CHAPTER XI
{A Hen Conference: p79.jpg}
July 16th.
Phoebe and I have been to a Hen Conference at Buffington. It was for thepurpose of raising the standard of the British Hen, and our localCountess, who is much interested in poultry, was in the chair.
It was a very learned body, but Phoebe had coached me so well that at thenoon recess I could talk confidently with the members, discussing thevarious advantages of True and Crossed Minorcas, Feverels, Andalusians,Cochin Chinas, Shanghais, and the White Leghorn. (Phoebe, when shepronounces this word, leaves out the "h" and bears down heavily on thelast syllable, so that it rhymes with begone!)
As I was sitting under the trees waiting for Phoebe to finish someshopping in the village, a travelling poultry-dealer came along andoffered to sell me a silver Wyandotte pullet and cockerel. This was anew breed to me and I asked the price, which proved to be more than Ishould pay for a hat in Bond Street. I hesitated, thinking meantime whata delightful parting gift they would be for Phoebe; I mean if we evershould part, which seems more and more unlikely, as I shall never leaveThornycroft until somebody comes properly to fetch me; indeed, unless the"fetching" is done somewhat speedily I may decline to go under anycircumstances. My indecision as to the purchase was finally banishedwhen the poultryman asserted that the fowls had clear open centres allover, black lacing entirely round the white centres, were free from whiteedging, and each had a cherry-red eye. This catalogue of charms inflamedmy imagination, though it gave me no mental picture of a silver Wyandottefowl, and I paid the money while the dealer crammed the chicks, squawkinginto my five-o'clock tea-basket.
{Arguing questions of diet: p81.jpg}
The afternoon session of the conference was most exciting, for we reachedthe subject of imported eggs, an industry that is assuming terrifyingproportions. The London hotel egg comes from Denmark, it seems,--Ishould think by sailing vessel, not steamer, but I may be wrong. Afterwe had settled that the British Hen should be protected and encouraged,and agreed solemnly to abstain from Danish eggs in any form, and made aresolution stating that our loyalty to Queen Alexandra would remainundiminished, we argued the subject of hen diet. There was a greatdifference of opinion here and the discussion was heated; the honorarytreasurer standing for pulped mangold and flint grit, the chair insistingon barley meal and randans, while one eloquent young woman declared, toloud cries of "'Ear, 'ear!" that rice pudding and bone chips produce moreeggs to the square hen than any other sort of food. Impassioned oratorsarose here and there in the audience demanding recognition for beefscraps, charcoal, round corn or buckwheat. Foods were regarded fromvarious standpoints: as general invigorators, growth assisters, and eggproducers. A very handsome young farmer carried off final honours, andproved to the satisfaction of all the feminine poultry-raisers that greenyoung hog bones fresh cut in the Banner Bone Breaker (of which he was theagent) possessed a nutritive value not to be expressed in human language.
{The afternoon session was most exciting: p82.jpg}
Phoebe was distinctly nervous when I rose to say a few words on poultrybreeding, announcing as my topic "Mothers, Stepmothers, Foster-Mothers,and Incubators." Protected by the consciousness that no one in theassemblage could possibly know me, I made a distinct success in my maidenspeech; indeed, I somewhat overshot the mark, for the Countess in thechair sent me a note asking me to dine with her that evening. Isuppressed the note and took Phoebe away before the proceedings werefinished, vanishing from the scene of my triumphs like a veiled prophet.
Just as we were passing out the door we paused to hear the report of aspecial committee whose chairman read the following resolutions:--
_Whereas_,--It has pleased the Almighty to remove from our midst ourgreatest Rose Comb Buff Orpington fancier and esteemed friend, AlbertEdward Sheridain; therefore be it
_Resolved_,--That the next edition of our catalogue contain anillustrated memorial page in his honour and
_Resolved_,--That the Rose Comb Buff Orpington Club extend to thebereaved family their heartfelt sympathy.
{Not asked to the Conference: p84.jpg}
The handsome young farmer followed us out to our trap, invited us toattend the next meeting of the R. C. B. O. Club, of which he was thesecretary, and asked if I were intending to "show." I introduced Phoebeas the senior partner, and she concealed the fact that we possessed butone Buff Orpington, and he was a sad "invaleed" not suitable forexhibition. The farmer's expression as he looked at me was almost lover-like, and when he pressed a bit of paper into my hand I was sure it mustbe an offer of marriage. It was in fact only a circular describing theBanner Bone Breaker. It closed with an appeal to Buff Orpington breedersto raise and ever raise the standard, bidding them remember, in the midstof a low-minded and sordid civilisation, that the rose comb should besmall and neat, firmly set on, with good working, a nice spike at theback lying well down to head, and never, under any circumstances, neversticking up. This adjuration somewhat alarmed us as Phoebe and I hadbeen giving our Buff Orpington cockerel the most drastic remedies for hislanguid and prostrate comb.
{Coming home: p85.jpg}
Coming home we alighted from the trap to gather hogweed for the rabbits.I sat by the wayside lazily and let Phoebe gather the appetising weed,which grows along the thorniest hedges in close proximity to nettles andthistles.
Workmen were trudging along with their luncheon-baskets of wovenbulrushes slung over their shoulders. Fields of ripening grain lay oneither hand, the sun shining on their every shade of green and yellow,bronze and orange, while the breeze stirred the bearded barley into arippling golden sea.
Phoebe asked me if the people I had left behind at the Hydropathic weremy relatives.
"Some of them are of remote consanguinity," I responded evasively, andthe next question was hushed upon her awe-stricken tongue, as I intended.
"They are obeying my wish to be let alone, there's no doubt of that," Iwas thinking. "For my part, I like a little more spirit, and a littleless 'letter'!"
{Workmen were trudging home: p87.jpg}
As the word "letter" flitted through my thoughts, I pulled one from mypocket and glanced through it carelessly. It arrived, somewhat tardily,only last night, or I should not have had it with me. I wore the samedress to the post-office yesterday that I wore to the Hen Conference to-day, and so it chanced to be still in the pocket. If it had beenanything I valued, of course I should have lost or destroyed it bymistake; it is only silly, worthless little things like this that keepturning up and turning up after one has forgotten their existence.
"You are a mystery!" [it ran.] "I can apprehend, but not comprehend you. I know you in part. I understand various bits of your nature; but my knowledge is always fragmentary and disconnected, and when I attempt to make a whole of the mosaics I merely get a kaleidoscopic effect. Do you know those geographical dissected puzzles that they give to children? You remind me of one of them.
"I have spent many charming (and dangerous) hours trying to 'put you together'; but I find, when I examine my picture closely, that after all I've made a purple mountain grow out of a green tree; that my river is running up a steep hillside; and that the pretty milkmaid, who should be wandering in the forest, is standing on her head with her pail in the air
"Do you understand yourself clearly? Or is it just possible that when you dive to the depths of your own consciousness, you sometimes find the pretty milkmaid standing on her head? I wonder!" . . .
Ah, well, it is no wonder that he wonders! So do I, for that matter!