It was about two o'clock in the afternoon, and I suddenly heard a
strange sound, that of our fowl cackling. Yesterday I heard her
tell-tale note about noon, and the day before just as I was eating
my breakfast. I knew that it would be so! The serpent has entered
Eden. That fowl has laid before eight in the morning for three
weeks without interruption, and she has now entered upon a career of
wild and reckless uncertainty which compels me to eat eggs from
twelve to twenty-four hours old, just as if I were in London.

Alas for the rarity
Of regularity
Under the sun!

A hen, being of the feminine gender, underestimates the majesty of
order and system; she resents any approach to the unimaginative
monotony of the machine. Probably the Confederated Fowl Union has
been meddling with our little paradise where Labour and Capital have
dwelt in heavenly unity until now. Nothing can be done about it, of
course; even if it were possible to communicate with the fowl, she
would say, I suppose, that she would lay when she was ready, and not
before; at least, that is what an American hen would say.

Just as I was brooding over these mysteries and trying to hatch out
some conclusions, Mrs. Bobby knocked at the door, and, coming in,
curtsied very low before saying, "It's about namin' the 'ouse,
miss."

"Oh yes. Pray don't stand, Mrs. Bobby; take a chair. I am not very
busy; I am only painting prickles on my gorse bushes, so we will
talk it over."