“Well,” said Mother Bunch, for that was the old hen’s name, “I’m as dry as a Saratoga chip. I haven’t had a drink for three days. There’s a pan of water in my coop, but it’s froze. I beg your pardon, I mean frozen. I’ve pecked at the ice with my bill until it’s as sore as an ingrowing pin feather and I haven’t made a dent in it.”