"Oh, dear, no!" giggled a jolly little Bantam Chicken. "I'd grow one in
a minute if I could."
This made all the other young fowls laugh, for they thought how funny
the little brown Bantam would look dragging around a great mass of
feathers like that.
The Peacock did not even smile. He never understood a joke anyway. He
was always so busy thinking about himself that he couldn't see the
point. Now he cleared his throat and spoke to the Bantam Chicken.
"I hope you don't think that I grew my train in a minute," said he. "It
took me a long, long time, although I kept all the feathers going at
once."
"Look at his crest!" exclaimed one young Turkey in his piping voice.
The Peacock turned his head so that they could see it more plainly.
"That is a crest to be proud of," he said. "I have never seen a finer
one myself. Have you noticed the beauty of my neck?"
"Charming!" "Wonderful!" "Beautiful!" exclaimed the young fowls. Just
then one of the spoiled Dove children flew down from the barn roof and
sat beside the Peacock.
"What homely feet you have!" this Squab exclaimed. "Are you not
dreadfully ashamed of them?"
The young fowls thought this rude. Not one of them would have said it.
The Peacock became very angry. "I know my feet are not so handsome as
they might be," he said, "but that is no reason why I should be ashamed
of them. I couldn't help having that kind of feet. They run in my
family. I don't feel ashamed of things I can't help."
The young fowls felt so uncomfortable after this that they walked away,
and the Squab flew back to the Dove-cote. For a time nobody spoke. Then
a Gosling, who had heard her mother talk about the Peacock, said, "I
should think he would be proud of his train, and his crest, and his
neck, and--and everything!"
"Everything except his feet," giggled the Bantam Chicken, "and you know
he couldn't help having them."
"I wonder if he could help having his train, and his crest, and his
neck, and--and everything?" said a young Turkey.
They all stopped where they were. "We never thought of that!" they
cried. "We never thought of that!"
"Let's go and ask the Blind Horse," said a Duckling. "He is a good
friend of mine, and he knows almost everything."
They stalked and waddled over to the Blind Horse, and the Duckling told
him what was puzzling them. The Blind Horse laughed very heartily. "So
the Peacock is proud of having grown such a fine train and crest, but he
isn't ashamed of his homely feet, because he couldn't help having
those! There is no reason for either pride or shame with the Peacock. He
has just such a body as was given him, and he couldn't make one feather
grow differently if he tried."
"I don't see what anybody can be proud of, then," said a Gosling sadly;
for, you see, she wanted to be proud of something.
"Be proud of what you have done yourself," said the Blind Horse gently.
"Be proud of keeping clean, or of telling the truth, or of speaking
pleasantly when things go wrong. There are plenty of chances to be proud
in a good way, if one must be proud."
THE DISCONTENTED GUINEA HEN
"Well," said the Gobbler, "I should like to know what next! Last spring
it was the White Pig, when we had never had any but black and brown ones
on the place. Next it was Ducks, because one of the farmer's boys wanted
them. Then it was the Peacock, to please the farmer's wife. Now it is
Guinea Fowls for the farmer's other son. Society isn't what it used to
be here, and while some of the new people may be very pleasant, I must
say that I preferred the good old quiet days."
"I think it is lovely," cackled the cheerful little Bantam Hen. "One
hears so much of the world outside, and for people like myself, who
stay at home, that is a good thing. Everybody loved the White Pig before
she had been here two days, and my children are very fond of the
Ducklings. I like to have them together, too, for after I had told them
positively that my Chickens could not go in swimming, they stopped
teasing and became most delightful playmates."
"What would you say about the Peacock?" asked the Shanghai Cock, who had
never been friendly with him, although, to tell the truth, the Shanghai
Cock was not so grumpy as he used to be.
"Er--er--well," said the Bantam Hen, who tried not to say unpleasant
things about people unless she really had to, "he--he is certainly
beautiful, although I can't say that I am fond of hearing him sing."
This made all the fowls laugh, even the Gobbler looking a little smiling
around the beak on the side where his hanging wattle did not hide his
face. When the Hen Turkeys on the smiling side saw that he was pleased,
they began to smile too; and then the Hen Turkeys on the other side, who
hadn't been sure that it was safe for them to do so, smiled also. And it
did them all a great deal of good.
"I didn't see the Guinea Fowls," said one of the Geese. "We were
swimming when they came. How do they look? Are they handsomely dressed?
We shall not call upon them unless they are our kind of people." It was
some time since their last plucking for the season, and the Geese were
growing more airy every day now.
"They are really very peculiar," said the Black Spanish Hen, "and not at
all common-looking. I should call them decidedly genteel." Here the
Geese looked at each other and nodded. They were always talking about
being genteel, although if you had asked them, they might not have been
able to tell what they meant by the word. "They are shaped quite like
small Hen Turkeys," added the Black Spanish Hen "and their feathers are
a dark bluish-gray with round white spots all over them. They do not
wear any feathers on top of their heads. When I saw the first one, I
thought she must have lost hers in an accident, but after the others
came up, I knew it must be the custom in their family."
"And they are shaped like us?" asked the Hen Turkeys all together. They
were thinking that perhaps the Black Spanish Hen would call them
genteel-looking also, but she didn't.
"Very much like you," she replied. "In fact, I think they said something
about being related to your family, although I am not sure. Do you
remember, dear?" she said, turning to the Black Spanish Cock.
"Certainly," he answered. "The Guinea Hen with the orange-colored legs
said that their family was related to both the Turkeys and the Peacocks,
and that they were pleased to see members of those families here."
"Gobble-gobble-gobble," called the Gobbler to the Hen Turkeys. "You must
call upon our relatives as soon as you can. I will go later. I always
wait to find out more about strangers before calling. It is my way." He
didn't stop to think that if everybody waited as long as he did, the
strangers would be very lonely.
After this, they scattered to feed, and the Hen Turkeys and their
children looked for the Guinea Fowls. "Listen," said one, "and we may
hear them talking to each other." They stood still, with their heads
well up and turned a little to one side. They heard a harsh voice
saying, "Ca-mac! Ca-mac!" and as none of their old friends ever said
"Ca-mac!" they knew at once that it was one of the newcomers. They
walked around the corner of the Sheep-shed, and there found them, a
Guinea Cock and two Guinea Hens. One of the Guinea Hens had
orange-colored legs, while the others had dark grayish-brown ones.
"Good-morning," said the Hen Turkeys. "Are you the Guinea Fowls?"
"We are," said the one with the bright-colored legs, "and you are the
Turkeys, are you not?"
"We are the Hen Turkeys," said they, "and these are our children. The
Gobbler didn't feel that he could come with us this morning, but he will
come later. He got very tired in Grasshopper season and is hardly over
it yet."
"That is too bad," said the Guinea Cock politely. "We hope he will soon
be better. It is a hard time for all Turkeys--so much running to and
fro, besides the stretching of the neck whenever a Grasshopper comes
near."
"Perhaps he overate somewhat," said one of the Hen Turkeys. "We were
quite worried about him for a time. He slept so poorly and dreamed that
he was being chased. He always has a good appetite, and you know how it
is when there is so much food around. One cannot let it alone."
So they chatted on about one thing and another, and walked as they
visited. The Guinea Fowls were more fussy and restless than the Turkeys,
and even when they were speaking would run after some dainty bit of food
that had just caught their eyes. Of course the Hen Turkeys said how glad
they were to have the Guinea Fowls come there to live, and hoped that
they would enjoy their new home. All of the farmyard people thought it a
most delightful place.
"Oh, yes," cried the Guinea Hen with the bright-colored legs, "it is
very pleasant, of course, but I wish you could see the farm we left."
"Why! Was it better than this?" asked the Turkey Chicks, crowding around
her. They were so surprised that they forgot their mothers' telling them
that if they came they must be very quiet, and making them all repeat
together, "Little Turkeys should be seen and not heard."
"Better? My dears, it was not to be spoken of in the same breath. I
understand that when one has always lived here, this may seem very nice,
but when one has known better things, it is hard to be contented."
"Still, we shall be very happy here, I am sure," said the other Guinea
Hen, the one with the brown legs. "People all seem so bright and
pleasant. I like it very much indeed."
"We are glad of that," said the Turkeys all together. "We really must be
going. We fear we have stayed too long already. The Gobbler will wonder
if we are never coming back. Good-morning."
As they walked off to look for him, one Hen Turkey said to another, "It
must be hard to come here after living on that farm."
"Yes," was the answer, "I suppose that we don't really know what comfort
is here."
When the Gobbler asked them about the Guinea Fowls, and how they were
enjoying their new home, the Hen Turkeys sighed and answered, "Oh, as
well as they can enjoy this farm, we suppose." The Gobbler was a little
surprised by this reply, but he said nothing, and as he pecked at the
corn which had just been spilled from the load the Oxen were drawing, he
thought, "I wish we could have better corn to eat. This does not taste
quite as it should."
When the Geese met the Guinea Fowls, they began to speak of the pleasure
of living on such a fine farm. "Ah," said the Guinea Hen with the
bright-colored legs, "how I wish you might see the one we left when we
came here. It was so different."
The other Guinea Fowls looked uncomfortable when she spoke in this way,
and stood first on one foot and then on the other. Then the Cock said
something about the sunshiny fall weather, and the good neighbors,
and--and----
The Gander spoke again of the farm. "It is not all that we could wish,"
said he; "still there are some good things about it. There are several
swimming places which are fine and cold in winter."
"If it were only better cared for," said the Gray Goose. "I had a
dreadful time a while ago, when I tried to get through a hole in the
fence. I don't remember what was the matter with the hole, and perhaps I
never knew, but the farmer should have such things fixed. My neck was
lame for days afterward, and he was wholly to blame."
After this, the Geese found fault with almost everything, and when there
was no one thing to grumble about, they sighed because, "It was so
different from what it might be." It was not long before even the spring
Chickens, the Goslings, and the Ducklings were speaking in the same way,
and the poultry-yard was a most doleful place. The Bantam Hen was the
only really cheerful fowl there, and she got so tired of hearing the
rest sigh and grumble, that she often slipped between the pickets of the
fence and went to have a comfortable chat with the Oxen.
One day she fluttered toward them in a most excited manner. "Do I look
nearly crazy?" said she. "I feel so. Ever since our last storm, the
Guinea Fowls have been shut in with us, and I would give half of my
tail-feathers if they had never come here. That one with the
orange-colored legs can't see good in anything, and all of our steady,
sensible fowls have heard it until they begin to believe that this farm
is a wretched place."
"What do they do?" asked the Nigh Ox, who always enjoyed hearing the
Bantam Hen talk.
"Do?" said she, shaking her dainty little head. "They don't do much of
anything. That is what is the matter, and the young fowls are the worst
of all. You know how it used to be at feeding time? We all fluttered and
squabbled for the first chance at the food. Some Hen got the biggest
piece, and then the rest would chase her from one corner to another, and
not give her a chance to break and swallow any of it until she would
share with them. It was great fun, and we never left a scrap uneaten.
Now, what do you think?"
"Can't imagine," exclaimed the Oxen in one breath.
"Well, they all stand around on one foot for a while, and I am the only
one eating. Then somebody says, 'I wonder if this is any better than
the last we had.' Another will groan, 'Oh, is it time to eat again?' or,
'Suppose I must eat something to keep up my strength.' Then I hear the
bright-legged Guinea Hen say, 'Ca-mac! Ca-mac! This is all so different,
so very different from what I have been used to.' The Cock and the other
Hen of that family are nice enough if you only get them away from her."
"What nonsense!" exclaimed the Oxen together, and they spoke quite
sharply for them.
"I wish," said the Bantam Hen very slowly, and as though she meant every
word--"I wish the bright-legged one were back where it was 'so
different.' Perhaps then my friends would begin to act like themselves."
"Where did she come from?" asked the Off Ox. "It seems to me that I saw
a bright-legged Guinea Hen somewhere not long ago." He thought very
hard, so hard that he swallowed his cud without knowing he did so.
"Wasn't it at the place where we took that load of stone the other day?"
asked the Nigh Ox, trying to help his brother. He knew how disagreeable
it is not to be able to recall anything of that sort.
"It was," cried the Off Ox; "and a very poor farm it is. It was the same
Hen too. Talk about its being different! I should say it was different
from this place, but there are a good many ways of being different.
Um-hum! I think I will talk with the discontented Guinea Hen before
long, and I want you to see that the other fowls are listening when I
do."
Although he would say nothing more, the Bantam Hen saw from the look in
his eyes that he meant to stop the Guinea Hen's complaining, so she went
away feeling happier. Then the Off Ox unswallowed his cud and began to
chew it as though nothing had happened. His brother heard him chuckle
once in a while, and say, "Different!" under his breath.
When the Off Ox awakened from time to time during that night and heard
the Guinea Hens talking in the dark, he chuckled again to himself. The
Guinea Cock was a sound sleeper, but the Hens always talked a great deal
between sunset and sunrise, and especially if it were about to rain.
Other people thought that they might talk more in the daytime and then
keep quiet when their neighbors wanted to sleep. They declared that they
always remembered so many things to say as soon as they went to roost,
and that if they waited until morning they might forget more than half.
The very next day, the Off Ox had the chance he wanted. He and his
brother were yoked to the stone-boat and left standing by the
poultry-yard. "Good-afternoon," said he. "Is the bright-legged Guinea
Hen here?"
"I am," she answered, coming close to the pickets.
"We are just going over to your old home," said he, "with this load of
stone. Have you any messages to send to your friends?"
The Guinea Hen looked rather uncomfortable, and stood first on one foot
and then the other. "Tell them I am well," said she.
"I will," said the Off Ox, in his hearty way. "I will try to tell them
all. I think I can, too, for there did not seem to be many people in
that farmyard. I didn't see Ducks or Geese at all. Are there any living
there?"
"No," said the Guinea Hen. She did not seem to think of anything else to
say, although nobody spoke for a long time.
"Of course not!" exclaimed the Off Ox. "How stupid of me to ask. There
is no brook or river on that farm."
Still the Guinea Hen said nothing.
"We are dragging stone for their new barn," said the Off Ox. "Or perhaps
I should say for their barn. One could hardly say that they have any
yet, although I suppose they use those loosely built sheds for barns. I
wonder people can spend a winter where there are such drafts; still,
home is always home, and people love it for that reason. We are glad to
have your family with us, not only to keep away the Crows (which was
part of the Guinea Fowls' work), but because you will be more
comfortable. I've never yet in all my travels seen so good a farm as
this, and the one you left was so different! Good-bye."
There was not much talking in the poultry-yard the rest of the
afternoon, although most of the fowls looked happier than they had for
many days. When supper-time came, the Dorking Hen snatched the biggest
pieces of food, and the others chased her from corner to corner in quite
the old way. Every scrap was eaten, and nobody laughed when the Shanghai
Cock said that the fine weather had given him a better appetite. It was
really a dark and chilly day, but they had stopped thinking how much
better off they would be if they only lived somewhere else. As soon as
they stopped thinking that, they could see how well they were cared for
at home. And so, although nobody had really looked at the sky or thought
about the weather, everybody had a feeling that the sun must have been
shining.
Perhaps the Guinea Cock and the other Guinea Hen were the happiest of
all, for they had not known what to do or say when the bright-legged one
talked about her old home. It all seemed like a joke now, yet she never
liked the Off Ox after that day. The other fowls were as nice to her as
ever, for they knew it was a sad thing to be so discontented, and they
knew, also, that if they had not been foolish enough to let her, she
could never have made them unhappy.
THE OXEN TALK WITH THE CALVES
It was a clear, cold winter morning, and the Cattle stood in the
barnyard where the great yellow straw-stacks were. They had nibbled away
at the lower part of these stacks until there was a sheltered place
underneath. The Calves liked to stand on the sunshiny side with an
over-hanging ledge of straw above their heads. The wind did not strike
them here, and they could reach up and pull out wisps to eat when they
had nothing else to do. Not that they were so fond of eating straw, but
it was fun to pull it out. There was, however, usually something else to
be done, for there was always their cud to chew.
Among all the farmyard people, there were none more particular about
their food. They might eat in a hurry when time was short, or when the
grass was fresh and green, but after they had swallowed it and filled
the first of their four stomachs with partly chewed food, they would
find some quiet and comfortable place where they could stand or lie
easily and finish their eating. To do this, they had to bring the partly
chewed food from the first stomach to the mouth again. They called this
"unswallowing it," although they should have said "regurgitating."
After the food was back in their mouths again, it was spoken of as their
cud, and the stout muscles in the sides of their faces pulled their
lower jaws up and down and sideways, and the food was caught over and
over again between the blunt grinding teeth in the back part of their
mouths, and was crushed, squeezed, and turned until it was fine, soft,
and ready to swallow into the second stomach.
Then the Cattle do not have to think of it again, but while they are
doing something quite different, and perhaps forgetting all about it,
there are many nerves and muscles and fine red blood-drops as busy as
can be, passing it into the third and fourth stomachs, and changing the
strength of the food into the strength of the Cattle. The Cows and the
Oxen do not know this. They never heard of muscles and nerves, and
perhaps you never did before, yet these are wonderful little helpers and
good friends if one is kind to them. All that Cattle know about eating
is that they must have clean food, that they must eat because they are
hungry and not just because it tastes good, and that they must chew it
very carefully. And if they do these things as they should, they are
quite sure to be well and comfortable.
The Oxen were standing by the barn door, and the Calves were talking
about them. They liked their uncles, the Oxen, very much, but like many
other Calves the world over, they thought them rather slow and
old-fashioned. Now the Colts had been saying the same thing, and so
these half-dozen shaggy youngsters, who hadn't a sign of a horn, were
telling what they would do if they were Oxen. Sometimes they spoke more
loudly than they meant to, and the Oxen heard them, but they did not
know this.
"If I were an Ox," said one, "I wouldn't stand still and let the farmer
put that heavy yoke on my neck. I'd edge away and kick."
"Tell you what I'd do," said another. "I'd stand right still when he
tried to make me go, and I wouldn't stir until I got ready."
"I wouldn't do that," said a third. "I'd run away and upset the stone in
a ditch. I don't think it's fair to always make them pull the heavy
loads while the Horses have all the fun of taking the farmer to town and
drawing the binder and all the other wonderful machines."
"Isn't it too bad that you are not Oxen?" said a deep voice behind them.
The Calves jumped, and there was the Off Ox close to them. He was so
near that you could not have set a Chicken coop between him and them,
and he had heard every word. The Calves did not know where to look or
what to say, for they had not been speaking very politely. The one who
had just spoken wanted to act easy and as though he did not care, so he
raised one hind hoof to scratch his ear, and gave his brushy tail a toss
over one flank. "Oh, I don't know," said he.
"I used to talk in just that way when I was a Calf," said the Off Ox,
with a twinkle in his large brown eyes. "All Calves think they'll do
wonders when they're grown."
"I know I thought so," said the Nigh Ox, who had followed his brother.
"Well, if you wanted to," asked the Red Calf, "why don't you do those
things now?" The others wondered how he dared to ask such a question.
"It doesn't pay," said the Nigh Ox. "Do all your frisking in playtime. I
like fun as well as anybody, yet when our yoke is taken from its peg, I
say business is business and the closer we stick to it the better. I
knew a sitting Hen once who wanted to see everything that happened. She
was always running out to see somebody or other, and sometimes she
stayed longer than she meant to. I told her she'd better stick to her
nest, and she said she didn't believe in working all the time."
"How soon did her Chickens hatch?" asked the Calves all together.
"Never did hatch, of course," chuckled the Nigh Ox. "She fooled herself
into thinking she was working, and she made a great fuss about her legs
aching and her giving up society, but she couldn't fool that nestful of
eggs. They had gotten cold and they knew it, and not one of them would
hatch."
"Wasn't she ashamed then?" asked the Calves.
"Didn't act so," snorted the Nigh Ox. "Went around talking about her
great disappointment, and said she couldn't see why the other Hens had
so much better luck."
The Off Ox chuckled. "He told her that he guessed it might have been
something besides bad luck, and that the next time she'd better stay on
her nest more. Then she asked him how many broods of Chickens he had
hatched. Ho-ho-ho!"
Everybody laughed, and the Calves wondered how the Nigh Ox could think
of it without being angry. "It wouldn't pay to be angry," he said.
"What's the use of wasting a fine great Ox temper on a poor little Hen
rudeness?"
This made them think. They remembered how cross and hot and
uncomfortable they often became over very small things that bothered
them, and they began to think that perhaps even Calf tempers were worth
caring for.
At last the Black Calf, the prettiest one in the yard, said, "Do you
like drawing that flat wagon which hasn't any wheels, and scrapes along
in the dust?"