I
_Fate produced a man who had chickens to sell_
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With June the Pride and the Hope came home from school. The brook, the
barn, Old Beek, and Mis' Cow all had their uses then--also a tent in the
yard, a swing, hammock and whatnot. When God made the country He made it
especially for children. Burning suns, a weedy garden and potato blight
may dismay the old, but such things do not fret the young mind. As long
as the brook is cool and the fields are sweet and there is fresh milk
and succotash on the table, happy childhood is indifferent to care.
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We were given to picnics. Often we packed some food things into a basket
and went into the woods and spread them in a shady place. Lena, the
Finn, sometimes accompanied these excursions and went quite mad with the
delight of them, racing about and digging up flowers and shrubs to plant
in the door-yard, fairly whooping it up in joyful Finnish and such
English words as she had acquired. I believe the aspect of our woods
reminded her of Finland.
Lena was a good soul, that is certain, and measurably instructive. We
learned from her how priceless is the gift of good nature, which was the
chief thing that kept her with us; also, to eat a number of dishes quite
new to us, and that an apple-tree--or perhaps it was an apple, baked or
in dumpling--was, in her speech, an "ominy poo." She was not strong on
desserts, but she could always fall back on the ominy poo--meaning in a
general way the big sweet-apple tree that grew by the barn and was
loaded to the breaking-point with delicious fruit. Any baked apple is
good, but a big, cold, baked sweet-apple--"punkin sweets," Westbury
called them--with cold cream, plenty of it, and a sprinkle of sugar, is
about the most blithesome thing in the world. Hurrah for the ominy poo!
whether it be the tree, or the fruit, baked or in dumplings. When the
strawberry passed and was not, the ominy poo reigned gloriously. I don't
know what Lena called certain other dishes that from time to time she
tried to substitute--some other kind of poo, maybe--I know we gradually
persuaded her away from them into a better way of life.
Sometimes we joined our picnics with the Westburys'--loaded our baskets
into a little hand-express wagon, or into the surrey behind Lord
Beaconsfield--and these were quite elaborate affairs that required a
good deal of preparation and meant a general holiday. More than once we
spread long tables on the green of Westbury's shaded lawn that sloped
down to the river and the mill, and was a picture-place, if ever there
was one. Other days we went over the hills for huckleberries--and came
home with pails of the best fruit that grows for pies, bar none. Happy
days--days of peace--a true golden age, as it seems now. Will the world,
I wonder, ever be so happy and golden again?
* * * * *
We had no intention of embarking in chickens when we settled in Brook
Ridge. Neither of us had any love for chickens on foot, and we had no
illusions about the fortunes that, according to certain books, could be
made from a setting of eggs and a tin hen--an incubator, I mean. Also,
our experiment with pigs had cooled us in the matter of live stock for
profit.
Still, we did love chickens in their proper place--that is to say, with
dumplings or dressing and some of the nice jellies and things which
Elizabeth had made during those autumn months of our arrival. It seemed
extravagant to have them often; chickens had become chickens since our
long-ago early acquaintance with them, when "two bits" had been a fancy
price for broilers and old hens. Elizabeth finally conceded that perhaps
a few chickens--a very few, kept in a neat inclosure away from the
garden--might be desirable. It would be so handy to have one when we
wanted it. She even hinted that the sound of a satisfied and reflective
hen singing about the barn would add a rural note to our pastoral
harmony. Then, of course, there would be the eggs.
Fate produced a man, just at that moment, who had chickens to sell. He
had been called away, and would let his flock go cheap--he had about a
dozen, he thought, assorted as to age and condition. We could have them
for fifty cents each. It seemed an opportunity. William Deegan was
instructed to prepare the neat inclosure, which he did with enthusiasm,
William being enamoured of anything that was alive.
The man who had been called away had made a poor count of his flock. He
arrived with nearly twice as many as he said, but we were in the mood by
that time, and took over the bunch. They were not a very inspiring lot.
They were of no special breed, but just chickens--a long-legged,
roostery set, with a mixture of frazzled hens of years and experience.
We said, however, that food and care would improve them. Remember what
it had done for Mis' Cow.
"Ye'll be after eatin' thim roosters, prisently," William commented, as
we looked at them through the inclosing wire, "before they be gettin'
much older. Ye'll be wantin' eggs from the hins."
William's remark seemed wise. We were wanting the eggs, all right, and
those ten or twelve speedy-looking roosters ought to go to the platter
without much delay. We would feed liberally and begin on the best ones,
forthwith.
Still, we did not have chicken that day, nor the next. There is nothing
so perverse as the human appetite. Those were not really bad chickens,
and in a few days they were much better. If any one of those middle-aged
roosters had been brought to us by the butcher we would have paid the
usual dollar for it, and, baked and browned and served with fixings, it
would have gone well enough, even though a trifle muscular and somewhat
resilient.
But somehow this was a different proposition. I don't believe I can
explain just why. There was something about the aggregation as a whole
that was discouraging. I suspect William's remark that they must be
eaten "prisently" had something to do with it. Eating those chickens was
not to be an entertainment, a pastime, but a job--a job that increased,
for the "old hins" did not lay, or very sparingly--an egg a day being
about the average. William brought it in solemnly. We had got to devour
that entire flock of chickens, and the thought became daily less
attractive. Even our tribe of precious ones, who had always been
chicken-hungry before, suddenly became indifferent to the idea of
chicken fried, baked, or in fricassee. I said, at last, we would have to
have a series of picnics. Anything would taste good at a picnic.
I don't remember how many we used up in that way, but I know the
business of getting rid of those chickens seemed interminable. We tried
working them off on William and Lena, but even _they_ balked before the
end was reached. I have heard it stated that no one can eat thirty
quails in thirty days. I don't know about that, but I know that when we
tried to put over a dozen chickens on Lena and William in six weeks it
was a failure. At last we were reduced to one old hen, who by general
consent was made immune. Also free. The garden was too far advanced for
her to damage it. The door of the neat wire inclosure was left open for
her to go and come at will. There was danger of foxes at night, but we
did not shut it. The foxes, however, did not come. Even foxes have to
draw the line somewhere. That venerable old lady wandered about the
place, pecking and contentedly singing, and in that part we really
became fond of her. I think she died at last of old age.