fighting to sit on some eggs that a third was daily laying, and which I did not want hatched, and for the third time I had kicked Em’ly off seven potatoes she had rolled together and was determined to raise I know not what sort of family from. She was shrieking about the hen-house as the Virginian came in to observe (I suspect) what I might be doing now that could be useful for him to mention in the bunk- house.

He stood awhile, and at length said, “We lost our best rooster when Mrs. Henry came to live hyeh.” I paid no attention.

“He was a right elegant Dominicker,” he continued.

I felt a little ruled about the snapping-turtle, and showed no interest in what he was saying, but continued my functions among the hens. This unusual silence of mine seemed to elicit unusual speech from him.

“Yu’ see, that rooster he’d always lived round hyeh when the Judge was a bachelor, and he never seen no ladies or any persons wearing female gyarments. You ain’t got rheumatism, seh?” “Me? No.” “I reckoned maybe them little odd divers yu’ got damp goin’ afteh--” He paused.

“Oh, no, not in the least, thank you.” “Yu’ seemed sort o’ grave this mawnin’, and I’m cert’nly glad it ain’t them divers.” “Well, the rooster?” I inquired finally.

“Oh, him! He weren’t raised where he could see petticoats. Mrs. Henry she come hyeh from the railroad with the Judge afteh dark. Next mawnin’ early she walked out to view her new home, and the rooster was a-feedin’ by the door, and he seen her. Well, seh, he screeched that awful I run out of the bunk- house; and he jus’ went over the fence and took down Sunk Creek shoutin’ fire, right along. He has never come back.” “There’s a hen over there now that has no judgment,” I said, indicating Em’ly. She had got herself outside the house, and was on the bars of a corral, her vociferations reduced to an occasional squawk. I told him about the potatoes.

“I never knowed her name before,” said he. “That runaway rooster, he hated her. And she hated him same as she hates ’em all.” “I named her myself,” said I, “after I came to notice her particularly. There’s an old maid at home who’s charitable, and belongs to the Cruelty to Animals, and she never knows whether she had better cross in front of a street car or wait. I named the hen after her. Does she ever lay eggs?” The Virginian had not “troubled his haid” over the poultry.

“Well, I don’t believe she knows how. I think she came near being a rooster.” “She’s sure manly-lookin’,” said the Virginian. We had walked toward the corral, and he was now scrutinizing Em’ly with interest.

She was an egregious fowl. She was huge and gaunt, with great yellow beak, and she stood straight and alert in the manner of responsible people. There was something wrong with her tail. It slanted far to one side, one feather in it twice as long as the rest. Feathers on her breast there were none. These had been worn entirely off by her habit of sitting upon potatoes and other rough abnormal objects. And this lent to her appearance an air of being decollete, singularly at variance with her otherwise prudish ensemble. Her eye was remarkably bright, but somehow it had an outraged expression. It was as if she went about the world perpetually scandalized over the doings that fell beneath her notice. Her legs were blue, long, and remarkably stout.

“She’d ought to wear knickerbockers,” murmured the Virginian. “She’d look a heap better ’n some o’ them college students. And she’ll set on potatoes, yu’ say?” “She thinks she can hatch out anything. I’ve found her with onions, and last Tuesday I caught her on two balls of soap.” In the afternoon the tall cow-puncher and I rode out to get an antelope.

After an hour, during which he was completely taciturn, he said: “I reckon maybe this hyeh lonesome country ain’t been healthy for Em’ly to live in. It ain’t for some humans. Them old trappers in the mountains gets skewed in the haid mighty often, an’ talks out loud when nobody’s nigher ’n a hundred miles.” “Em’ly