There was the time when she adopted the chicken, for instance. We knew
Juno so well that we felt perfectly certain how she looked at those
things, and so when the old yellow hen declined to acknowledge the little
black chicken as hers, and pecked its head whenever it went near her, we
took the helpless and disowned orphan and put it in Juno's bed, between
the two kittens.
"There, Juno," said Ned, by way of explanation to her look of
astonishment, "there's a child that's been deserted by its unfeeling
mother; I wish you'd look after it."
And Juno took the chicken and held it with one paw while she licked it all
over, though I am not sure that she liked the taste of the soft down that
covered the little stranger. She kept the chicken all that night and every
night afterwards until it considered itself big enough to go alone.
How we used to laugh to see Juno walking about the yard with her
foster-child chirping after her, or to see the chicken run to her and
insist on being hovered!
[Illustration]
As time passed the adopted child became independent and needed no further
guardianship, yet the friendliest relations existed between the two.
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