It hadn't rained for forty days and forty nights.
"The reason it doesn't rain," said the guinea-fowl, "is that the barometer
is very high."
But no one listened to her.
"The reason is," said the duck with the black wings, "that the pond is
nearly empty. When the pond is empty it doesn't rain."
"It's the hen-house," said the black hen. "Whenever the roof drips there is
rain."
"It is certainly the hen-house," said all the hens.
"It comes from the trees," said the turkey. "The leaves drip and then there
is rain, and the more they drip the heavier it rains."
"It is my kennel," chuckled Bruno, the wise old dog. "The more it leaks the
more it rains."
At that very moment it began to rain in torrents.
"The pond is full," quacked the ducks. "Look at the pond."
"Oh, do look at the hen-house roof--dripping!" shrieked the hens.
"The leaves--look at the leaves," gurgled the turkeys.
"And my kennel leaks. I can feel it on my back," chuckled Bruno.
"The barometer has gone down," said the guinea-fowl.
But no one took any notice of her--quite properly.
* * * * *
The Housing Problem.
"Three chicken coops, also pigeon-house, for pole; suitable for
lady."--_The Lady_.
* * * * *
The Open-Air Cure.
"The _Telegraaf_ learns from its correspondent at the frontier that on
yesterday (Monday) afternoon a fresh air attack was made on
Zeebrugge."--_Morning Post_.
A pleasant change from stuffy shells.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE ETERNAL FEMININE.
"THAT SHADE. WOULDN'T 'ALF SUIT ME."
"LOR LUMMY, LIL! WOT TISTE--AN' YOU A BLONDE!"]
* * * * *