As for a soft-shelled egg,
it is so rare an occurrence that the fear of laying one could not set the
whole race of hens in a panic; so there really cannot be any intellectual
or emotional agitation in producing a thing that might be made by a
machine. Can it be simply "fussiness"; since the people who have the
least to do commonly make the most flutter about doing it?
Perhaps it is merely conversation. "_Cut-cut-cut-cut-cut_-DAH_cut_! . .
. I have finished my strictly fresh egg, have you laid yours? Make
haste, then, for the cock has found a gap in the wire-fence and wants us
to wander in the strawberry-bed. . . . Cut-cut-cut-cut-cut-DAH_cut_ . . .
Every moment is precious, for the Goose Girl will find us, when she
gathers the strawberries for her luncheon . . . Cut-cut-cut-cut! On the
way out we can find sweet places to steal nests . . . Cut-cut-cut! . . .
I am so glad I am not sitting this heavenly morning; it _is_ a dull life.
A Lancashire poultryman drifted into Barbury Green yesterday. He is an
old acquaintance of Mr. Heaven, and spent the night and part of the next
day at Thornycroft Farm. He possessed a deal of fowl philosophy, and
tells many a good hen story, which, like fish stories, draw rather
largely on the credulity of the audience. We were sitting in the
rickyard talking comfortably about laying and cackling and kindred
matters when he took his pipe from his mouth and told us the following
tale--not a bad one if you can translate the dialect:--
'Aw were once towd as, if yo' could only get th' hen's egg away afooar
she hed sin it, th' hen 'ud think it hed med a mistek an' sit deawn
ageean an' lay another.
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