This small coop was one in
which they lodged for a fortnight when they were younger, and when those
absolutely indelible impressions are formed of which we read in
educational maxims. It was taken away long since, but the nine loyal (or
stupid) Casabiancas cling to the sacred spot where its foundations
rested; they accordingly have to be caught and deposited bodily in the
house, and this requires strategy, as they note our approach from a
considerable distance.
Finally all are housed but two, the little white cock and the black
pullet, who are still impish and of a wandering mind. Though headed off
in 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 the
thicket of wild roses, sweetbrier, and thistles on our hands and knees,
coming out with tangled hair, scratched noses, and no hens. Then, when
all has been done that human ingenuity can suggest, Phoebe goes to her
late 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 eagle
eye. Five minutes go by, ten, fifteen; and then out steps the white
cock, stealthily tiptoeing toward the home into which he refused to go at
our instigation. In a moment out creeps the obstinate little beast of a
black pullet from the opposite clump. The wayward pair meet at their own
door, which I have left open a few inches.
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