Only a few days after the new poultry-house had been opened to the
fowls on the place, the Man came home from town with a crate in his
light wagon. In the crate were a Cock and ten Hens. All were very
beautiful White Plymouth Rocks, and larger than any of the fowls on
the place would have supposed possible. You can imagine what a
scurrying to and fro there was among those who had always lived on the
place, and how many questions they asked of each other, questions
which nobody was able to answer.
"Are they to live on this farm?" said one.
"It must be so," answered another. "Don't you see that the Man is
getting ready to open the crate?"
"Where do you suppose they came from?" asked a third. "Why, they are
almost as big as Turkeys."
"Altogether too large, I think," said a Bantam. "It makes fowls look
coarse to be so overgrown."
"What is that?" asked the Shanghai Cock, sharply. He had come up from
behind without the Bantam's seeing him, and she hardly knew what to
answer. She lowered her head and pecked at the ground, because she did
not know what to say. She dared not tell the Shanghai Cock, who was
very tall, that she thought large fowls looked coarse. So she kept
still. It would have been much better if she had held up her head and
told the truth, which was that she disliked to have large fowls
around, since it made her seem smaller.
"I think," said the Shanghai Cock, "that if a fowl is good, the more
there is of him the better. If he is not good, the smaller he is the
better." He looked over towards the wagon as he spoke, but the Bantam
knew that he meant her, and then she was even more uncomfortable. She
thought people were all looking at her, and she felt smaller than
ever.
The Man backed the wagon up to the outer gate of the second
poultry-yard, which was just between the one where the Chickens were
with their mothers and the one into which the older fowls were allowed
to go. Then he loosened the side of the crate very carefully and took
the new-comers out, one at a time. He had to hold the side of the
crate with his hand, so the only way in which he could lift the fowls
out was by taking them by the legs in his other hand and putting them,
head downward, into the yard. One would think that it might be quite
annoying to a fowl to have to enter his new home in that fashion, with
all the others watching, but the White Plymouth Rocks did not seem to
mind it in the least. Perhaps that was because they had been carried
so before and were used to it. Perhaps, too, it was because they felt
sure that the fowls who were standing around had also been carried by
the legs. Perhaps it was just because they were exceedingly
sensible fowls and knew that such things did not matter in the
least. At all events, each Hen gave herself a good shake when allowed
to go free, settled her feathers quickly, and began to walk around.
The Cock did the same, only he crowed and crowed and crowed, as much
as to say, "How fine it is to be able to stretch once more! A fellow
could not get room to crow properly in that crate."
[Illustration: TOOK THE NEW-COMERS OUT, ONE AT A TIME. _Page 88_]
Now everybody knows that the poultry who had been long on the place
should have spoken pleasantly to the White Plymouth Rocks at once. It
would have made them much happier and would have been the kind thing
to do. They did not do it, and there were different reasons for this.
The Shanghai Cock was so used to saying disagreeable things every day
to the fowls whom he knew, that now, when he really wanted very much
to be agreeable, he found he did not know how. There are many people
in the world who have that trouble. The Bantam Hen was cross, and
walked away, saying to herself, "I guess they are big enough to take
care of themselves." And that was a mistake, as you very well know,
for nobody in this world is big enough to be perfectly happy without
the kindness and friendship of others.
As for the rest of the fowls, some of them didn't care about being
polite; some of them didn't know what was the best thing to say and so
did not say anything; and some thought it would not do to talk to
them, because they were not so large and fine-looking as the White
Plymouth Rocks. They really wanted to do the kind thing, but were
afraid they did not look well enough. As though kindness were not a
great deal more important than the sort of feathers one wears!
The White Plymouth Rocks did the best that they could about it. They
chatted pleasantly among themselves, saying that it was a fine day,
and that it seemed good to set foot on grass once more, and that they
had sadly missed having a bit of grass to eat with their grain and
water while they were in the crate.
It was at this time that the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen in the next yard
came over to the wire netting which separated the two. She would have
come sooner if it had not been for her Chickens. Two of them had been
quarrelling over a fat bug which they found, and she stayed to settle
the trouble and scold them as they deserved. Now she came stepping
forward in her very best manner to greet the strangers. She knew that
she was not so large as they, and that her barred gray feathers were
not nearly so showy as their gleaming white ones, but she also knew
that somebody should welcome them to the farm, and she was ashamed
that it had not been done sooner.
"Good-morning," said she. "I am very glad that you have come here to
live."
"Oh, thank you," replied all the White Plymouth Rocks together. "We
are very glad to meet you. We hope to be happy here."
"Have you come far?" asked the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen.
"Very far," said they. "Unless you have taken such a journey you can
have no idea how glad we are to be free again."
"I have never taken any journey," said she, "except the time I came
here to live, and that was when I was only a Chicken. I do not
remember much about it. I fluttered out of a crate that was being
carried in a wagon, and ran around alone until I happened to find this
place."
"How sad!" exclaimed the Cock. "I hope you have had no such hard time
since. They seem to have a good poultry-house here, although I have
not yet been inside."
"It is a good one," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, "but I do not
sleep in it these warm nights. I stay in a coop in my yard with my
children." As she spoke she looked lovingly down at the white flock
around her feet. They were growing finely and already showed some
small feathers on their wings.
"Oh!" exclaimed the Hens in the other yard. "Oh, what beautiful
Chickens! So strong! So quick! So well-behaved! How long is it since
you hatched them?"
"Well," replied their mother, "I suppose I did not hatch them. I sat
long enough on the nest and laid enough eggs, but the Man who owns the
farm took away my eggs and brought me these Chickens. He has a sort of
table down in his cellar which hatches out all the Chickens on the
farm. I might just as well have saved myself all those tiresome days
and nights of sitting if I had known how it would be."
"That is a good thing to know," said one of the new-comers. "On the
farm from which we came, all the Chickens are hatched in that way. We
never had a mother who was alive."
"Not until after you were hatched I suppose," remarked the Barred
Plymouth Rock Hen, who thought the other did not mean exactly what she
had said.
"We had no real mother then," said the White Plymouth Rock Hen. "There
were so many of us that we had to get along without. The Man who owned
us had a lot of things to take the place of mothers. They were made
of wood and some soft stuff and he used to set them around in the
yards on pleasant days. We ate the food and drank the water that were
brought to us, and then we played around in the grass near the
make-believe mothers. When we were tired or cold we crawled under them
and cuddled down, and when we were scared we did the same way. We were
very well cared for by the Men, and we all grew to be strong and
healthy fowls, but I sometimes wish that we could have had a live
mother to snuggle under and to love."
The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen was greatly surprised. "I think it is
well to save the Hens having to hatch out the broods," she said, "but
they should be willing to care for the Chickens. There is nothing
quite so good as a live mother."
Another Plymouth Rock Hen strolled up. "I have been in the pen and the
scratching-shed," said she, "and I think them delightful."
"Are they at all like what you had before coming here?" asked the
Barred Plymouth Rock Hen.
"Very much the same," was the reply. "Only on the farm from which we
came there were a great, great many more pens. It took four Men to
care for us all. Most of us were White Plymouth Rocks. What are those
fowls outside? We never saw any that looked just like them."
"Oh," replied the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen with a little smile, "they
don't know exactly what they are. The Shanghai Cock is a Shanghai, as
any one can tell by looking at his long and feathery legs, but he and
I are the only ones who belong to fine families. He is really an
excellent fellow, although, of course, being a Shanghai is not being a
Plymouth Rock."
"Of course not," agreed all the new fowls, speaking quite together.
"We understand perfectly. You mean that he is a very good Shanghai."
"Exactly," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen. "The other fowls think
him rather cross, but he never has been cross to me. I think he gets
tired of hearing some of them quarrel and fuss, and then he speaks
right out."
"One has to at times," said the Cock, politely, for he saw that the
Barred Plymouth Rock Hen wished him to like her friends. "When you
can," he added, "tell him that I would like to meet him. I suppose we
shall not be allowed to go out of our own yard, but he can come up to
the fence. And send the others also. We would like to meet our new
neighbors."
"I will," replied the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, as she clucked to her
Chickens. "Good-by. I see that we have fresh food coming."
While her children were feeding she pretended to eat, pecking every
now and then at the food, and chatting softly with them as they ate.
There was always much to say about their manners at such times, and
she had to use both of her eyes to make sure that they did not
trample on the food. She also had to remind them often about wiping
their bills on the grass when they had finished. She could not bear to
see a Chicken running around with mush on the sides of his bill.
When they had eaten all they wished and ran away to play, she ate what
was left and sat down to think. "I would like to be white," she said
to herself. "I would certainly like to be white, and live in style
with those fowls who have just come. It must be lovely to be so
important that one is taken riding on the cars and lifted around
carefully in crates."
Then she remembered how they had spoken of their legs aching, and how
glad they were to be free on the grass once more. "I don't know that I
would really care about travelling," she added, "but I would like to
live in such style with a lot of fowls of my own family."
She remembered what the Cock had said about their having to stay in
their own yard, and she added, "But I would not want to have to stay
always in the same place."
She thought a little while longer and laughed aloud. "I believe that I
would really rather be just what I happen to be," said she. "I don't
know why I never thought of that before."
You can see that she was a most sensible Hen. Many fowls never stop to
think that if they were to change places with others, they would have
to stand the unpleasant as well as the pleasant part of the change.
The little white Chickens came crowding up to their gray mother. "Tell
us what made you laugh," they said. "Please tell us."
Her small round eyes twinkled. "I was laughing," she said, "just
because I am myself and not somebody else."
"We don't see anything very funny about that," they exclaimed. "Who
else could you be?"
The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen sent them off to chase a Butterfly, and
went to call on her nearest neighbor. "I would like to tell them," she
said, "but they are too young to understand it yet."