one voice
they cried: "Thank you, dear Flaps. Whatever you decide upon will do for
us."

And Mark added, "I will continue to act as watchman." And he went up to
the top of the tree as Flaps trotted off down the muddy road.

All that evening and far into the night it rained and rained, and the
fowls cuddled close to each other to keep warm, and Flaps did not
return. In the small hours of the morning the rain ceased, and the
rain-clouds drifted away, and the night-sky faded and faded till it was
dawn.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" said Mark, and all the fowls woke up.

"What do you see and hear from the tree-top, dear Mark?" said they. "Is
Flaps coming?"

"Not a thing can I see
From the top of the tree,
But a long, winding lane
That is sloppy with rain;"

replied Mark. And the fowls huddled together again, and put their heads
back under their wings.

Paler and paler grew the grey sky, and at last it was broken with golden
bars, and at the first red streak that caught fire behind them, Mark
crowed louder than before, and all the hens of Hencastle roused up for
good.

"What do you see and hear from the tree-top, dear Mark?" they inquired.
"Is Flaps coming?"

"Not a sound do I hear,
And I very much fear
That Flaps, out of spite,
Has deserted us quite;"

replied Mark. And the fowls said nothing, for they were by no means at
ease in their consciences.

Their delight was proportionably great when, a few minutes later, the
sentinel sang out from his post,

"Here comes Flaps, like the mail!
And he's waving his tail."

"Well, dear, dear Flaps!" they all cackled as he came trotting up,
"where is our new home, and what is it like?"

"Will there be plenty to eat?" asked the cocks with one crow.

"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