her breath. Her breath is, indeed, running very short. Susan’s has given way entirely.