"I have no fancy for the country, as you know, my dear Marion," wrote
Aunt Sophy, in conclusion, "but your description of Waydean makes me
long to accept your invitation. When I heard that Henry had rented a
farm I thought you must be simply crazy to let him do it, but your
letter has reassured me. Of course, if he has quite determined not to go
to any expense in the expectation of making money out of the land, and
if you _both_ want to live there, it is a different thing. I think it is
a splendid idea not to work any more land than he can attend to with a
spade, a rake and a hoe. Take my advice, Marion, and keep him to
that--no matter what arguments he may use--and you will be perfectly
safe. If your poor uncle had only been guided by my advice, or if I had
been less easily swayed by his hopefulness, I would have had more than
a pittance to live on now. But no,--it was buy this, and buy that,
till....
"How lovely it must be to have your own milk and butter and cream and
fruit, and, above all, to know that they're _clean_! And the chickens!
Do you know, I can't touch chickens in the city; I haven't tasted one
for a year, I am so disgusted at the thought of how they may be
fed,--and yet I am just longing for a taste of plump, clean, ...
grain-fed----"
Marion's voice wavered; she stopped reading. I uttered a prolonged
whistle, then laughed in a hollow mirthless tone that brought a
responsive gleam to Marion's worried face. She left the breakfast table
and looked anxiously out of the window at the back of the room, then sat
down again with a sigh of thankfulness.
"What a mercy Paul wasn't within hearing," she said; "how he would have
howled!"
I went to the window. Paul was surrounded by our flock of twenty-seven
half-grown chickens and five hens. In one hand he held his little tin
pail of corn; with the other he dealt out one grain at a time to each in
turn, calling the fowl by name and reproving those that tried to snatch
the others' share. "Jeremiah, here's yours--come along Aunt Noddy," I
heard him say coaxingly.
I sat down again and stared at Marion hopelessly; she responded with a
gaze of mute despair; then we both studied the tablecloth without
speaking, feeling that the skeleton we had ignored for months had at
last stalked unbidden from the closet.
As I thought the matter over I could see that Marion was entirely to
blame for this hopeless complication. If she had allowed me to get eggs
from pure-bred stock for setting we would have had twenty-seven chickens
of exactly similar appearance that Paul never could have individualized,
never have named, never have loved with the passionate fervor that he
bestowed on each one of the variegated specimens hatched from eggs at
ten cents a dozen. My eggs, I computed, would have cost not more than
five dollars; so in order to save four dollars and a half, Marion had
saddled us with a flock as unapproachable from a culinary stand-point as
so many sacred cows. This conclusion presented itself with such
clearness that I was on the point of submitting it to Marion when I
remembered how unpleasant it was to me to listen to wholesome truths, so
I merely looked unselfish and hummed thoughtfully.
My wife regarded me with suspicion, her frown deepening. "I have asked
you repeatedly," she said, with frosty distinctness, "not to hum, and
not to look like that."
My complaisance vanished. I am not easily irritated, and I try to avoid
answering back, but I cannot stand being told not to look like that.
"Marion," I retorted, "I don't wonder you feel annoyed, but you may as
well face the difficulty now. I'm tired of people asking me how we like
living in the country, and then remarking that it must be fine to have
your own chickens. Of course, I'm willing to keep up appearances and to
make-believe that having our own chickens is one of our many daily
luxuries; but now that your Aunt Sophy is coming we've got to eat them,
or she'll know the reason why. Oh, yes, I know," I added, as she tried
to interrupt--"I know we can't have them in the abstract. We've got to
kill and cook and pick the bones of Abner, Jeremiah, Lucy, or some other
of the boy's pets; but if I had had my way about the eggs he couldn't
have told one from another, and we might have had an occasional fowl
without these painful personal associations."
I regretted my rashness when I saw Marion's look of calm scorn, her
manner leading me to expect a revival of some of my mistakes. I can
evolve plausible theories, but she usually shatters them with the most
distracting personal applications.
"I hadn't intended to point out that you are responsible," she said,
"but since you are so unjust as to try to blame me, I must do so. Don't
you see, Henry, that it is but another instance of your habit of evading
unpleasant duties. I have told you repeatedly"--I squirmed in protest,
for I do hate that phrase, and I knew so well what was coming--"that
you would say anything to tide over a disagreeable scene,--and it's
true."
"Honestly, Marion," I protested, "I--I wouldn't. I'd jump into any kind
of a scrimmage--I'd do anything to please you. If you'll only be
cheerful I'll--I'll see that it doesn't happen"----
"There you are again," she interrupted, in a descending cadence of utter
dejection. "Oh, dear--it is so hopeless! Listen, Henry, and see if you
can understand this: Paul is now six, and yet he never knew there was
such a thing as death until last month. You had your way about that--and
what was the result? The child nearly went crazy when his bantam hen
died. If you had been at home, I have no doubt you would have told him
it was asleep, but you more than made up for that by assuring him that
it had gone to heaven."
"I did nothing of the kind," I protested indignantly. "Paul came to
me"----
"The child came to _me_," Marion went on sternly, "perfectly happy in
the thought of Bijou having gone"----
"He came to _me_," I insisted, "asking if Bijou had gone to heaven. I
said I _hoped_"----
"It doesn't matter so much what you said as the way you said it.
However, as you say, Aunt Sophy is coming, and we must eat some of those
chickens; so _you_ may face the situation and settle with Paul. If you
had explained to him that chickens were made to eat, as I wanted you to
do in the first place, you wouldn't have had this trouble now. If I
thought it would be a lesson to you I could stand my share, but I know
you'll forget all about it in a week and be ready to do the same thing
again, so you may as well take the consequences alone."
I was preparing to ask for a properly executed death-warrant, specifying
the first victims by name, but before I could speak my wife dived into
her pocket for a handkerchief and retreated upstairs.
I can tackle a disagreeable duty when there is no other course open to
me, but I am not upheld, as Marion is, by a strong sense of
righteousness; indeed, I am inclined to feel personally unworthy to
attempt any good act that is patently out of my line, yet on the rare
occasions when Marion behaves in this childish manner I throw my
conscientious scruples to the winds in my frantic desire to assuage her
grief.
I found Paul teaching a hen and two chickens to sit still as he drew
them around on his little wagon. My resolution wavered as I watched his
innocent enjoyment, but the thought of Aunt Sophy spurred me on.
Besides, if Marion was bloodthirsty enough to want these poor creatures
eaten, it was not for me to feel faint-hearted.
"Well, Paul," I said, with spurious cheerfulness, "giving them a ride?
Are these some--ha, ha!--you want to keep for pets?"
Paul has a quick ear for a false note. He studied my face with grave
wonderment, his earnest gaze piercing my jocose mask. "Why, father," he
exclaimed, "your voice sounds so queer--and what a funny question!
They're all pets,--of course, I want to keep every one."
"Come and sit on the bench beside me," I said ingratiatingly, "and we'll
have a talk.... Do you know that--that people sometimes have to--that
is, that people don't usually raise chickens for pets?"
"Oh, yes, I know," he replied, nodding his little head with philosophic
certainty. "Most boys would rather keep dogs and rabbits, and ponies and
other animals; but I don't want anything for pets except hens and
chickens, and perhaps--well, I think I would like a pair of white
pigeons. I heard you saying to mother that I wasn't a bit like other
boys. Is that one way I'm different?"
"It is," I answered with curt emphasis.
Paul snuggled closer to me and leaned his head on my shoulder. "You say
that as if"--he hesitated shyly--"as if you wished I was like other
boys. Am I not as good?"
"You're better, my boy, far better!" I exclaimed, in quick remorse.
This remark may appear injudicious, but Paul is like me in many ways,
and there is not a shadow of vanity or self-consciousness in his
character; no amount of praise, or even flattery, could disturb the
natural equipoise of his self-esteem, but he is quick to feel the hurt
of unjust depreciation. When Marion forgets my imperfections and tells
me I am the best man in the world, I am aware that she is drawing it a
little strong; at the same time, I am strengthened and uplifted by her
opinion, and I feel the yearning to do noble things, to be more worthy
of my pedestal, to attain that serenity of temper which mortals name
angelic.
Paul's face brightened, and I knew that I had made amends for my
previous abrupt and jarring tone. I began again cautiously, taking care
to speak with soothing mellowness. "I don't think I ever heard of anyone
keeping twenty-seven chickens and five hens for _pets_."
A merry light danced in Paul's eyes. "That's what you said about farming
with a spade, a rake and a hoe," he reminded me, "and mother said we
must do what was right without thinking about other people."
Chance, instinct, or his inherited nimble mind had enabled him to
checkmate me as neatly as Marion could have done it; I moved back.
Passing lightly over the objectionable features, I briefly sketched the
magnitude of the chicken-raising industry for supplying city markets,
pointing out the necessity for poor farmers selling their fowls to buy
food and clothing. Despite my care he was visibly shocked.
"No matter how poor _we_ were, you would never send _our_ chickens to
market?" he inquired, breathing hard.
There could be but one answer to that question, and after I had
fervently disclaimed the possibility of poverty ever making me so
heartless, each of us remained buried in his own thoughts for a brief
time. The chickens gathered around, and I fancied they regarded me with
intuitive dread in their glistening eyes, as if they waited to hear my
next attempt to seal their doom. An overgrown bully suddenly pecked a
weaker brother, pulling out a bunch of feathers viciously as he spurned
the victim with his feet. Paul darted to the rescue and brought the
brutal assailant back to the bench a prisoner.
"What is that villain's name, Paul?" I asked with eager interest.
"Why, this is Angelica," he answered. "Don't you remember you named him
yourself when he was first hatched?"
I did remember. He was then a beautiful yellowish ball of fluff, with
large, soft, wide-open eyes, the prettiest one of the brood; now he was
grown into a greedy, swaggering, insolent swashbuckler, proud of his
stature and fine plumage.
"He's a dangerous criminal," I said, feeling his plump breast
appreciatively, "and it might be better to--to"--somehow the word stuck
in my throat; I hesitated.
"I know, father," cried Paul joyfully. "I'm the policeman and you're the
judge--he must be tried and then sentenced to wear a muzzle."
Angelica was tried and sentenced, then muzzled with a small rubber band
that fitted tightly over his bill. His antics amused us so much that
for a few minutes I forgot my fatal errand.
"He looks wicked enough to kill some of the others," I remarked, after a
pause. "Do you know, Paul, how a person who kills another is punished?"
He looked up with sudden, awed interest. "They put a rope around--him,
and--and"----
"And _what_?"
"----fine him a dollar and costs."
"Oh!" he gasped, "I'm so glad that's all. And do they take the rope off
afterwards?"
"I believe they do," I replied, in deep dejection.
"Father, I just love chickens. Don't you?"
"I do, indeed," I affirmed, with sudden reckless, despairing intention;
"but I love them in two different ways. If they're nice, well-mannered
birds I love to see them running about with their feathers _on_; but if
they're naughty I love to see them not running about with their feathers
_off_." Paul laughed in glee. "Your mother and Aunt Sophy like them
too," I went on warily, my heart thumping; "and I think if chickens are
cruel and bad they deserve to be stuffed"--his expression changed
suddenly, but he still looked bravely into my eyes--"with bread-crumbs,
and roasted, with thick--brown--rich--gravy."
Paul jerked his little hand from mine and stood up in front of me, his
face twitching and his eyes brimming. "You greedy--_greedy_--GREEDY!" he
gasped.
"Paul,--my boy,--listen," I implored; "your aunt Sophy is coming, and
she's awfully fond"----
My words were lost in a prolonged howl. He had a phenomenal voice, but
this delayed howl eclipsed all previous ones. I followed him in frantic
haste, eager to forswear all designs on his pets, but he fled as if I
were after his scalp. When I finally found him, too late, he was in his
mother's arms, and I knew she had promised him everything, from the look
she turned on me,--a look that caused me to slink silently away, a
soulless brute, and alas!--a tailless one.
"Henry," said Aunt Sophy, complacently, as I drove her to the station
after her visit, "in all the time my husband had his farm I never could
get him to use our own chickens. He said they cost him two dollars
apiece, being from thoroughbred stock, but I see you have more sense and
raise good plain barnyard fowls that you can eat every day if you want
to. Why, we must have had them three times a week while I've been here,
and you seem to have a good large flock yet. I've tried a dozen times to
count them, but they always went criss-cross. How many have you got
left?"
"Just twenty-seven," I answered, stroking my mustache with modest pride.