VI. THE SPECKLED HEN
IN ORDER to relieve the reader's suspense, I may as well say here thatJimmy Dunn did not marry Miss Seiler. It is too bad to have to sacrificewhat promised to be a first-class love interest, but the truth is thatthere is less chance of Jimmy ever marrying Miss Seiler than thereseemed likelihood of Isobel and me reaching Port Lafayette in Mr.Millington's automobile.
Usually when we started for Port Lafayette, my wife and Millington'swife would dress for the matinee or church, or wherever they intendedgoing that day, and when Millington heard the knocking sound in hisengine and began to get out his tools, they would excuse themselvespolitely and go and spend the day in the city. They usually returnedin time to get into the car and ride back to the garage. But I stuck toMillington. You never can tell when a car of that kind will be ready tostart up, and I was really very anxious to go to Port Lafayette. I spentsome very delightful days with Millington that way, for when he wasmending his car he was always in a charming humour, and as gay andplayful as a kitten.
I began to fear that one, if not the only, reason why Mr. Millington wasalways in such a good humour when his car was in a bad one, was becauseI had told him that I had heard of a man in Port Lafayette who had afine farm of White Wyandotte chickens, and that I thought I might buysome for my place. Millington does not believe in Wyandottes. He is allfor Orpingtons.
It is remarkable how many wives object to chickens. I do not blameIsobel for not liking chickens, for she was born in a flat, and I amwilling to make allowances for her lack of education; but why Mrs. Rolfsand Mrs. Millington should dislike chickens was beyond my comprehension.Both were born in the suburbs, and grew up in a real chickenishatmosphere, and still they do not keep chickens. I must say, however,that Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington are persons of greater intelligence.Almost the first day I moved into the suburb of Westcote, Mr. Rolfsleaned over the division fence and complimented me on my foresight inpurchasing such an admirable place on which to raise chickens. He toldme that if I needed any advice about chickens he would be glad to supplyme with all I wished, just as a neighbourly matter. He seemed to take itas a matter of course that I would arrange for a lot of chickens as soonas I was fairly settled on the place, and in this he was seconded by Mr.Millington.
When Mr. Millington saw Mr. Rolfs talking to me, he came right over andsaid that, while he hated to boast, he had studied chickens from A toGizzard, and that when I was ready to get my chickens he could give mesome suggestions that would be simply invaluable. We talked the chickenmatter over very thoroughly, and I soon saw that they were men ofknowledge and deep experience in chicken matters, and when they haddecided that I would keep chickens, and what kind of chickens, and whereI should build the coop, and what kind of coop I should build, we allshook hands warmly, and I went around front to tell Isobel. I was veryenthusiastic about chickens when I went.
After I had interviewed Isobel for three minutes I learned, definitely,that I was not going to keep chickens. There were a great many thingsMr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington had not said about chickens, and those werethe very things Isobel told me, and they were all reasons for not havingchickens on the place at all. She also threw in an opinion of Mr. Rolfsand Mr. Millington. It seemed that they were two villains of the mostdepraved sort, who did not dare keep chickens themselves because theywere afraid of their wives, and who were trying to steal a vicarious joyby bossing my chickens when I got them, but that I was not going to getany. Absolutely!
Of course, I always do what Isobel tells me, and when she told me I wasnot going to have chickens, I obeyed. But I merely told Mr. Rolfsand Mr. Millington when they came over the next day, that I had beenthinking the matter over and that I was doubtful whether the south corneror the north corner would be the best place for the coop. So we threewent and looked over the ground again. Both favoured the north corner,so I hung back and seemed undecided and doubtful, and finally, in a weekor two, they agreed with me.
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I never saw two men so anxious to have a neighbour keep chickens. Theywere willing to let me have almost everything my own way. It was quite astrain on me, for I had to think of a new objection to their plans everyday or so, but I could see the suspense was harder on Mr. Rolfs and Mr.Millington. Every morning they came and hung over my fence wistfully,and every evening they came over and talked chickens, and on the trainto town they spoke freely of the chickens they were going to keep. Ina month they were talking of the chickens they _were_ keeping, andbragging about them; and old-seasoned chicken raisers used to hunt themup and sit with them and ask for information on knotty points.
Toward fall Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington were beginning to talk aboutthe large sums of money they were making out of their chickens, andpromising settings of their White Orpington and White Wyandotte eggs tothe commuters, and they began to be really annoying. They would standat the fence, hollow-eyed and hungry-looking, staring into my yard, andwhen I passed they would make slighting remarks about me and the lack ofdecision in my character. They said sneeringly that they did not believeI would ever get any chickens.
"You, Millington, and you, Rolfs," I said firmly, "should remember onething: I am the man who is getting these chickens, and the main thing inraising chickens is to start right. I do not want to go into this thinghastily and then regret it all my life. If you do not like my way, allyou have to do is to build coops yourselves and buy chickens and raisethem yourselves. Be patient. Every day I am learning more about chickensfrom your conversations on the train, and when I do get my chickens youwill find I have profited by your suggestions."
Millington and Rolfs had to be satisfied with that, so far as I wasconcerned, for although I spoke to Isobel frequently on the subject ofchickens she had not changed. I silenced Millington by telling him Iwould have chickens long before he ever succeeded in taking Isobel andme to Port Lafayette in his automobile.
"If that is all you are waiting for," he said, "we will startto-morrow," and so we did; but that was all.
Millington and Rolfs, during the winter, worked off some of theirsurplus chicken energy writing letters to the poultry periodicals. Myfriends in town began asking me why I did not keep chickens when Ilived near to such chicken experts as Rolfs and Millington, by whoseexperience I could profit; but the worst came one day on the train whenRolfs actually had the assurance to offer me a setting of his WhiteWyandotte eggs. I blame Rolfs and Millington for acting in this way. Noman should brag about chickens he has not; I only bragged about those Imeant to get.
By the time spring put forth her tender leaves, Rolfs and Millingtonwere so deep in their imaginary chicken business that they talkednothing else, and all their spare time was spent in my yard, urging meto hurry a little and get the chickens.
"I wish you would hurry a bit in getting those chickens of mine,"Millington would say; "I ought to have at least ten hens sitting by thistime." And then Rolfs would say: "He is right about that. Unless you getmy White Wyandottes soon, the chicks will not be hatched out beforecold weather. I ought to have the hens on the eggs now." Occasionally Imentioned chickens in an off-hand way to Isobel, but she had not changedher views.
"Now, Isobel," I would say, "about chickens--"
At the word "chickens" Isobel would look at me reproachfully, and Iwould end meekly: "About chickens, as I was saying. Don't you think wecould have a pair of broilers to-morrow?"
As a matter of fact, this happened so often that I began to hate thesight of a broiled chicken, and was forced to mention roast chicken oncein a while. It was after one of these times that the event happened thatstirred all Westcote.
I had reached a point where I dodged Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington whenI saw them, in order to avoid their insistent clamour for chickens, whenone evening Isobel met me at the door with a smile.
"John!" she cried. "What do you think! Our chicken laid an egg!"
"Chicken?" I asked anxiously. "Did you say chicken?"
"And I am going to give you the egg for dinner," cried Isobel joyf
ully."Just think, John! Our own egg, laid by our own chicken! Do you wantit fried, or boiled, or scrambled?"
"Isobel," I demanded, "what is the meaning of all this?"
"I just could not kill the hen," Isobel ran on, "after it had beenso--so friendly. Could I? I felt as if I would be killing one of thefamily."
"People do get to feeling that way about chickens when they keep them,"I said insinuatingly. "Why, Isobel, I have known wives to love chickensso warmly--wives that had never cared a snap for chickens before--wivesthat hated chickens--and they grew to love chickens so well that assoon as the coop was made--of course it was a nice, clean, airy coop,Isobel--and the dear little fluffy chicks began to peep about--"
Isobel stiffened.
"John," she said finally "you are not going to keep chickens!"
"Certainly not!" I agreed hastily.
"But of course we can't kill Spotty," said Isobel. "I call her Spottybecause that seems such a perfect name for her. I telephoned for aroaster this morning, because you suggested having a roaster for dinner,John, and when the roaster came it was a _live_ chicken! Imagine!"
"Horrors!" I exclaimed.
"I should think so!" agreed Isobel. "So there was nothing to do but'phone the grocer to come and get the live roaster, but when I 'phoned,his grandmother was much worse, and the store was closed until shegot better--or worse--and I couldn't bear to see the poor thing in thebasket with its legs tied all that time, for there is no telling howlong an old person like a grandmother will remain in the same condition,so I loosened the roaster in the cellar, and at a quarter past four Iheard it cluck. It had laid an egg. I knew that the moment I heard itcluck."
"Isobel," I said, "you were born to be the wife of a chicken fancier!You shall eat that egg!"
"No, John," she said, "you shall eat it. It is our first real egg, laidby our dear little Spotty, and you shall eat it."
"No, Isobel," I began, and then, as I saw how determined she was, Icompromised. "Let us have the egg scrambled," I said, "and each of useat a part."
"Very well," said Isobel, "if you will promise not to kill Spotty. Wewill keep her forever and forever!"
I agreed. Isobel kissed me for that.
After we had eaten the egg--and both Isobel and I agreed that it wasreally a superior egg--we went down cellar and looked at Spotty. Ishould say she was a very intelligent-looking hen, but homely. There wasnothing flashy about her. She was the kind of hen a man might enterin the Sweepstakes class, and not get a prize, and then enter in theConsolation class and not get a prize, and then enter for the Boobyprize and still be outclassed, and then enter in the Plain Old BarnyardFowl class and not get within ten miles of a prize, and then be takento the butcher as a Boarding House Broiler, and be refused on account ofage, tough looks, and emaciation.
She was no pampered darling of the hen house, but a plain oldSurvival-of-the-Fittest Squawker; the kind of hen that along about thefirst of May begins clucking in a vexed tone of voice, flies over thetop of a two-story bam, and wanders off somewhere into the tall grassback of the cow pasture, to appear some weeks later with twelve chicksof twelve assorted patterns, ranging from Shanghai-bantam to plainyellow nondescript. She was a good, durable hen of the old school, witha wary, startled eye, an extra loud squawk, and a brain the size of agrain of salt.
Spotty was the sort of hen that could go right along day after daywithout steam heat or elevators in her coop and manage to make a living.As soon as I saw her, my heart swelled with pride, for I knew I hadsecured a very rare variety of hen. Since every man that can tell achicken from an ostrich--and some that can't--has become a chickenfancier, the aristocratic, raised-by-hand, pedigree fowl has become ascommon as dirt, and it is indeed difficult to secure a genuine mongrelhen. I was elated. As nearly as I could judge by first appearances, Iwas the owner of one of the most mongrel hens that ever laid a plain,omelette-quality egg.
When I had made a coop by nailing a few slats across the front of a soapbox, and had nailed Spotty in, I took the coop under my arm and wentinto the back yard. Mr. Millington was there, and Mr. Rolfs was there,and they were arguing angrily about the respective merits of WhiteWyandottes and White Orpingtons, but when they saw me they uttered twoloud cries of joy and ran to meet me. I tried to cling to the coop, butthey wrested it from me and together carried it in triumph to the northcorner and set it on the grass. Mr. Millington pulled his compass fromhis pocket and set the coop exactly as advised by "The Complete PoultryGuide," with the bars facing the morning sun, and Rolfs hurried into theback lot and hunted up a piece of bone, which he crushed with a brickand placed in the coop, as advised by "The Gentleman Poultry Fancier."He told us that a supply of bone was most necessary if he expected hishen to lay eggs, and that he knew this hen of his was going to be agreat layer. He said he had given the egg question years of study, andthat he could tell a good egger when he saw one.
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Millington told me his coop was not as he had meant it to be, but saidit would do until he could get one built according to scientific poultryprinciples. He pointed out that the poultry coop should be heated bysteam, and showed me that there was no room in the soap box for a steamheating plant. He said he would not trust his flock of chickens throughthe winter unless there was steam heating installed.
Then Rolfs and Millington said they guessed the first thing to do, as itwas so late in the season, was to set their hen immediately, and as itwould probably take Spotty thirteen days to lay enough eggs, they toldme to run down to the delicatessen store and buy thirteen eggs, whilethey arranged a scientific nest in the corner of their coop, for sittingpurposes. When I suggested that perhaps Spotty was not ready to set,they laughed at me. They said they could see I would never make aprosperous chicken farmer if I put off until to-morrow what the henought to do to-day, and that a hen that ought to set, and would notset, must be made to set. Millington said that he did not mind if Spottywanted to lay. If she felt so, she could go ahead and lay while she wastaking her little rests between sets. He said that in that way she wouldbe doubly useful and that, judging by appearances, she was the kind ofhen that could do two or three things at the same time.
Mr. Prawley, when he saw we were going to keep our hen, came out andspoke to Mr. Millington, Mr. Rolfs, and me. He said he had an aversionto hens, but that if I insisted he would devote some of his time to thehen, but Mr. Millington, Mr. Rolfs, and I assured him we would not needhis help. We felt that the three of us, with occasional aid from Isobel,could manage that hen.
The next day Mr. Millington and Mr. Rolfs were so swelled with pridethat they would not speak to me on the train. Millington did not askme, that entire day, to take a little run up to Port Lafayette in hisautomobile. I heard him tell one man on the train to town that he hadjust set his eighteen prize White Orpingtons, and I heard Rolfs tellanother man, at the same time, about a coop he had just had made forhis White Wyandottes. He drew a sketch of it on the back of an envelope,showing the location of the heating plant, the location of the gasolinebrooders, and the battery of eight electric incubators. He said he sawbut one mistake he had made, which was that he had had a gravel roof puton. It should have been slate. He was afraid the hens would fly up ontothe roof and eat the gravel for digestive purposes, and if a lot oftarry gravel got in their craws and stuck together in a lump, his henswould suffer from indigestion. But he said he meant to have the gravelroof taken off at once, regardless of cost, but he had not quite decidedon a slate roof. One of the slates might become loosened and fall andkill one of his prize White Wyandottes, which he held at seventy-fivedollars each. If he could avoid the tar trouble, Rolfs said, he oughtto have twelve hundred laying hens by the end of the summer, besides thebroilers he would sell. He said he was going straight to a distinguishedchemist when he reached town to learn if there was any dissolvent thatwould dissolve tar in a chicken's craw, without harming the craw.
Then Millington drew a sketch of the automatic heat regulator he washaving made to attach to his heating apparatus
. He said that ever sincehe had been keeping poultry he had made a study of coop heating, andthat the trouble with most coops was that they were either too hot ortoo cold. He said a cold coop meant that the chickens got chilly andexhausted their vitality growing thick feathers when all their strengthshould have been used in egg-laying, and that a hot coop meant that thechickens felt lax and indolent. A hot coop enervated a chicken and madeit too lazy to lay eggs, Millington said, but this regulator he washaving made would keep the heat at an even temperature, summer andwinter, and render the hens bright and cheerful and inclined to do theirbest. Millington explained that this was especially necessary with WhiteOrpingtons, which are great eaters and consequently more inclined towardnervous dyspepsia, which makes a hen moody. He was going on in this way,and every one was hanging on his words, when he happened to say that onething he always attended to most particularly was the state of his hens'teeth. He said he had, so far, avoided dyspepsia in his hens, by keepingtheir teeth in good condition. Every one knew poor teeth caused stomachtroubles.
That was the end of Millington. Rolfs had been green with jealousybecause so many commuters were listening to Millington, and the momentMillington mentioned teeth Rolfs sneered.
"How many teeth do White Orpingtons have, Millington?" he asked.
"I did not know they had any."
Then Millington saw his mistake, and did his best to explain that as arule chickens had no teeth, but that he had, by a process of selection,created a strain that had eighteen teeth, nine above and nine below,but no one believed him, and Rolfs was crowing over him when he madehis mistake. He was bragging that he never made a mistake of that kind,because he knew hens never got indigestion in any such way. All that wasnecessary he said, was to let them have plenty of exercise, and to letthem out once in a while for a good fly. He said he let his hens outonce every three days, so they could fly from tree to tree.
Then Millington asked, sneeringly, how high his hens could fly, andRolfs said they were in such good condition they thought nothing offlying to the top of a forty-foot elm tree, and Millington sneered andsaid any one could guess what kind of White Wyandottes Rolfs had, whena common White Wyandotte is so heavy it cannot fly over a rake handle.That was the end of Rolfs, and I was glad of it, for the two of themhad been getting enough reputation on the strength of my chickens. Theysneaked out of the smoking car, and at last I had a chance to say a fewwords, modestly of course, about my splendid group of six hundred BuffLeghorns. I did not brag, as Millington and Rolfs had bragged, butstated facts coldly and calmly, and my words met the attention theydeserved, for I was not speaking without knowledge, as Millington andRolfs had spoken, but as a man who owns a hen can speak.
I reached home that evening in a pleasant state of mind, for I knew howkind hearted Isobel is, and I knew she would see, if I placed it beforeher, that it was extremely cruel to keep a hen in solitary confinement,when the hen had probably been accustomed to a great deal of society.I felt sure that in a few days Isobel would order me to purchase enoughmore poultry to allow Spotty to lead a pleasant and sociable life. Butwhen Isobel met me at the gate she disheartened me.
She said the grocer's grandmother had not been seriously ill, afterall; she had been in a mere comatose condition, and had come to, and thegrocer had come back, and he had called and taken Spotty. He offered tokill her--Spotty, not Isobel or his grandmother--but Isobel could notbear to eat Spotty so soon after she had been a member of our family,so the grocer took Spotty away and sent up another roaster. At leasthe said it was another, but after I had carved it I had my doubts. Ingeneral strength and durability the roaster and Spotty were one.
The next morning, when I went out to see if Mr. Prawley had hoed thegarden properly, I found Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington leaning over myfence. They were unabashed.
"I have just been looking over your place," said Rolfs, "and I must sayit is a most admirably located place on which to keep a cow. And if youwant any suggestions on cow-keeping, you may call on me at any time. Ihave studied the cow, in all her moods and tenses, for years."
"Nonsense!" said Millington. "A man is foolish to try to keep livestock. Live stock is subject to all the ills--"
"Such as toothache!" sneered Rolfs.
"All the ills of man and beast," continued Millington. "What you want isan automobile. Now I will sell mine--"
"No!" I said positively.
"You only say that because you do not know my automobile as I know it,"said Millington. "It is a wonder, that machine is. Now, I propose thatto-morrow you and your wife take a little run up to Port Lafayette withme and my wife. After the cares of chicken raising--"
"Very well, Millington," I said, "we will go to Port Lafayette!"
The Adventures of a Suburbanite Page 6