A strange noise awoke Dorothy, who opened her eyes to find that dayhad dawned and the sun was shining brightly in a clear sky. She hadbeen dreaming that she was back in Kansas again, and playing in theold barn-yard with the calves and pigs and chickens all around her;and at first, as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she reallyimagined she was there.

"Kut-kut-kut, ka-daw-kut! Kut-kut-kut, ka-daw-kut!"

Ah; here again was the strange noise that had awakened her. Surely itwas a hen cackling! But her wide-open eyes first saw, through theslats of the coop, the blue waves of the ocean, now calm and placid,and her thoughts flew back to the past night, so full of danger anddiscomfort. Also she began to remember that she was a waif of thestorm, adrift upon a treacherous and unknown sea.

"Kut-kut-kut, ka-daw-w-w--kut!"

"What's that?" cried Dorothy, starting to her feet.

"Why, I've just laid an egg, that's all," replied a small, but sharpand distinct voice, and looking around her the little girl discovereda yellow hen squatting in the opposite corner of the coop.

"Dear me!" she exclaimed, in surprise; "have YOU been here allnight, too?"

"Of course," answered the hen, fluttering her wings and yawning."When the coop blew away from the ship I clung fast to this corner,with claws and beak, for I knew if I fell into the water I'd surely bedrowned. Indeed, I nearly drowned, as it was, with all that waterwashing over me. I never was so wet before in my life!"

"Yes," agreed Dorothy, "it was pretty wet, for a time, I know. But doyou feel comfor'ble now?"

"Not very. The sun has helped to dry my feathers, as it has yourdress, and I feel better since I laid my morning egg. But what's tobecome of us, I should like to know, afloat on this big pond?"

"I'd like to know that, too," said Dorothy. "But, tell me; how doesit happen that you are able to talk? I thought hens could only cluckand cackle."

"Why, as for that," answered the yellow hen thoughtfully, "I'veclucked and cackled all my life, and never spoken a word before thismorning, that I can remember. But when you asked a question, a minuteago, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to answer you. SoI spoke, and I seem to keep on speaking, just as you and other humanbeings do. Strange, isn't it?"

"Very," replied Dorothy. "If we were in the Land of Oz, I wouldn'tthink it so queer, because many of the animals can talk in that fairycountry. But out here in the ocean must be a good long way from Oz."

"How is my grammar?" asked the yellow hen, anxiously. "Do I speakquite properly, in your judgment?"

"Yes," said Dorothy, "you do very well, for a beginner."

"I'm glad to know that," continued the yellow hen, in a confidentialtone; "because, if one is going to talk, it's best to talk correctly.The red rooster has often said that my cluck and my cackle were quiteperfect; and now it's a comfort to know I am talking properly."

"I'm beginning to get hungry," remarked Dorothy. "It's breakfasttime; but there's no breakfast."

"You may have my egg," said the yellow hen. "I don't care for it,you know."

"Don't you want to hatch it?" asked the little girl, in surprise.

"No, indeed; I never care to hatch eggs unless I've a nice snug nest,in some quiet place, with a baker's dozen of eggs under me. That'sthirteen, you know, and it's a lucky number for hens. So you may aswell eat this egg."

"Oh, I couldn't POSS'BLY eat it, unless it was cooked," exclaimedDorothy. "But I'm much obliged for your kindness, just the same."

"Don't mention it, my dear," answered the hen, calmly, and beganpruning her feathers.

For a moment Dorothy stood looking out over the wide sea. She wasstill thinking of the egg, though; so presently she asked:

"Why do you lay eggs, when you don't expect to hatch them?"

"It's a habit I have," replied the yellow hen. "It has always been mypride to lay a fresh egg every morning, except when I'm moulting. Inever feel like having my morning cackle till the egg is properlylaid, and without the chance to cackle I would not be happy."

"It's strange," said the girl, reflectively; "but as I'm not a hen Ican't be 'spected to understand that."

"Certainly not, my dear."

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

After a time the hen flew up and perched upon the topmost slat of thecoop, which was a little above Dorothy's head when she was sittingupon 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 acertain direction. "We seem to be drifting toward it, so thatbefore noon we ought to find ourselves upon dry land again."

"I shall like that!" said Dorothy, with a little sigh, for her feetand legs were still wetted now and then by the sea-water that camethrough the open slats.

"So shall I," answered her companion. "There is nothing in the worldso miserable as a wet hen."

The land, which they seemed to be rapidly approaching, since it grewmore distinct every minute, was quite beautiful as viewed by thelittle girl in the floating hen-coop. Next to the water was a broadbeach of white sand and gravel, and farther back were several rockyhills, while beyond these appeared a strip of green trees that markedthe edge of a forest. But there were no houses to be seen, nor anysign of people who might inhabit this unknown land.

"I hope we shall find something to eat," said Dorothy, looking eagerlyat the pretty beach toward which they drifted. "It's long pastbreakfast 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 haveyour food cooked, as I do."

"Do you take me for a cannibal?" cried the hen, indignantly. "I donot 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 inquireyour 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 tellwhether I was going to be a hen or a rooster; so the little boy at thefarm where I was born called me Bill, and made a pet of me because Iwas the only yellow chicken in the whole brood. When I grew up, andhe found that I didn't crow and fight, as all the roosters do, he didnot think to change my name, and every creature in the barn-yard, aswell as the people in the house, knew me as 'Bill.' So Bill I'vealways been called, and Bill is my name."

"But it's all wrong, you know," declared Dorothy, earnestly; "and, ifyou don't mind, I shall call you 'Billina.' Putting the 'eena' on theend makes it a girl's name, you see."

"Oh, I don't mind it in the least," returned the yellow hen. "Itdoesn't matter at all what you call me, so long as I know the namemeans ME."

"Very well, Billina. MY name is Dorothy Gale--just Dorothy to myfriends and Miss Gale to strangers. You may call me Dorothy, if youlike. We're getting very near the shore. Do you suppose it is toodeep for me to wade the rest of the way?"

"Wait a few minutes longer. The sunshine is warm and pleasant, and weare in no hurry."

"But my feet are all wet and soggy," said the girl. "My dress is dryenough, but I won't feel real comfor'ble till I get my feet dried."

She waited, however, as the hen advised, and before long the bigwooden coop grated gently on the sandy beach and the dangerous voyagewas over.

It did not take the castaways long to reach the shore, you may besure. The yellow hen flew to the sands at once, but Dorothy had toclimb over the high slats. Still, for a country girl, that was notmuch of a feat, and as soon as she was safe ashore Dorothy drew offher wet shoes and stockings and spread them upon the sun-warmed beachto dry.

Then she sat down and watched Billina, who was pick-pecking away withher sharp bill in the sand and gravel, which she scratched up andturned over with her strong claws.

"What are you doing?" asked Dorothy.

"Getting my breakfast, of course," murmured the hen, busily pecking away.

"What do you find?" inquired the girl, curiously.

"Oh, some fat red ants, and some sand-bugs, and once in a while a tinycrab. They are very sweet and nice, I assure you."

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Dorothy, in a shocked voice.

"What is dreadful?" asked the hen, lifting her head to gaze with onebright eye at her companion.

"Why, eating live things, and horrid bugs, and crawly ants. You oughtto be 'SHAMED of yourself!"

"Goodness me!" returned the hen, in a puzzled tone; "how queer youare, Dorothy! Live things are much fresher and more wholesome thandead ones, and you humans eat all sorts of dead creatures."

"We don't!" said Dorothy.

"You do, indeed," answered Billina. "You eat lambs and sheep and cowsand pigs and even chickens."

"But we cook 'em," said Dorothy, triumphantly.

"What difference does that make?"

"A good deal," said the girl, in a graver tone. "I can't just 'splainthe diff'rence, but it's there. And, anyhow, we never eat suchdreadful things as BUGS."

"But you eat the chickens that eat the bugs," retorted the yellow hen,with an odd cackle. "So you are just as bad as we chickens are."

This made Dorothy thoughtful. What Billina said was true enough, andit almost took away her appetite for breakfast. As for the yellowhen, she continued to peck away at the sand busily, and seemed quitecontented with her bill-of-fare.

Finally, down near the water's edge, Billina stuck her bill deep intothe sand, and then drew back and shivered.

"Ow!" she cried. "I struck metal, that time, and it nearly brokemy beak."

"It prob'bly was a rock," said Dorothy, carelessly.

"Nonsense. I know a rock from metal, I guess," said the hen."There's a different feel to it."

"But there couldn't be any metal on this wild, deserted seashore,"persisted the girl. "Where's the place? I'll dig it up, and prove toyou I'm right,"

Billina showed her the place where she had "stubbed her bill," as sheexpressed it, and Dorothy dug away the sand until she felt somethinghard. Then, thrusting in her hand, she pulled the thing out, anddiscovered it to be a large sized golden key--rather old, but stillbright and of perfect shape.

"What did I tell you?" cried the hen, with a cackle of triumph. "CanI tell metal when I bump into it, or is the thing a rock?"

"It's metal, sure enough," answered the child, gazing thoughtfully atthe curious thing she had found. "I think it is pure gold, and it musthave lain hidden in the sand for a long time. How do you suppose it camethere, Billina? And what do you suppose this mysterious key unlocks?"

"I can't say," replied the hen. "You ought to know more about locksand keys than I do."

Dorothy glanced around. There was no sign of any house in that partof the country, and she reasoned that every key must fit a lock andevery lock must have a purpose. Perhaps the key had been lost bysomebody who lived far away, but had wandered on this very shore.

Musing on these things the girl put the key in the pocket of her dressand then slowly drew on her shoes and stockings, which the sun hadfully dried.

"I b'lieve, Billina," she said, "I'll have a look 'round, and see if Ican find some breakfast."