“It’s strange,” said the girl, reflectively; “but as I’m not a hen I can’t be ’spected to understand that.”

“Certainly not, my dear.”

Then Dorothy fell silent again.  The yellow hen was some company, and a bit of comfort, too; but it was dreadfully lonely out on the big ocean, nevertheless.

After a time the hen flew up and perched upon the topmost slat of the coop, which was a little above Dorothy’s head when she was sitting upon the bottom, as she had been doing for some moments past.

“Why, we are not far from land!” exclaimed the hen.

“Where?  Where is it?” cried Dorothy, jumping up in great excitement.

“Over there a little way,” answered the hen, nodding her head in a certain direction.  “We seem to be drifting toward it, so that before noon we ought to find ourselves upon dry land again.”

“I shall like that!” said Dorothy, with a little sigh, for her feet and legs were still wetted now and then by the sea-water that came through the open slats.

“So shall I,” answered her companion.  “There is nothing in the world so miserable as a wet hen.”

The land, which they seemed to be rapidly approaching, since it grew more distinct every minute, was quite beautiful as viewed by the little girl in the floating hen-coop.  Next to the water was a broad beach of white sand and gravel, and farther back were several rocky hills, while beyond these appeared a strip of green trees that marked the edge of a forest.  But there were no houses to be seen, nor any sign of people who might inhabit this unknown land.

“I hope we shall find something to eat,” said Dorothy, looking eagerly at the pretty beach toward which they drifted.  “It’s long past breakfast time, now.”

“I’m a trifle hungry, myself,” declared the yellow hen.

“Why don’t you eat the egg?” asked the child.  “You don’t need to have your food cooked, as I do.”

“Do you take me for a cannibal?” cried the hen, indignantly.  “I do not know what I have said or done that leads you to insult me!”

“I beg your pardon, I’m sure Mrs.—­Mrs.—­by the way, may I inquire your name, ma’am?” asked the little girl.

“My name is Bill,” said the yellow hen, somewhat gruffly.

“Bill!  Why, that’s a boy’s name.”

“What difference does that make?”

“You’re a lady hen, aren’t you?”

“Of course.  But when I was first hatched out no one could tell whether I was going to be a hen or a rooster; so the little boy at the farm where I was born called me Bill, and made a pet of me because I was the only yellow chicken in the whole brood.  When I grew up, and he found that I didn’t crow and fight, as all the roosters do, he did not think to change my name, and every creature in the barn-yard, as well as the people in the house, knew me as ‘Bill.’  So Bill I’ve always been called, and Bill is my name.”