At five o’clock we set to work getting up the necessary fuel and doing the chores about the house, and such little things as Alice wanted attended to. Exactly at six o’clock Alice, who carried the watch, would come out and call us in for supper, to which two tired men were sure to do justice, especially to the hot coffee which we now had at each meal in plenty. After supper we generally sat on the porch talking over various matters of interest. Mr. Millward, who when a younger man had spent ten years as a missionary in India and South Africa, related many interesting reminiscences of his life in those strange countries: of desperate fights with savages in resisting forays; of hunts for game and encounters with wild beasts; of the rude forms of worship and superstitions of the African tribes, and the complex religion of the Hindoos. His memory was wonderfully accurate and stored with countless incidents, curious, strange, and interesting.
In about two weeks a brood of twelve chickens was hatched out, and the old hen fastened in the coop made no end of clucking and feather-ruffling in her anxiety that the fluffy, yellow-feathered little innocents should come to no harm. They ran in and out between the bars at pleasure, and very soon made friends with their mistress Alice, who could, or thought she could, distinctly recognize each of the little brothers and sisters, and distinguish one from another. In proof of this she named one after each of the twelve months of the year. By feeding them every day she soon got the whole brood so that it would come at call, and some of the chicks would frequently jump into her lap, or eat from her hand in a perfectly fearless manner. It was pleasant to hear her talk to her little pets and call them by name. The one she called April was a feeble little yellow chick, much put upon and driven about by the others, especially by the stout-legged, fluffy, brown ball named October, which seemed to be ever on the watch to snatch a bug or worm from the weakling.
“Now you bad, bad October,” I one time overheard her say, “I shall certainly have to lock you up, if you do not let April’s bugs alone. You selfish little creature, you drop a nice, fat worm of your own to snatch a bitter little bug away from poor April, and when you get it you don’t like it. Serves you quite right, and April has got your worm and run away with it, too. Why, December, I do believe you are losing the beautiful stripes on your back. Come, June; come, September, and you too, August. There, there,--no fighting; brethren should dwell together in unity.” Her father called the brood her Sunday-school class, and remarked with a smile, “Girls are all alike; they must have something to love and pet, and the more helpless it is the better they like it.”