"I have no fancy for the country, as you know, my dear Marion," wrote Aunt Sophy, in conclusion, "but your description of Waydean makes me long to accept your invitation. When I heard that Henry had rented a farm I thought you must be simply crazy to let him do it, but your letter has reassured me. Of course, if he has quite determined not to go to any expense in the expectation of making money out of the land, and if you both want to live there, it is a different thing. I think it is a splendid idea not to work any more land than he can attend to with a spade, a rake and a hoe. Take my advice, Marion, and keep him to that—no matter what arguments he may use—and you will be perfectly safe. If your poor uncle had only been guided by my advice, or if I had been[Pg 90] less easily swayed by his hopefulness, I would have had more than a pittance to live on now. But no,—it was buy this, and buy that, till....

"How lovely it must be to have your own milk and butter and cream and fruit, and, above all, to know that they're clean! And the chickens! Do you know, I can't touch chickens in the city; I haven't tasted one for a year, I am so disgusted at the thought of how they may be fed,—and yet I am just longing for a taste of plump, clean, ... grain-fed——"

Marion's voice wavered; she stopped reading. I uttered a prolonged whistle, then laughed in a hollow mirthless tone that brought a responsive gleam to Marion's worried face. She left the breakfast table and looked anxiously out of the window at the back of the room, then sat down again with a sigh of thankfulness.

"What a mercy Paul wasn't within hearing," she said; "how he would have howled!"

I went to the window. Paul was surrounded by our flock of twenty-seven [Pg 91]half-grown chickens and five hens. In one hand he held his little tin pail of corn; with the other he dealt out one grain at a time to each in turn, calling the fowl by name and reproving those that tried to snatch the others' share. "Jeremiah, here's yours—come along Aunt Noddy," I heard him say coaxingly.

I sat down again and stared at Marion hopelessly; she responded with a gaze of mute despair; then we both studied the tablecloth without speaking, feeling that the skeleton we had ignored for months had at last stalked unbidden from the closet.

As I thought the matter over I could see that Marion was entirely to blame for this hopeless complication. If she had allowed me to get eggs from pure-bred stock for setting we would have had twenty-seven chickens of exactly similar appearance that Paul never could have individualized, never have named, never have loved with the passionate fervor that he bestowed on each one of the variegated specimens hatched from eggs at ten cents a dozen. My eggs, I computed, would have cost not more than five[Pg 92] dollars; so in order to save four dollars and a half, Marion had saddled us with a flock as unapproachable from a culinary stand-point as so many sacred cows. This conclusion presented itself with such clearness that I was on the point of submitting it to Marion when I remembered how unpleasant it was to me to listen to wholesome truths, so I merely looked unselfish and hummed thoughtfully.

My wife regarded me with suspicion, her frown deepening. "I have asked you repeatedly," she said, with frosty distinctness, "not to hum, and not to look like that."

My complaisance vanished. I am not easily irritated, and I try to avoid answering back, but I cannot stand being told not to look like that.

"Marion," I retorted, "I don't wonder you feel annoyed, but you may as well face the difficulty now. I'm tired of people asking me how we like living in the country, and then remarking that it must be fine to have your own chickens. Of course, I'm willing to keep up appearances and to make-believe that having our own chickens[Pg 93] is one of our many daily luxuries; but now that your Aunt Sophy is coming we've got to eat them, or she'll know the reason why. Oh, yes, I know," I added, as she tried to interrupt—"I know we can't have them in the abstract. We've got to kill and cook and pick the bones of Abner, Jeremiah, Lucy, or some other of the boy's pets; but if I had had my way about the eggs he couldn't have told one from another, and we might have had an occasional fowl without these painful personal associations."

I regretted my rashness when I saw Marion's look of calm scorn, her manner leading me to expect a revival of some of my mistakes. I can evolve plausible theories, but she usually shatters them with the most distracting personal applications.

"I hadn't intended to point out that you are responsible," she said, "but since you are so unjust as to try to blame me, I must do so. Don't you see, Henry, that it is but another instance of your habit of evading unpleasant duties. I have told you repeatedly"—I squirmed in protest, for I do hate that phrase, and I knew so well what[Pg 94] was coming—"that you would say anything to tide over a disagreeable scene,—and it's true."

"Honestly, Marion," I protested, "I—I wouldn't. I'd jump into any kind of a scrimmage—I'd do anything to please you. If you'll only be cheerful I'll—I'll see that it doesn't happen"——

"There you are again," she interrupted, in a descending cadence of utter dejection. "Oh, dear—it is so hopeless! Listen, Henry, and see if you can understand this: Paul is now six, and yet he never knew there was such a thing as death until last month. You had your way about that—and what was the result? The child nearly went crazy when his bantam hen died. If you had been at home, I have no doubt you would have told him it was asleep, but you more than made up for that by assuring him that it had gone to heaven."

"I did nothing of the kind," I protested indignantly. "Paul came to me"——

"The child came to me," Marion went on sternly, "perfectly happy in the thought of Bijou having gone"——

[Pg 95]

"He came to me," I insisted, "asking if Bijou had gone to heaven. I said I hoped"——

"It doesn't matter so much what you said as the way you said it. However, as you say, Aunt Sophy is coming, and we must eat some of those chickens; so you may face the situation and settle with Paul. If you had explained to him that chickens were made to eat, as I wanted you to do in the first place, you wouldn't have had this trouble now. If I thought it would be a lesson to you I could stand my share, but I know you'll forget all about it in a week and be ready to do the same thing again, so you may as well take the consequences alone."

I was preparing to ask for a properly executed death-warrant, specifying the first victims by name, but before I could speak my wife dived into her pocket for a handkerchief and retreated upstairs.

I can tackle a disagreeable duty when there is no other course open to me, but I am not upheld, as Marion is, by a strong sense of righteousness; indeed, I am [Pg 96]inclined to feel personally unworthy to attempt any good act that is patently out of my line, yet on the rare occasions when Marion behaves in this childish manner I throw my conscientious scruples to the winds in my frantic desire to assuage her grief.

I found Paul teaching a hen and two chickens to sit still as he drew them around on his little wagon. My resolution wavered as I watched his innocent enjoyment, but the thought of Aunt Sophy spurred me on. Besides, if Marion was bloodthirsty enough to want these poor creatures eaten, it was not for me to feel faint-hearted.

"Well, Paul," I said, with spurious cheerfulness, "giving them a ride? Are these some—ha, ha!—you want to keep for pets?"

Paul has a quick ear for a false note. He studied my face with grave wonderment, his earnest gaze piercing my jocose mask. "Why, father," he exclaimed, "your voice sounds so queer—and what a funny [Pg 97]question! They're all pets,—of course, I want to keep every one."

"Come and sit on the bench beside me," I said ingratiatingly, "and we'll have a talk.... Do you know that—that people sometimes have to—that is, that people don't usually raise chickens for pets?"

"Oh, yes, I know," he replied, nodding his little head with philosophic certainty. "Most boys would rather keep dogs and rabbits, and ponies and other animals; but I don't want anything for pets except hens and chickens, and perhaps—well, I think I would like a pair of white pigeons. I heard you saying to mother that I wasn't a bit like other boys. Is that one way I'm different?"

"It is," I answered with curt emphasis.

Paul snuggled closer to me and leaned his head on my shoulder. "You say that as if"—he hesitated shyly—"as if you wished I was like other boys. Am I not as good?"

"You're better, my boy, far better!" I exclaimed, in quick remorse.

[Pg 98]

This remark may appear injudicious, but Paul is like me in many ways, and there is not a shadow of vanity or self-consciousness in his character; no amount of praise, or even flattery, could disturb the natural equipoise of his self-esteem, but he is quick to feel the hurt of unjust depreciation. When Marion forgets my imperfections and tells me I am the best man in the world, I am aware that she is drawing it a little strong; at the same time, I am strengthened and uplifted by her opinion, and I feel the yearning to do noble things, to be more worthy of my pedestal, to attain that serenity of temper which mortals name angelic.

Paul's face brightened, and I knew that I had made amends for my previous abrupt and jarring tone. I began again cautiously, taking care to speak with soothing mellowness. "I don't think I ever heard of anyone keeping twenty-seven chickens and five hens for pets."

A merry light danced in Paul's eyes. "That's what you said about farming with a spade, a rake and a hoe," he reminded me, "and mother said we must do what[Pg 99] was right without thinking about other people."

Chance, instinct, or his inherited nimble mind had enabled him to checkmate me as neatly as Marion could have done it; I moved back. Passing lightly over the objectionable features, I briefly sketched the magnitude of the chicken-raising industry for supplying city markets, pointing out the necessity for poor farmers selling their fowls to buy food and clothing. Despite my care he was visibly shocked.

"No matter how poor we were, you would never send our chickens to market?" he inquired, breathing hard.

There could be but one answer to that question, and after I had fervently disclaimed the possibility of poverty ever making me so heartless, each of us remained buried in his own thoughts for a brief time. The chickens gathered around, and I fancied they regarded me with intuitive dread in their glistening eyes, as if they waited to hear my next attempt to seal their doom. An overgrown bully suddenly pecked a weaker brother, pulling out a bunch of[Pg 100] feathers viciously as he spurned the victim with his feet. Paul darted to the rescue and brought the brutal assailant back to the bench a prisoner.

"What is that villain's name, Paul?" I asked with eager interest.

"Why, this is Angelica," he answered. "Don't you remember you named him yourself when he was first hatched?"

I did remember. He was then a beautiful yellowish ball of fluff, with large, soft, wide-open eyes, the prettiest one of the brood; now he was grown into a greedy, swaggering, insolent swashbuckler, proud of his stature and fine plumage.

"He's a dangerous criminal," I said, feeling his plump breast appreciatively, "and it might be better to—to"—somehow the word stuck in my throat; I hesitated.

"I know, father," cried Paul joyfully. "I'm the policeman and you're the judge—he must be tried and then sentenced to wear a muzzle."

Angelica was tried and sentenced, then muzzled with a small rubber band that fitted tightly over his bill. His antics amused[Pg 101] us so much that for a few minutes I forgot my fatal errand.

"He looks wicked enough to kill some of the others," I remarked, after a pause. "Do you know, Paul, how a person who kills another is punished?" He looked up with sudden, awed interest. "They put a rope around—him, and—and"——

"And what?"

"——fine him a dollar and costs."

"Oh!" he gasped, "I'm so glad that's all. And do they take the rope off afterwards?"

"I believe they do," I replied, in deep dejection.

"Father, I just love chickens. Don't you?"

"I do, indeed," I affirmed, with sudden reckless, despairing intention; "but I love them in two different ways. If they're nice, well-mannered birds I love to see them running about with their feathers on; but if they're naughty I love to see them not running about with their feathers off." Paul laughed in glee. "Your mother and Aunt Sophy like them too," I went on warily,[Pg 102] my heart thumping; "and I think if chickens are cruel and bad they deserve to be stuffed"—his expression changed suddenly, but he still looked bravely into my eyes—"with bread-crumbs, and roasted, with thick—brown—rich—gravy."

Paul jerked his little hand from mine and stood up in front of me, his face twitching and his eyes brimming. "You greedy—greedy—GREEDY!" he gasped.

"Paul,—my boy,—listen," I implored; "your aunt Sophy is coming, and she's awfully fond"——

My words were lost in a prolonged howl. He had a phenomenal voice, but this delayed howl eclipsed all previous ones. I followed him in frantic haste, eager to forswear all designs on his pets, but he fled as if I were after his scalp. When I finally found him, too late, he was in his mother's arms, and I knew she had promised him everything, from the look she turned on me,—a look that caused me to slink silently away, a soulless brute, and alas!—a tailless one.

"Henry," said Aunt Sophy, complacently, as I drove her to the station after her visit, "in all the time my husband had his farm I never could get him to use our own chickens. He said they cost him two dollars apiece, being from thoroughbred stock, but I see you have more sense and raise good plain barnyard fowls that you can eat every day if you want to. Why, we must have had them three times a week while I've been here, and you seem to have a good large flock yet. I've tried a dozen times to count them, but they always went criss-cross. How many have you got left?"

"Just twenty-seven," I answered, stroking my mustache with modest pride.