There never was a prouder mamma than Madam Cluck when she led forth her family of eight downy little chicks.  Chanticleer, Strut, Snowball, Speckle, Peep, Peck, Downy, and Blot were their names; and no sooner were they out of the shell than they began to chirp and scratch as gaily as if the big world in which they suddenly found themselves was made for their especial benefit.  It was a fine brood; but poor Madam Cluck had bad luck with her chicks, for they were her first, and she didn’t know how to manage them.  Old Aunt Cockletop told her that she didn’t, and predicted that ‘those poor dears would come to bad ends.’

Aunt Cockletop was right, as you will see, when I have told the sad history of this unfortunate family.  The tragedy began with Chanty, who was the boldest little cockadoodle who ever tried to crow.  Before he had a feather to his bit of a tail, Chanty began to fight, and soon was known as the most quarrelsome chick in the farm-yard.  Having pecked his brothers and sisters, he tried to do the same to his playmates, the ducklings, goslings, and young turkeys, and was so disagreeable that all the fowls hated him.  One day, a pair of bantams arrived, — pretty little white birds, with red crests and nice yellow feet.  Chanty thought he could beat Mr. Bantam easily, he was so small, and invited him to fight.  Mr. B. declined.  Then Chanty called him a coward, and gave Mrs. B. a peck, which so enraged her spouse that he flew at Chanty like a gamecock, and a dreadful fight followed, which ended in Chanty’s utter defeat, for he died from his wounds.

Downy and Snowball soon followed; for the two sweet little things would swing on the burdock-leaves that grew over the brook.  Sitting side by side, the plump sisters were placidly swaying up and down over the clear brown water rippling below, when — ah! sad to relate — the stem broke, and down went leaf, chickens and all, to a watery death.

‘I’m the most unlucky hen ever hatched!’ groaned poor Madam Cluck; and it did seem so, for the very next week, Speckle, the best and prettiest of the brood, went to walk with Aunt Cockletop, ‘grasshoppering’ they called it, in the great field across the road.  What a nice time Speckle did have, to be sure; for the grasshoppers were lively and fat, and aunt was in an unusually amiable mood.

’Never run away from anything, but face danger and conquer it, like a brave chick,’ said the old biddy, as she went clucking through the grass, with her gray turban wagging in the wind.  Speckle had hopped away from a toad with a startled chirp, which caused aunt to utter that remark.  The words had hardly left her beak, when a shadow above made her look up, give one loud croak of alarm, and then scuttle away, as fast as legs and wings could carry her.

Little Speckle, remembering the advice, and unconscious of the danger, stood her ground as a great hawk came circling nearer and nearer, till, with a sudden dart he pounced on the poor chicken, and bore it away chirping dismally,

‘Aunty told me not to run.  Oh, dear! oh, dear!  What shall I do?’

It was a dreadful blow to Mrs. Cluck; and Aunt Cockletop didn’t show herself for a whole day after that story was known, for every fowl in the yard twitted her with the difference between her preaching and her practice.

Strut, the other son, was the vainest chick ever seen; and the great aim of his life was to crow louder than any other cock in the neighbourhood.  He was at it from morning till night, and everyone was tired to death of hearing his shrill, small voice making funny attempts to produce hoarse little crows, as he sat on the wall and stretched his yellow neck, till his throat quite ached with the effort.

’Ah! if I could only fly to the highest beam in the barn, and give a splendid crow that everyone could hear, I should be perfectly happy,’ said this silly little fowl, as he stared up at the loft where the old cock often sat.

So he tried every day to fly and crow, and at last managed to get up; then how he did strut and rustle his feathers, while his playmates sat below and watched him.

‘You’ll fall and get hurt,’ said his sister Blot.

’Hold your tongue, you ugly little thing, and don’t talk to me.  I’m going to crow, and can’t be interrupted by any silly bit of a hen.  Be quiet, down there, and hear if I can’t do it as well as daddy.’

The chicks stopped scratching and peeping, and sat in a row to hear Strut crow.  Perching himself on the beam, he tried his best, but only a droll ‘cock-a-doodle-doo’ came of it, and all the chicks laughed.  That made Strut mad, and he resolved to crow, even if he killed himself doing it.  He gave an angry cluck, flapped his wings, and tried again.  Alas, alas, for poor Strut! he leaned so far forward in his frantic effort to get a big crow out, that he toppled over and fell bump on the hard barn-floor, killing himself instantly.

For some time after this, Mrs. Cluck kept her three remaining little ones close to her side, watching over them with maternal care, till they were heartily tired of her anxious cluckings.  Peep and Peck were always together, being very fond of one another.  Peep was a most inquisitive chicken, poking her head into every nook and corner, and never satisfied till she had seen all there was to see.  Peck was a glutton, eating everything she could find, and often making herself ill by gobbling too fast, and forgetting to eat a little gravel to help digest her food.

’Don’t go out of the barn, children.  I’m going to lay an egg, and can’t look after you just now,’ said their mother one day.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ chirped the chickens; and then as she went rustling into the hay-mow, they began to run about and enjoy themselves with all their might.  Peep found a little hole into the meal-room, and slipped in, full of joy at the sight of the bags, boxes, and bins.  ’I’ll eat all I want, and then I’ll call Peck,’ she said; and having taken a taste of every thing, she was about to leave, when she heard the stableman coming, and in her fright couldn’t find the hole, so flew into the meal-bin and hid herself.  Sam never saw her, but shut down the cover of the bin as he passed, and left poor Peep to die.  No one knew what had become of her till some days later, when she was found dead in the meal, with her poor little claws sticking straight up as if imploring help.  Peck meanwhile got into mischief also; for, in her hunt for something good to eat, she strayed into the sheep-shed, and finding some salt, ate as much as she liked, not knowing that salt is bad for hens.  Having taken all she wanted, she ran back to the barn, and was innocently catching gnats when her mamma came out of the hay-mow with a loud.  ‘Cut-cut-cut-ca-dar-cut!’

‘Where is Peep?’ asked Mrs. Cluck.

’Don’t know, ma.  She’ — there Peck stopped suddenly, rolled up her eyes, and began to stagger about as if she was tipsy.

‘Mercy on us!  What’s the matter with the chick?’ cried Mrs. Cluck, in great alarm.

‘Fits, ma’am,’ answered Doctor Drake, who just then waddled by.

‘Oh! what can I do?’ screamed the distracted hen.

‘Nothing, ma’am; it’s fatal.’  And the doctor waddled on to visit Dame Partlet’s son, who was ill of the pip.

’My child, my child! don’t flap and stagger so!  Let me hold you!  Taste this mint-leaf!  Have a drop of water!  What shall I do?’

As poor Mrs. Cluck sighed and sobbed, her unhappy child went scuffling about on her back, gasping and rolling up her eyes in great anguish, for she had eaten too much of the fatal salt, and there was no help for her.  When all was over they buried the dead chicken under a currant bush, covered the little grave with chickweed, and the bereaved parent wore a black string round her leg for a month.

Blot, ‘the last of that bright band,’ needed no mourning for she was as black as a crow.  This was the reason why her mother never had loved her as much as she did the others, who were all white, gray, or yellow.  Poor little Blot had been much neglected by every one; but now her lonely mamma discovered how good and affectionate a chicken she was, for Blot was a great comfort to her, never running away or disobeying in any way, but always close to her side, ready to creep under her wing, or bring her a plump bug when the poor biddy’s appetite failed her.  They were very happy together till Thanksgiving drew near, when a dreadful pestilence seemed to sweep through the farm-yard; for turkeys, hens, ducks, and geese fell a prey to it, and were seen by their surviving relatives featherless, pale, and stiff, borne away to some unknown place whence no fowl returned.  Blot was waked one night by a great cackling and fluttering in the hen-house, and peeping down from her perch saw a great hand glide along the roost, clutch her beloved mother by the leg, and pull her off, screaming dolefully, ’Good-by, good-by, my darling child!’

Aunt Cockletop pecked and croaked fiercely; but, tough as she was, the old biddy did not escape, and many another amiable hen and gallant cockadoodle fell a victim to that mysterious hand.  In the morning few remained, and Blot felt that she was a forlorn orphan, a thought which caused her to sit with her head under her wing for several hours, brooding over her sad lot, and longing to join her family in some safe and happy land, where fowls live in peace.  She had her wish very soon, for one day, when the first snowflakes began to flutter out of the cold gray sky, Blot saw a little kitten mewing pitifully as it sat under the fence.

‘What is the matter, dear?’ asked kind Blot.

‘I’m lost, and I can’t find my way home,’ answered the kitten, shivering with cold.  ’I live at the red farm-house over the hill, only I don’t know which road to take.’

’I’ll show you.  Come at once, for night is coming on, and the snow will soon be too deep for us,’ said Blot.

So away they went, as fast as their small legs could carry them; but it was a long way, and dusk came on before the red farm-house appeared.

’Now I’m safe; thank you very much.  Won’t you come in, and stay all night?  My mother will be glad to see you,’ said the kit rubbing her soft white face against Blot’s little black breast.

’It’s against the rule to stay out all night, and I promised to be in early; so, good-by, dear.’  And off trotted Blot along the snowy road, hoping to get home before the hen-house door was shut.  Faster and faster fell the snow darker and darker grew the night, and colder and colder became poor Blot’s little feet as she waded through the drifts.  The firelight was shining out into the gloom, as the half-frozen chicken came into the yard, to find all doors shut, and no shelter left for her but the bough of a leafless tree.  Too stiff and weak to fly up, she crept as close as possible to the bright glow which shone across the door-step, and with a shiver put her little head under her wing, trying to forget hunger, weariness, and the bitter cold, and wait patiently for morning.  But when morning came, little Blot lay frozen stiff under a coverlet of snow:  and the tender-hearted children sighed as they dug a grave for the last of the unfortunate family of the Clucks.