"A man I know,
But shall not discover,
Since ears are dull,
And time discloses,"
was aroused to unwonted activity by the pounding, and sauntered out into
the midst of the _melee_. I do not know how long he had been watching
me; for I was so absorbed in my architectural problem as to be dead to
the outer world; but into the recesses of my complications penetrated a
sound which seemed very much like what the world's people call
a--a--a--snicker! I looked around, and there he was. Very sober, very
blameless, having very much the air of being just arrived; but could my
ears deceive me? Then up spake I, cheerily, "O Halicarnassus, you are
just in time to hold this board steady while I hammer it on,"--as if I
had that moment adjusted it for the first time. He took his stand under
the ladder, and held on as I told him, with a beautiful docility. I did
not hurry in selecting a nail; for he was strong, and I thought it would
do him good to be in an uncomfortable position a little while,
particularly as I was not quite satisfied about the--half-suppressed,
broken laugh (definition of _snicker_ given by "The Best").
Carpentering was far easier after this, yet progress was not what you
could call rapid. The ladder was short, and I had to reach up painfully;
but I should not mind my arms aching, I informed my companion, if it
were not, that, having to look up so, all the splinters and dust and
_debris_ that my hammer struck from the old boards marched straight into
my eyes.
"You might keep your eyes shut," suggested he.
"But then," I responded, "I could not see how to strike."
"Never mind," said he, tenderly; "you would hit just as well."
"Oh, that way madness lies!"
The upshot of it was, that H. bestirred himself, and turned that barn
into a marvel of art. It had been a barn: it became a villa. An immense
wooden sarcophagus,--only nobody had ever been deposited in it,--perhaps
it was a horse-trough,--he set up "on end," and made a three-story house
of it. Fresh, sweet-smelling hay he piled on each floor, and scooped out
such attractive little nests that a hen of a domestic turn of mind would
go there and lay, just for the fun of it, you might suppose. Then the
porticos, and the palisades, and the sliding-doors, and the galleries,
and the hospital, and the vistas, and the inner and outer courts, every
arrangement that heart of hen could wish, both for seclusion and for
society,--why, those fowls might have dreamt they dwelt in marble halls
every night of their lives, and not have been very far out of the way.
And the summer residences that he made for them,--little Gothic cottages
built for a single family, with all the modern conveniences, and a good
many more improvised on the spot, and with this signal advantage over
similar structures at Newport and Nahant,--that you can take them under
your arm, and carry them wherever you please.
Before finally leaving my hen-coop, will a generous public pardon me for
recurring to the subject of crowing hens? It may possibly be remembered
that in a late number of this magazine I hazarded a doubt as to the
existence of any such _lusus naturae_. Since that time proof has
accumulated upon me from different quarters that crowing hens do exist.
But let it be noted that the gist of my remarks was the inconsistency of
the tyrant man. Now let us see whether an admission of the disputed fact
relieves him from the guilt charged upon him.
Observe once more the couplet,
"A whistling girl and a crowing hen
Always come to some bad end,"--
a couplet which, I affirm without fear of contradiction, endeavors to
affix a stigma upon the character of crowing hens: for what sinister and
ulterior purpose I scornfully refrain from designating. Fourteen crowing
hens have reported themselves to me: one from Maine, two from New
Hampshire, three from Massachusetts, one each from Connecticut, New
York, New Jersey, and North Carolina, and four from Pennsylvania. Of
these fourteen,
Number One is "Bobby, an excellent Biddy. Lays nice, large eggs, and
brings up her families well."
Number Two, named Queen Mab. Always crows to the music of a sweet-voiced
Steinway. Is in all other respects an amiable and exemplary hen.
Number Three is a black hen, now three years old. Has laid eggs.
Number Four crowed regularly every morning, when the cock did. When she
was a little over a year old, she and her seven babes were stolen from a
wild cherry-tree, where they went to bed, by a fox, who came up on an
old log.
Number Five crowed irregularly. Raised several broods of chicks. Lived
to be four or five years old.
Number Six crowed chiefly in the fall, when the young chicks were
practising (no doubt to encourage them). Lived to the remarkable age of
nine years, and was then decapitated.
Number Seven raised a large brood of chickens. Their papa was killed at
about the time for them to begin to crow, and one morning she flew up on
the fence and crowed with all her might. Continued it until they had
learned, and stopped. Was called Old Sam. Her end was the soup-pot.
Number Eight, an old speckled hen. Took to crowing after a raid on the
poultry-yard had deprived it of every rooster. Crowed as well as
anybody.
Number Nine lived twenty-five years ago. Witness has forgotten whether
she ever did anything but crow. Had a wicked name, which I shall not
give.
Number Ten laid eggs.
Number Eleven crowed repeatedly and often spunkily after the roosters
had been killed, never while they were alive.
Number Twelve crows sometimes in the presence of the rooster, chiefly
when alone. Most energetic in crowing.
Numbers Thirteen and Fourteen have simply the fact of their existence
recorded.
Now, mere proverb-mongers, bear in mind: In the whole country only
fourteen well-defined crowing hens,--at the worst, not a very crying
evil.
Of the fourteen, only one is recorded as having come to a bad end, and
that end had no connection with the crowing, but occurred while she was
engaged in the faithful discharge of her maternal duties.
Seven are reported as bearing an excellent domestic character, a
blessing to the society which they adorned. Against the remaining seven
not a syllable of reproach is breathed; but if there had been any evil
thing in them, who believes it would not have been learned and conned by
rote and cast into our teeth?
In the case of five, their crowing was not only innocent, but a
preeminent virtue, a manly crown set upon every feminine excellence.
Inconsistency? It is a white and shining word for the black quality to
which I applied it.
Men, the indictment is quashed. You are ruled out of court. Take your
couplet and depart, giving thanks that you are not prosecuted for
defamation of character.
While the architect and the hens were thus revelling in the halls of the
Montezumas, I turned my attention to the more modest purpose of
providing accommodations for the tomatoes. All our efforts in that line
hitherto had been comparative failures. "It is a good thing to take time
by the forelock," I had remarked to a subordinate, as early, I should
think, as February, perhaps January, and begun planting a great many
seeds in boxes, which were set in the sunshine under the kitchen
windows. A great many plants came up, and then a great many flocks and
herds of little green things oozed out of them and began to creep over
them, evidently with the design of eating them up. This would never do.
I borrowed a bound volume of the old "New England Farmer," from a young
New England farmer,--the worst thing in the world to do, let me say to
all amateur farmers. Use every lawful means of perfecting yourself in
your profession, but on no account touch an agricultural journal. They
bewilder an honest heart into despair. They show the importance and the
feasibility of so many things, every one of which is full of interest,
profit, and pleasure, that you know not where to begin; and instead of
doing one thing, you dream of a dozen. I sent the "New England Farmer"
home, and, according to advice, bought a handful of tobacco, put it on a
shovel and set fire to it, and smoked the young shoots thoroughly,--as
well as the house and all that therein was. The experiment succeeded
perfectly. Any way, it killed the tomatoes. I am not so sure about their
colonists, but I do not believe they long survived the destruction of
their Arcadia. "It is just as well," I said, to encourage one whose
spirits depend upon me. "It is, indeed, far better. There are many kind
people in cities, who will sow the seeds, and tend the plants, and take
all our trouble, and give us as many plants as we want, for fifty cents.
Which, indeed, they did,--and I set the plants out mathematically, in a
square. But they are delicate, and need protection from untimely summer
frosts. Thriftless people set up stakes, bushes, and such hand-to-mouth
contrivances, and perhaps throw an old apron or a fragment of a
table-cloth over them. Practical, but prosaic people, cover them with
pots and pans during their fragile infancy; all of which makes an
unsightly feature in a landscape. I built a conservatory. And here let
me say to all my young friends who may design to devote themselves to
rural pursuits, Do not be narrowly content with the utilities, nor count
the hours spent upon the beautiful as time lost. For aught we know, the
fields might be just as fruitful, if they put forth only a gray and
dingy sedge. Instead of which, we have their green and velvet loveliness
starred all over with violet and daisy and dandelion. A hen-house is no
less serviceable because built in the Gothic style with suites of rooms.
A rough nomadic tent of poles and rags gives no surer protection to your
tender herbs than the stately and beautiful conservatory. That is why I
built a conservatory. The walls were of brick: there was a pile of
bricks in a corner of the barn. The roof was of glass: there was a pile
of _passees_ windows, ditto, ditto. The edifice was not quite so firm as
might be desired, owing to the circumstance of there being no
underpinning nor cement. Nor did its sides not sometimes deviate from
strictly right lines, as they were obliged to yield to the undulations
of the soil; but it was at least classical,--brick and windows. The only
serious trouble with it was, that one fine morning it ceased to be
conservative at all, but became revolutionary to the last
degree,--utterly subversive, in fact, of the existing order of things.
Why, the calves got in overnight and turned everything topsyturvy. Their
hoofs crushed in the walls and roof, and the walls and roof between them
crushed the tomatoes, so that architecture and horticulture were
involved in a common ruin. We knew it was the calves, because their
juvenile tracks were all about. Besides, there were the calves. It
turned out to be of no account, for that proved to be a bad year for
tomatoes, so we should have had none in any event, and were saved all
the trouble of cultivating them, while the calves had a free frolic,
poor things. To be sure, they have a fine court-yard for exercise, a
vestibule for noon-day lounging, and snug quarters for sleep and
shelter; but, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,
"Fredome is a noble thing!
Fredome mayss man to haiff liking:
Fredome all solace to man giffis:
He levys at ess, that frely levys!
A noble calf may haiff nane ess,
Na ellys nocht that may him pless,
Gyff fredome failyhe: for fre liking
Is yharnyt our all othir thing.
Na he, that ay hass levyt fre,
May nocht knaw weill the propyrte,
The angyr, na the wrechyt dome,
That is cowplyt to foule thyrldome.
Bot gyff he had assayit it,
Than all perquer he suld it wyt;
And suld think fredome mar to pryss,
Than all the gold in warld that is."
And if these wayward children of the earth could find any way of escape
from their gilded fetters, and wander out under the beautiful star-sown
heavens into the wilderness of night to taste the sweets of liberty,
and, if you please, of license, who can find it in his heart to blame
them? Farmers ought not to restrict their thoughts to human motives. We
should endeavor sometimes to look at things with the eyes of a cow, an
ox, a chicken, and so learn to have more consideration for and sympathy
with these younger brethren of ours, these children of a common Father.
The earth is theirs, as truly, if not as thoroughly, as it is ours. The
good God makes grass to grow for the cattle, as well as herb for the
service of man. All the beasts of the field are His. Undoubtedly He
enjoys the happiness of every lamb frisking on the hill-side; and not a
blue-bird flashes through the morning, not a swallow twitters on his
spray, but the Creator smiles on its glistening beauty and listens
lovingly to its song. "Doth God take care for oxen?" asks Paul, and
looking into the Bible, as well as abroad over the fertile fields, we
can but answer, yes; though Paul himself seems to incline to the
negative, and to consider the command not to muzzle the ox when he
treadeth out the corn as given altogether for our sakes. Partly for our
sakes, no doubt, but partly also for the comfort of the toiling patient
oxen; and so, probably, would Paul say, were the question fairly put to
him from the bovine side. So, indeed, in effect he does say, when
writing to Timothy with another end in view. Perhaps that "Original
Greek," to whom commentators and expositors are so fond of appealing in
an emergency, may yet be found to help us out of our difficulty by
proving, past a cavil, that _no_ means _yes_. At any rate, the Bible
shows that God does take care of all dumb, uncomplaining lives, and all
humble human creatures,--and shows it so conclusively, so minutely, and
so practically, that we can hardly be said to need any supplementary
revelation on that point, though the Reverend Edward C. Towne, evidently
thinking otherwise, has written what he modestly terms "a scripture"
about Timid Tom and Old Gurdy,--very tender and touching, yet he will
pardon me for saying I still think Matthew rather better adapted to the
rural districts.
So we will remember that to the birds cherry-trees are a true Promised
Land, where Nature herself invites them to enter in and take possession.
We will ever bear in mind that Molly and Brindle have no forecast of
full granaries to console them for present deprivation, and that the
waving cornfield rustles for them, and for them the rich rye quivers,
and they do but obey their highest law, when they pass through the
carelessly swinging gate and feast on the fatness of the land.
In fact, our three little calves always wrought their mischief with such
winsome grace as disarmed anger and amply repaid us in amusement what
they cost us of trouble. They were a source of unfailing interest and
wonder,--
"A phantom of delight,
When first they gleamed upon our sight,
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament."
And every day heightened their charms.
Mr. Henry James, illustrating some false conception of the relation
between God and man, somewhere says, "You simply need to recall the
relation of irksome superintendence on the one hand, and of utter
indifference on the other, which vivify the intercourse of a farmer and
his calves."
Now to Mr. Henry James, as a general rule, it would be difficult to
award too much praise. The river of his speech, rippling through summer
shadows, or rushing over rocky ways, still flows, like Siloa's brook,
fast by the oracles of God. And though it winds sometimes through
inaccessible places, and you tell its course only by its music, and not
by its sparkle, and though it channels a path sometimes through murky
valleys whose every vapor is laden with pestilence, yet you know that
pure and purifying, singing through its leafy solitudes and shining
heavenly clear in Tophet as in Tempe, the burden of its song is peace on
earth, good-will to man, while it hastens on to mingle crystal stream
with the waters of the river of life.
But, Mr. Henry James, good and wise as you are, I am certain you never
owned a calf. At least, you never stood in confidential relations to
one. "Irksome superintendence?" You did not witness the welcome we gave
our poor little favorite, torn all trembling from its mother's side by
the stern demand of some greedy purse. How we stroked him, and patted
him, and--begging your pardon--scratched his head, and so soothed away
his sorrow ere he was aware! how we stayed his staggering limbs! and
because he was too young and knew not how to drink, but only stared at
the basin and at us and vacancy, in an uncertain, moonstruck way, did I
not put my own fingers into the milk and draw his mouth down to them,
and, deceived by the pious fraud, did not the poor little hungry
innocent, like Dido of old, drink large draughts of love, in happy
ignorance that it was not Nature's own arrangement for such case made
and provided? No, Mr. James,--where it is a question of absolute
philosophy, ordinary cosmology, noumenal force, instinctual relegation,
and the fundamental antithesis of Me and Not-Me, you shall have
everything your own way; but when it comes to live-stock, you must ask
me first!
Such a mistake, however, is not unaccountable. Farming, it must be
conceded, is in some respects a hard-hearted business, little calculated
to cherish the finer feelings. Separation of families is so common a
thing among farmers that the sight of sorrow ceases to sadden. Calves
are taken from their mothers at a tender age, to the great trial of both
mother and child; and a sufficient excuse for this trampling upon Nature
is supposed to be concentrated in the one word, _Veal_. All last night
the air reverberated with the agonized mooings of a bereaved cow in a
neighboring pasture, and with the earliest dawn there she stood forlorn,
pressing her aching breast against the cold, dew-damp gate, and gazing
with mournful longing up the road last trodden by her darling's
lingering feet. But it is all right, because--_veal_! A hen may be
suddenly wrested from her infant brood and brought back from her private
nest into the dreary phalanstery, because Mr. Worldly Wiseman thinks
the laying of eggs a more important thing than the cultivation of
domestic virtues. To the exigencies of "profit" everything else must
give way. The result can but be deleterious. The peach-bloom of
sensibility is presently rubbed off by constant trituration of harsh
utilities. Only yesterday I received an invitation from a gentleman of
standing and character to visit a famous farm, and one of the
inducements expressly held out was the pleasure of seeing a hundred
sheep from Canada, with a hundred little lambs, all their respective
little tails cut off short. What a request was there, my countrymen! For
why were those little tails cut off, in the first place? and if they
were cut off, why should any humane person be invited to see such a
spectacle of man's rapacity? It must have been sheer wantonness. You
sometimes prune away sundry branches of a tree, to make the rest of it
grow better; but will there be any more to a leg of mutton because it
had no tail? No, Sir. When I go a-sheep-gazing, I want to see the sheep
walking about with dignity and comfort, and coming home, as little
Bo-Peep wanted hers, bringing their tails behind them.
What we can we do to stem this dreadful tide of demoralization. We have
never set our hearts upon taking the first prize at any fair for
anything. We do not count upon deriving great pecuniary strength from
contact with our mother Earth. But upon this one thing we have
determined,--that every creature on our plantation, which is allowed to
live at all, shall live as far as possible in the enjoyment of every
bounty which Nature bestowed upon him. No dumb life shall be the worse
for falling into our hands. We do not disdain to study the nature of our
calves, nor to gratify their innocent whims. One refuses milk and
chooses water: water is always provided. Another exults in apples,
bread, and fried potatoes, and eats them from your hand with most
winsome confidence and gratitude. They dislike the confinement of their
parade-ground, yearning to roam over the grassy knolls, to snuff the
scent of the clover-blossoms, to drink the dew from buttercups, to lie
on the velvet turf and let the summer soak through their tough hides and
penetrate their inmost hearts. How calm then are their beautiful
mazarine blue eyes! What deep content relaxes every fibre of their
breathing bodies! How happily the days of Thalaba go by! They seem to
have attained to a premature tranquillity, the meditative mood of
full-grown kine. But if sometimes the morning wine of June leaps through
their veins with a strange vigor in its pulse, you shall see how bravely
their latent youthfulness asserts itself. Frisking with many an ungainly
gambol, they dash across the orchard, bending their backs into an angle,
brandishing their tails aloft, jerking, butting, pushing, and jostling
each other, in joy too intense for expression.
Driving in Natick one day, I observed, in some of the pleasant grounds
which ornament that town, a very nice little contrivance;--a coil of
fence you might call it, made of iron wire, capable of being rolled and
unrolled, and so enabling you to make an inclosure when and where you
chose. Set your fence down on one part of the lawn, turn in your lambs,
and when they have cropped all the grass, remove the establishment to
another place. I represented very ably and vividly to--the person
mentioned before--the advantages of such a fence to our calves and to
ourselves. It gives them at once the freedom of the turf, yet does not
loose them beyond our control. And then it looks so picturesque!
"Yes," said he, briskly, "we must have one."
"That we must!" I responded with enthusiasm, delighted at his ready
acquiescence. Not that a non-acquiescence would have made any difference
in the result, but the process would have been more tedious.
The next morning he called me out, with great flourish of trumpets, to
see The Iron Fence.
"It is not possible," I said, in astonishment. "You have had no time to
send."
"No,--I made it," he replied boldly.
"You!" I exclaimed, still more astonished. "I knew there was a tangle of
iron wire in the barn, but it looked rusty."
He made no reply, only whistled me on as if I were his dog,--he often
does that,--and I followed, musing. The iron fences that I had seen
showed a fine tracery, delicate and graceful, seemingly, as the cobwebs
on the morning grass: could they, like these, be woven in a single
summer night? The sequel will show. I appeared upon the scene. A single,
slender iron pole was driven into the ground: one end of a piece of rope
was fastened to it; the other end encircled the neck of our little,
black, woolly calf, Topsy, who was describing great circles around the
pole, in her frenzy to escape.
"Sir," said I, after a somewhat prolonged silence, "it is the old
crowbar."
"No," said he, confidently, "it is an Iron Fence,--such as they have in
Natick. Only," he added, after a short pause, and as if the thought had
just occurred to him, "perhaps theirs is the old-fashioned centripetal
kind. This is the New Centrifugal Iron Fence!"(?)
* * * * *
Kindness to animals is, like every other good thing, its own reward. It
is homage to Nature, and Nature takes you into the circle of her
sympathies and refreshes you with balsam and opiate. We, too, delight in
green meadows and blue sky. Resting with our pets on the southern slope,
the heavens lean tenderly over us, and star-flowers whisper to us the
brown earth's secrets. Ever wonderful and beautiful is it to see the
frozen, dingy sod springing into slender grass-blades, purple violets,
and snow-white daisies. The lover deemed it a token of extraordinary
devotion, that, when his mistress came by, his
"dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red."
But no foot so humble, so little loved, so seldom listened for, that the
earth will not feel its tread and blossom up a hundred-fold to meet her
child. And every dainty blossom shall be so distinctly wrought, so
gracefully poised, so generously endowed, that you might suppose Nature
had lavished all her love on that one fair flower.
As you lie on the grass, watching the ever-shifting billows of the
sheeny sea, that dash with soundless surge against the rough old
tree-trunks, marking how the tall grasses bend to every breeze and
darken to every cloud, only to arise and shine again when breeze and
cloud are passed by, there comes through your charmed silence--which is
but the perfect blending of a thousand happy voices--one cold and bitter
voice,--
"Golden to-day, to-morrow gray:
So fades young love from life away!"
O cold, false voice, die back again into your outer darkness! I know the
reaper will come, and the golden grain will bow before him, for this is
Nature's law; but in its death lies the highest work of its circling
life. All was fair; but this is fairest of all. It dies, indeed, but
only to continue its beneficence; and with fresh beauty and new vigor it
shall blossom for other springs.