Long before you were born, and before I was born either (began the miller), there lived at the farm over yonder a little girl. She was an orphan, like you, but she had not even a grandmother to share her roof with her. In summer she slept by the hedge, and in winter she would slip into the stable and lie by the farm horses. And when it was autumn, and the stacks stood in rows in the rickyard waiting to be threshed, she would crawl in under them through the little hole that is left for the air to pass through and to keep them from heating. There she slept as snug as if she were in a house. She was called “Farmyard Maggie,” because it was her business to look after the fowls in the yard. Poor little body! she had not a very happy life of it. They were rough folk at the farm, for the farmer was miserly and his wife was cruel, and often she did not get enough to eat. But the farm men were kind and would sometimes give her a crust of bread or a bit of cheese from their own dinners; and once, when it was cold, a ploughman brought her a pair of shoes that belonged to his own little girl, for he did not like to see her poor little toes on the frosty ground. The horses were kind always, and were careful not to kick her or tramp on her when she took refuge in their stalls; but, unfortunately, they were proud, and when they had on their fine harness with the brass crescents that swung between their ears, they would not notice her. They were high creatures. Maggie took care of the poultry well. She knew all the cocks and hens and little chickens, and even the waddling, gobbling, ducks, whom she fetched home each evening from the pond at the foot of the hill, thought well of her—that is, when they had time to think of anything but their own stomachs, which was not often, certainly. But she had two great friends who loved her dearly. One was a little game-fowl who was as straight on his legs as a sergeant on parade, and the other was a large Cochin-China cock who looked as if he wore ill-fitting yellow trousers that were always on the verge of coming off. The gamecock despised the Cochin-Chinaman a little, for he thought him vulgar, but he was a great deal too well-bred to show it. Besides which, their affection for Maggie made the two birds quite friendly. One autumn afternoon, when the mist hung over the stubble and the brambles were red and gold, Maggie sat crying just over there by the roadside. She was most dreadfully unhappy, for a duck was lost and the farmer’s wife had told her that she must go away and never come back any more. She had turned her out of the yard without so much as a sixpence or a piece of bread to keep her from starving. Presently the Cochin-China cock passed by, and when he saw she was in trouble, he came running towards her as hard as he could, with great awkward strides and his neck stuck out in front of him. “Oh, what _is_ the matter?” he cried. And Maggie put her arms round him and told him everything.