(an allegory.)

i dote upon the softer sex.

the theme i write upon doth vex,

for female inconsistency

a sorry subject is for me

to tackle;

yet of a wayward female hen

i write this time, with halting pen.

compound of pride, and vanity,

all feathers she appear'd to be,

and cackle.

a flighty hen was she, no doubt—

a foolish fowl, a gad-about.

"lay eggs!" quoth she. "why should i?—why?

and set! i won't, upon that i

'm decided."

then,—on the times instalment plan,—

a bicycle she bought, and 'gan

domestic duties to neglect;

her skirts were—what could one expect?—

divided.

this conduct greatly scandalised

the farmyard; all looked on surprised,

all but the rooster staid and grim;

he did not fret. 'twas not for him

to rate her;

he let her go her wilful way,

and purchased for himself one day

a strange contraption—glass and tin—

an article that's called an in-

cubator.

the nearest grocer's then he sought,

some ten-a-shilling eggs he bought;

the incubator set to work

(there was no fear that it would shirk

its duty),

then sat and waited patiently.

not many days to wait, had he:

within a week, to make him glad,

a family of chicks he had—

a beauty.

surprised, his wife returned; but "no;

in future you your way may go,

and i'll go mine, misguided hen!"

said he. she fell to pleading then,

but vainly.

"i'm better off without," he said,

"a wife with such an empty head.

* * *

he flourishes. his wife, grown stout,

neglected, squa-a-ks and stalks about—

ungainly.

moral.

it's a wise chicken in these days that knows

its own mother.