CHAPTER VII
July 12th.
O the pathos of a poultry farm! Catherine of Aragon, the black Spanishhen that stole her nest, brought out nine chicks this morning, and thebusiness-like and marble-hearted Phoebe has taken them away and giventhem to another hen who has only seven. Two mothers cannot be wasted onthese small families--it would not be profitable; and the older mother,having been tried and found faithful over seven, has been given the othernine and accepted them. What of the bereft one? She is miserable andstands about moping and forlorn, but it is no use fighting against theinevitable; hens' hearts must obey the same laws that govern the rotationof crops. Catherine of Aragon feels her lot a bitter one just now, butin time she will succumb, and lay, which is more to the point.
We have had a very busy evening, beginning with the rats' supper--delicatesandwiches of bread-and-butter spread with Paris green.
We have a new brood of seventeen ducklings just hatched this afternoon.When we came to the nest the yellow and brown bunches of down and fluffwere peeping out from under the hen's wings in the prettiest fashion inthe world.
"It's a noble hen!" I said to Phoebe.
"She ain't so nowble as she looks," Phoebe answered grimly. "It wasanother 'en that brooded these eggs for near on three weeks and then thisbig one come along with a fancy she'd like a family 'erself if she couldsteal one without too much trouble; so she drove the rightful 'en off thenest, finished up the last few days, and 'ere she is in possession of theducklings!"
"Why don't you take them away from her and give them back to the firsthen, who did most of the work?" I asked, with some spirit.
"Like as not she wouldn't tyke them now," said Phoebe, as she lifted thehen off the broken egg-shells and moved her gently into a clean box, on abed of fresh hay. We put food and drink within reach of the family, andvery proud and handsome that highway robber of a hen looked, as shestretched her wings over the seventeen easily-earned ducklings.
Going back to the old nesting-box, I found one egg forgotten among theshells. It was still warm, and I took it up to run across the field withit to Phoebe. It was heavy, and the carrying of it was a queersensation, inasmuch as it squirmed and "yipped" vociferously in transit,threatening so unmistakably to hatch in my hand that I was decidedlynervous. The intrepid little youngster burst his shell as he touchedPhoebe's apron, and has become the strongest and handsomest of the brood.
All this tending of downy young things, this feeding and putting to bed,this petting and nursing and rearing, is such pretty, comforting woman'swork. I am sure Phoebe will make a better wife to the carrier for havingbeen a poultry-maid, and though good enough for most practical purposeswhen I came here, I am an infinitely better woman now. I am afraid I wasnot particularly nice the last few days at the Hydro. Such a lot ofdull, prosy, inquisitive, bothering old tabbies! Aunt Margaretfurnishing imaginary symptoms enough to keep a fond husband and twotrained nurses distracted; a man I had never encouraged in my life comingto stay in the neighbourhood and turning up daily for rejection; anotherman taking rooms at the very hotel with the avowed purpose of making mylife a burden; and on the heels of both, a widow of thirty-five in fullchase! Small wonder I thought it more dignified to retire than tocompete, and so I did.
I need not, however, have cut the threads that bound me to Oxenbridgewith such particularly sharp scissors, nor given them such a vicioussnap; for, so far as I can observe, the little world of which I imaginedmyself the sun continues to revolve, and, probably, about some othercentre. I can well imagine who has taken up that delightful but somewhatexposed and responsible position--it would be just like her!
{Threatened . . . to hatch in my hand: p51.jpg}
I am perfectly happy where I am; it is not that; but it seems so strangethat they can be perfectly happy without me, after all that they--afterall that was said on the subject not many days ago. Nothing turns out asone expects. There have been no hot pursuits, no rewards offered, nobills posted, no printed placards issued describing the beauty and charmsof a young person who supposed herself the cynosure of every eye. Heigh-ho! What does it matter, after all? One can always be a Goose Girl!
* * * * *
I wonder if the hen mother is quite, quite satisfied with her ducklings!Do you suppose the fact of hatching and brooding them breaks down all thesense of difference? Does she not sometimes reflect that if her childrenwere the ordinary sort, and not these changelings, she would be enjoyingcertain pretty little attentions dear to a mother's heart? The chickswould be pecking the food off her broad beak with their tiny ones, andjumping on her back to slide down her glossy feathers. They would be farnicer to cuddle, too, so small and graceful and light; the changelingsare a trifle solid and brawny. And personally, just as a matter oftaste, would she not prefer wee, round, glancing heads, and pointedbeaks, peeping from under her wings, to these teaspoon-shaped thingslarger than her own? I wonder!
We are training fourteen large young chickens to sit on the perches intheir new house, instead of huddling together on the floor as has beentheir habit, because we discover rat-holes under the wire flooringoccasionally, and fear that toes may be bitten. At nine o'clock Phoebeand I lift the chickens one by one, and, as it were, glue them to theirperches, squawking. Three nights have we gone patiently through withthis performance, but they have not learned the lesson. The ducks andgeese are, however, greatly improved by the application of advancededucational methods, and the _regime_ of perfect order and systeminstituted by Me begins to show results.
{One can always be a Goose Girl: p53.jpg}
There is no more violent splashing and pebbling, racing, chasing,separating. The pole, indeed, still has to be produced, but at the firstmajestic wave of my hand they scuttle toward the shore. The geese turnto the right, cross the rickyard, and go to their pen; the May ducks turnto the left for their coops, the June ducks follow the hens to the topmeadow, and even the idiot gosling has an inspiration now and then andstumbles on his own habitation.
{The geese . . . cross the rickyard: p54.jpg}
Mrs. Heaven has no reverence for the principles of Comenius, Pestalozzi,or Herbert Spencer as applied to poultry, and when the ducks and geesecame out of the pond badly the other night and went waddling and tumblingand hissing all over creation, did not approve of my sending them backinto the pond to start afresh.
"I consider it a great waste of time, of good time, miss," she said;"and, after all, do you consider that educated poultry will be any bettereating, or that it will lay more than one egg a day, miss?"
I have given the matter some attention, and I fear Mrs. Heaven is right.A duck, a goose, or a hen in which I have developed a larger brain,implanted a sense of duty, or instilled an idea of self-government, islikely, on the whole, to be leaner, not fatter. There is nothing likeobeying the voice of conscience for taking the flesh off one's bones;and, speaking of conscience, Phoebe, whose metaphysics are of the farmfarmy, says that hers "felt like a hunlaid hegg for dyes" after she hadjilted the postman.
As to the eggs, I am sure the birds will go on laying one a day for 'tistheir nature to. Whether the product of the intelligent, conscious,logical fowl, will be as rich in quality as that of the uneducated andbarbaric bird, I cannot say; but it ought at least to be equal to theDenmark egg eaten now by all Londoners; and if, perchance, left uneaten,it is certain to be a very superior wife and mother.
While we are discussing the subject of educating poultry, I confess thatthe case of Cannibal Ann gives me much anxiety. Twice in her shortcareer has she been under suspicion of eating her own eggs, but Phoebehas never succeeded in catching her _in flagrante delicto_. That eminentdetective service was reserved for me, and I have been haunted by thepicture ever since. It is an awful sight to witness a hen gulp her ownnewly-laid fresh egg, yolk, white, shell, and all; to realise that youhave fed, sheltered, chased, and occasionally run in, a being possessedof no moral sense, a being likely to set a bad example, inculcate vicioushabits among her in
nocent sisters, and lower the standard of an entirepoultry-yard. _The Young Poultry Keeper's Friend_ gives us no advice onthis topic, and we do not know whether to treat Cannibal Ann as thevictim of a disease, or as a confirmed criminal; whether to administerremedies or cut her off in the flower of her youth.
{Poor little chap, . . . 'e never was a fyvorite: p56.jpg}
We have had a sad scene to-night. A chick has been ailing all day, andwhen we shut up the brood we found him dead in a corner.
Phoebe put him on the ground while she busied herself about the coop. Theother chicks came out and walked about the dead one again and again,eyeing him curiously.
"Poor little chap!" said Phoebe. "'E's never 'ad a mother! 'E was anincubytor chicken, and wherever I took 'im 'e was picked at. There wassomethink wrong with 'im; 'e never was a fyvorite!"
I put the fluffy body into a hole in the turf, and strewed a handful ofgrass over him. "Sad little epitaph!" I thought. "He never was afyvorite!"