When all is still I walk
gently down the field, and, warned by previous experiences, approach the
house from behind. I draw the door to softly and quickly; but not so
quickly that the evil-minded and suspicious black pullet hasn't time to
spring out, with a make-believe squawk of fright--that induces three
other blameless chickens to fly down from their perches and set the whole
flock in a flutter. Then I fall from grace and call her a Broiler; and
when, after some minutes of hot pursuit, I catch her by falling over her
in the corner by the goose-pen, I address her as a fat, juicy Broiler
with parsley butter and a bit of bacon.
CHAPTER V
July 10th.
At ten thirty or so in the morning the cackling begins. I wonder exactly
what it means! Have the forest-lovers who listen so respectfully to, and
interpret so exquisitely, the notes of birds--have none of them made
psychological investigations of the hen cackle? Can it be simple
elation? One could believe that of the first few eggs, but a hen who has
laid two or three hundred can hardly feel the same exuberant pride and
joy daily. Can it be the excitement incident to successful achievement?
Hardly, because the task is so extremely simple. Eggs are more or less
alike; a little larger or smaller, a trifle whiter or browner; and almost
sure to be quite right as to details; that is, the big end never gets
confused with the little end, they are always ovoid and never spherical,
and the yolk is always inside of the white.
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