y, in warning that this was his preserve.
They seemed like the same hens, yet Philip knew they were all strangers;
all the hens and flaunting roosters he knew had long ago gone to
Thanksgiving. The hen is, or should be, an annual. It is never made a
pet. It forms no attachments. Man is no better acquainted with the hen,
as a being, than he was when the first chicken was hatched. Its business
is to live a brief chicken life, lay, and be eaten. And this reminded
Philip that his real occupation was hunting hens' eggs. And this he
did, in the mows, in the stalls, under the floor-planks, in every hidden
nook. The hen's instinct is to be orderly, and have a secluded nest of
her own, and bring up a family. But in such a communistic body it is a
wise hen who knows her own chicken. Nobody denies to the hen maternal
instincts or domestic proclivities, but what an ill example is a hen
community!

And then Philip climbed up the hill, through the old grass-plot and the
orchard, to the rocks and the forest edge, and the great view. It had
more meaning to him than when he was a boy, and it was more beautiful.
In a certain peaceful charm, he had seen nothing anywhere in the world
like it. Partly this was because his boyish impressions, the first fresh
impressions of the visible world, came back to him; but surely it was
very beautiful. More experienced travelers than Philip felt its unique
charm.

When he descended, Alice was waiting to breakfast with him. Mrs.
Maitland declared, with an approving smile on her placid, aging face,
that he was the same good-for-nothing boy. But Alice said, as she sat
down to the little table with Philip, "It is different, mother, with us
city folks." They were in the middle room, and the windows opened to the
west upon the river-meadows and the wooded hills beyond, and through one
a tall rose-bush was trying to thrust its fragrant bloom.

What a dainty breakfast! Alice flushed with pleasure. It was so good of
him to come to them. Had he slept well? Did it seem like home at all?
Philip's face showed that it was home without the need of saying so.
Such coffee-yes, a real aroma of the berry! Just a little more, would he
have? And as Alice raised the silver pitcher, there was a deep dimple
in her sweet cheek. How happy she was! And then the butter, so fresh and
cool, and the delicious eggs--by the way, he had left a hatful in the
kitchen as he came in. Alice explained that she did not make the eggs.
And t