CHAPTER IV
{Dryshod warnings which are never heeded: p27.jpg}
July 9th.
By the time the ducks and geese are incarcerated for the night, thereasonable, sensible, practical-minded hens--especially those whosementality is increased and whose virtue is heightened by theresponsibilities of motherhood--have gone into their own particular rat-proof boxes, where they are waiting in a semi-somnolent state to have thewire doors closed, the bricks set against them, and the bits of sackingflung over the tops to keep out the draught. We have a great many youngfamilies, both ducklings and chicks, but we have no duck mothers atpresent. The variety of bird which Phoebe seems to have bred during thepast year may be called the New Duck, with certain radical ideas aboutwoman's sphere. What will happen to Thornycroft if we develop a New Henand a New Cow, my imagination fails to conceive. There does not seem tobe the slightest danger for the moment, however, and our hens lay and sitand sit and lay as if laying and sitting were the twin purposes of life.
{The mother goes off to bed: p28.jpg}
The nature of the hen seems to broaden with the duties of maternity, butI think myself that we presume a little upon her amiability and naturalmotherliness. It is one thing to desire a family of one's own, to layeggs with that idea in view, to sit upon them three long weeks and hatchout and bring up a nice brood of chicks. It must be quite another tohave one's eggs abstracted day by day and eaten by a callous public, thenest filled with deceitful substitutes, and at the end of a dull andweary period of hatching to bring into the world another person'schildren--children, too, of the wrong size, the wrong kind of bills andfeet, and, still more subtle grievance, the wrong kind of instincts,leading them to a dangerous aquatic career, one which the mother may notenter to guide, guard, and teach; one on the brink of which she must everstand, uttering dryshod warnings which are never heeded. They grow usedto this strange order of things after a bit, it is true, and are lessanxious and excited. When the duck-brood returns safely again and againfrom what the hen-mother thinks will prove a watery grave, she becomesaccustomed to the situation, I suppose. I find that at night she standsby the pond for what she considers a decent, self-respecting length oftime, calling the ducklings out of the water; then, if they refuse tocome, the mother goes off to bed and leaves them to Providence, or Phoebe.
{Cornelia and the web-footed Gracchi: p29.jpg}
The brown hen that we have named Cornelia is the best mother, the one whowaits longest and most patiently for the web-footed Gracchi to finishtheir swim.
When a chick is taken out of the incubytor (as Phoebe calls it) andrefused by all the other hens, Cornelia generally accepts it, though shehad twelve of her own when we began using her as an orphan asylum. "Wingsare made to stretch," she seems to say cheerfully, and with a kind glanceof her round eye she welcomes the wanderer and the outcast. She eventended for a time the offspring of an absent-minded, light-headedpheasant who flew over a four-foot wall and left her young behind her tostarve; it was not a New Pheasant, either; for the most conservative andold-fashioned of her tribe occasionally commits domestic solecisms ofthis sort.
{An orphan asylum: p30.jpg}
There is no telling when, where, or how the maternal instinct will assertitself. Among our Thornycroft cats is a certain Mrs. Greyskin. She hadnot been seen for many days, and Mrs. Heaven concluded that she hadhidden herself somewhere with a family of kittens; but as the supply ofthat article with us more than equals the demand, we had not searched forher with especial zeal.
{Phoebe and I followed her stealthily: p31.jpg}
The other day Mrs. Greyskin appeared at the dairy door, and when she hadbeen fed Phoebe and I followed her stealthily, from a distance. Shewalked slowly about as if her mind were quite free from harassing care,and finally approached a deserted cow-house where there was a great moundof straw. At this moment she caught sight of us and turned in anotherdirection to throw us off the scent. We persevered in our intention ofgoing into her probable retreat, and were cautiously looking for somesign of life in the haymow, when we heard a soft cackle and a ruffling ofplumage. Coming closer to the sound we saw a black hen brooding a nest,her bright bead eyes turning nervously from side to side; and, coaxed outfrom her protecting wings by youthful curiosity, came four kittens, eyeswide open, warm, happy, ready for sport!
The sight was irresistible, and Phoebe ran for Mr. and Mrs. Heaven andthe Square Baby. Mother Hen was not to be embarrassed or daunted, evenif her most sacred feelings were regarded in the light of a cheapentertainment. She held her ground while one of the kits slid up anddown her glossy back, and two others, more timid, crept underneath herbreast, only daring to put out their pink noses! We retired then forvery shame and met Mrs. Greyskin in the doorway. This should havethickened the plot, but there is apparently no rivalry nor animositybetween the co-mothers. We watch them every day now, through a window inthe roof. Mother Greyskin visits the kittens frequently, lies downbeside the home nest, and gives them their dinner. While this is goingon Mother Blackwing goes modestly away for a bite, a sup, and a littleexercise, returning to the kittens when the cat leaves them. It ispretty to see her settle down over the four, fat, furry dumplings, andthey seem to know no difference in warmth or comfort, whichever mother isbrooding them; while, as their eyes have been open for a week, it can nolonger be called a blind error on their part.
{Coaxed out . . . by youthful curiosity: p33.jpg}
When we have closed all our small hen-nurseries for the night, there isstill the large house inhabited by the thirty-two full-grown chickenswhich Phoebe calls the broilers. I cannot endure the term, and will notuse it. "Now for the April chicks," I say every evening.
"Do you mean the broilers?" asks Phoebe.
"I mean the big April chicks," say I.
"Yes, them are the broilers," says she.
But is it not disagreeable enough to be a broiler when one's time comes,without having the gridiron waved in one's face for weeks beforehand?
{Nine huddle together: p34.jpg}
The April chicks are all lively and desirous of seeing the world asthoroughly as possible before going to roost or broil. As a generalthing, we find in the large house sixteen young fowls of thecontemplative, flavourless, resigned-to-the-inevitable variety; threemore (the same three every night) perch on the roof and are driven down;four (always the same four) cling to the edge of the open door, waitingto fly off, but not in, when you attempt to close it; nine huddletogether on a place in the grass about forty feet distant, where a smallcoop formerly stood in the prehistoric ages. This small coop was one inwhich they lodged for a fortnight when they were younger, and when thoseabsolutely indelible impressions are formed of which we read ineducational maxims. It was taken away long since, but the nine loyal (orstupid) Casabiancas cling to the sacred spot where its foundationsrested; they accordingly have to be caught and deposited bodily in thehouse, and this requires strategy, as they note our approach from aconsiderable distance.
{Of a wandering mind: p35.jpg}
Finally all are housed but two, the little white cock and the blackpullet, who are still impish and of a wandering mind. Though headed offin every direction, they fly into the hedges and hide in the underbrush.We beat the hedge on the other side, but with no avail. We dive into thethicket of wild roses, sweetbrier, and thistles on our hands and knees,coming out with tangled hair, scratched noses, and no hens. Then, whenall has been done that human ingenuity can suggest, Phoebe goes to herlate supper and I do sentry-work. I stroll to a safe distance, and,sitting on one of the rat-proof boxes, watch the bushes with an eagleeye. Five minutes go by, ten, fifteen; and then out steps the whitecock, stealthily tiptoeing toward the home into which he refused to go atour instigation. In a moment out creeps the obstinate little beast of ablack pullet from the opposite clump. The wayward pair meet at their owndoor, which I have left open a few inches. When all is still I walkgently down the field, and, warned by previous experiences, approach thehous
e from behind. I draw the door to softly and quickly; but not soquickly that the evil-minded and suspicious black pullet hasn't time tospring out, with a make-believe squawk of fright--that induces threeother blameless chickens to fly down from their perches and set the wholeflock in a flutter. Then I fall from grace and call her a Broiler; andwhen, after some minutes of hot pursuit, I catch her by falling over herin the corner by the goose-pen, I address her as a fat, juicy Broilerwith parsley butter and a bit of bacon.
{With tangled hair, scratched noses, and no hens: p36.jpg}
The Diary of a Goose Girl Page 4
