tle ears.

"Dear me, what a noise these mortals do make when they quarrel! They
quite deafen me. I must teach them better manners."

But when the Cook slammed the door to, and left Gardener and his wife
alone, they too began to dispute between themselves.

"You make such a fuss over your nasty pigs, and get all the scraps for
them," said the wife. "It's of much more importance that I should have
everything Cook can spare for my chickens. Never were such fine chickens
as my last brood!"

"I thought they were ducklings."

"How you catch me up, you rude old man! They are ducklings, and
beauties, too--even though they have never seen water. Where's the pond
you promised to make for me, I wonder?"

"Rubbish, woman! If my cows do without a pond, your ducklings may. And
why will you be so silly as to rear ducklings at all? Fine fat chickens
are a deal better. You'll find out your mistake some day."

"And so will you when that old Alderney runs dry. You'll wish you had
taken my advice, and fattened and sold her."

"Alderney cows won't sell for fattening, and women's advice is never
worth twopence. Yours isn't worth even a half-penny. What are you
laughing at?"

"I wasn't laughing," said the wife, angrily; and, in truth, it was not
she, but little Brownie, running under the barrow which the Gardener was
wheeling along, and very much amused that people should be so silly as
to squabble about nothing.

It was still early morning; for, whatever this old couple's faults might
be, laziness was not one of them. The wife rose with the dawn to feed
her poultry and collect her eggs; the husband also got through as much
work by breakfast-time as many an idle man does by noon. But Brownie had
been beforehand with them this day.

When all the fowls came running to be fed, the big Brahma hen who had
watched the ducklings was seen wandering forlornly about, and clucking
mournfully for her young brood--she could not find them anywhere. Had
she been able to speak, she might have told how a large white Aylesbury
duck had waddled into the farmyard, and waddled out again, coaxing them
after her, no doubt in search of a pond. But missing they were, most
certainly.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!" mourned the miserable hen-mother--and, "Oh, my
ducklings, my ducklings!" cried the Gardener's wife--"Who can have
carried off my beautiful ducklings?"

"Rats, maybe," said the Gardener, cruelly, as he walked away. And as he
went he heard the squeak