"Plenty," replied Flaps.
"Shall we be safe from mice, owls, wild beasts, and wild men?" cried the
hens.
"You will," answered Flaps.
"Is it far, dear Flaps?"
"It is very near," said Flaps; "but I may as well tell you the truth at
once--it's a farmyard."
"Oh!--" said all the fowls.
"We may be roasted, or have our heads chopped off," whimpered the young
cockerels.
"Well, Scratchfoot was roasted at Hencastle," said Flaps; "and he wasn't
our only loss. One can't have everything in this world; and I assure
you, if you could see the poultry-yard--so dry under foot, nicely wired
in from marauders; the most charming nests, with fresh hay in them;
drinking-troughs; and then at regular intervals, such abundance of corn,
mashed potatoes, and bones, that my own mouth watered at--are served
out--"
"That sounds good," said the young cockerels.
"Ahem! ahem!" said the chief cock. "Did you see anything very
remarkable--were the specimens of my race much superior in strength and
good looks?----"
"My dear cock!" said Flaps; "there's not a tail or a comb or a hackle to
touch you. You'll be cock of the walk in no time."
"Ahem! ahem!" said the chief cock modestly. "I have always had a sort of
fatality that way.
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