WHAT SHALL WE ASK OF THE HEN?
Sam Jones, the chicken-loving man, was as pleased as a boy with a new
top when I began to talk of a hen plant. He had a lot of practical
knowledge of the business, for he had _failed_ in it twice; and I could
furnish any amount of theory, and enough money to prevent disaster.
In his previous attempts he had invested nearly all his small capital in
a plant that might yield two hundred eggs a day; he had to buy all foods
in small quantities, and therefore at high prices; and he had to give
his whole time to a business which was too small and too much on the
hand-to-mouth order to give him a living profit. My theory of the
business was entirely different. I could plan for results, and, what was
more to the point, I could wait for them. Mistakes, accidents, even
disasters, were disarmed by a bank account; my bread and butter did not
depend upon the temper of a whimsical hen. The food would cost the
minimum. All grains and green food, and most of the animal food, in the
form of skim milk, would be furnished by the farm. I meant also to
develop a plant large enough to warrant the full attention of an
able-bodied man. I felt no hesitation about this venture, for I did not
intend to ask more of my hens than a well-disposed hen ought to be
willing to grant.
I do not ask a hen to lay a double-yolk every day in the year. That is
too much to expect of a creature in whom the mother instinct is
prominent, and who wishes also to have a new dress for herself at least
once in that time. I do not wish a hen to work overtime for me. If she
will furnish me with eight dozen of her finished product per annum, I
will do the rest. Whatever she does more than that shall redound to her
credit. Two-hundred-eggs-a-year hens are scarcer than hens with teeth,
and I was not looking for the unusual. A hen can easily lay one hundred
eggs in three hundred and sixty-five days, and yet find time for
domestic and social affairs. She can feel that she is not a subject for
charity, while at the same time she retains her self-respect as a hen of
leisure.
I have the highest regard for this domestic fowl, and I would not for a
great deal impose a too arduous task upon her. I feel like encouraging
her in her peculiar industry, for which she is so eminently fitted, but
not like forcing her into strenuous efforts that would rob her of
vivacity and dull her social and domestic impulses. No; if the hen will
politely present me with one hundred eggs a year, I will thank her and
ask no more. Some one will say: "How can you make hens pay if they don't
lay more than eight dozen eggs a year? Eggs sometimes sell as low as
twelve cents per dozen."
Four Oaks hens never have laid one-cent eggs, and never will. They would
quit work if such a price were suggested. Ninety per cent of the eggs
from Four Oaks have sold for thirty cents or more per dozen, and the
demand is greater than the supply. The Four Oaks certificate that the
egg is not thirty-six hours old when it reaches the egg cup, makes two
and a half cents look small to those who can afford to pay for the best.
To lack confidence in the egg is a serious matter at the breakfast
table, and a person who can insure perfect trust will not lack
patronage. If, therefore, a hen will lay eight dozen eggs, she is
welcome to say to an acquaintance: "I have just handed the Headman a
two-dollar bill," for she knows that I have not paid fifty cents for her
food.
Of course the wages of the hen man and his food and the interest on the
plant must be counted, but I do not propose to count them twice. Four
Oaks is a factory where several things are made, each in a measure
dependent on, and useful to, the others, and we cannot itemize costs of
single products because of this mutual dependence. I feel certain that I
could not drop one of the factory's industries without loss to each of
the others. For this reason I kept a very simple set of books. I charged
the farm with all money spent for it, and credited it with all moneys
received. Even now I have no very definite knowledge of what it costs
to keep a hen, a hog, or a cow; nor do I care. Such data are greatly
influenced by location, method of getting supplies, and market
fluctuations. I furnish most of my food, and my own market. My crops
have never entirely failed, and I take little heed whether they be large
or small. They are not for sale as crops, but as finished products. I am
not willing to sell them at any price, for I want them consumed on the
place for the sake of the land.
Corn has sold for eighty cents a bushel since I began this experiment,
yet at that time I fed as much as ever and was not tempted to sell a
bushel, though I could easily have spared five thousand. When it went
down to twenty-eight cents, I did not care, for corn and oats to me are
simply in transition state,--not commodities to be bought or sold. They
cost me, one year with another, about the same. An abundant harvest
fills my granaries to overflowing; a bad harvest doesn't deplete them,
for I do not sell my surplus for fear that I, too, may have to buy out
of a high market. I have bought corn and oats a few times, but only when
the price was decidedly below my idea of the feeding value of these
grains. I can find more than twenty-eight cents in a bushel of corn, and
more than eighteen cents in thirty-two pounds of oats. But I am away off
my subject. I began to talk about the hen plant, and have wandered to my
favorite fad,--the factory farm.