Hens near fence
Hens near fence
BLESSED BE THE HEN
There dawns a day when the big rock to the south of the stable looms black against the shrinking snowdrifts. A crumbling Gibraltar stands beneath the apple trees, its turrets wasted by the sun, its massive walls fast melting to decay. Gone is its grandeur; gone are its brave defenders; no sign of them remains save one scarlet gauntlet, lost in repelling the last desperate sally of a departed foe, now the sodden and solitary reminder of an epic winter.
A strange new life is stirring within the little house. Steps are quicker, voices gayer; new tasks come with every hour. A joyous restlessness sets life a-tingle; windows open,and mops are shaken. Curious caps appear over familiar female faces. All is bustle, eagerness, and mirth.
Outside, great rich black spots of earth appear. The first green things look out from garden tangles, and the sun pours its prodigal warmth into every dark and frozen corner.
There dawns a day set by no calendar, decreed by no lawgiver, when the mystic ritual of spring must be observed. Long since have fireside tasks and recreations been a mockery. Long since a strange and willful discontent has set us all on edge. For many days the leaping blood in little bodies had been ringing out its imperious command; and yet it was not time. Then at last we know the time has come.
With perfect understanding we set forth. Down through the land new-ploughed last fall, by the willows with their magic mist of spring, through the pine woods where snowbanks still lie purple in the hollows about the giant trunks, on to the river bank.
There it lies before us at full flood, lazily rafting its harvest of broken ice to the seanot far away. Where the sun lies warm the bank is open, and the black water curls at our feet with little intimate chuckles of delight.
We follow the well-known path. No words are needed, no shouted directions or commands, until in a bend of the stream we reach our goal. Sharp knives whip out. The tender branches are bent gently down, and with a clear, firm cut the sprays fall at our feet. Not many—just enough to place with reverent hands in a certain place in a certain room. Our little store is divided into three exactly equal parts, and each bearing his share, we turn toward home. Now tongues are loosed and once more the litany of spring is chanted. Home in the half light of the afternoon, back to lights and warmth, but it is not the same. We feel a presence. The dark, outside, is friendly; the warm wind no longer sobs in the chimney top; the lights lie soft on the sleek gray tufts of the willow branches in the big green vase.
We all know what the morrow will bring forth, but we do not like to talk about it.We hint at something of rare significance, but our talk just skirts the edges of direct allusion. It must be done as always done before: no variation, no vulgar interpolations or changes, no deviation from accepted and time-honored tradition. All is in readiness and all will be well.
The morning dawns. There is no haste, all is decency and order. But when the sun is warm, once more with high intent we seek the open. Down the little avenue, past the pear trees to the stable, past the paddock, through a tiny gate to a low, long building near a shabby wall.
The doors are closed, the windows screened with cotton cloth. We pause to listen and hear busy scratching and muffled talk. Down the long yard, enclosed by wire netting, to the gate—a bit awry and uncertain on its hinges, but bravely has it withstood the wintry winds. We fumble at the wooden button that holds it fast. The gate opens and we stand aside.
A moment’s tense silence while the world waits. Then the Duke of Wellington appears,resplendent in his spring apparel. With shrewd, inquiring eyes he cocks his head, and his great red wattles shake with eagerness. A step nearer, and then he speaks. A brief word of command, and out from crowded winter quarters come the ladies of his household. With the Field Marshal in the van they reach the gate. Another moment of inquiry and then, with feet high lifted and yellow toes curled close, they take the first step of the year in the great outdoors. We count them as they pass. We exchange knowing glances. All present or accounted for, save one. We know which one, and so we wait. It is but a moment when, with shrill cries of alarm and many aimless tackings, the delinquent appears. Yes, it’s Mrs. Cuttle, always anxious, always late, always perturbed and scolding violently. True to form she begins the season. Mrs. Cuttle has long since outlived her productive years, but she is retained as a moral lesson, and it is not lost: to “cuttle†is a cardinal sin. May her anxious, vociferous life be spared for years to come,sobeit she will only continue to impress on all the vacuity of “cuttling.â€
The Field Marshal now has his forces deployed as skirmishers, and like the prudent commander that he is, takes his place well in the rear, where with all-pervading eye he watches the rank and file. They are locating and examining each bit of bare ground, Mrs. Cuttle keeping her place in line with great difficulty and greater uncertainty. We listen for the food song. There are those who pretend that a hen possesses no vocabulary. Dull the ears that cannot hear her endless variations of a simple theme. The food song, a long succession of monosyllabic interrogatives, is one of her most endearing performances. Now it comes to us, and we know the quest is rewarded. We gather closer and watch the Field Marshal. The moment will be here soon. Will the ceremony be complete? Will it close with the usual crashing crescendo that we love?
He steps proudly along; he pauses, looks about, the sun gleaming on the noble irisof his neck. He steps to an upturned clod of earth and balances delicately on it. Slowly his wings begin to move. He is erect, noble, effulgent. His wings flap wildly, he throws back his head, and with comb and wattles blazing in apoplectic ecstasy, he sounds the clarion call. It rings in our ears, it tingles in our blood. It is more than the fitting climax of a perfect drama; it is the call to action. Tasks await us, enthralling undertakings, and we must not delay. But delay we do, for a moment to feel the glowing warmth of the heightening sun, to let the sweet southwest wind blow in our faces, to smell the cool, wet odor of the awakening soil.
We listen in the stillness for a voice. Eager eyes turn toward the willows, parted lips and straining ears wait for the message, and it comes. The little brook beyond the willows now is free and he is talking to us!
But now to work. First the tools must be collected from strange hiding-places, boards and nails, pails and brushes, all the jovial paraphernalia of building and repairing.The deserted henhouse is cleaned in every corner: nests and roosts, floor and ceiling. What glorious dust, what proud disdain of clothes and hands, what prodigies of skill and strength mark the full sweep of our enterprise! New litter on the floor, new hay in the nests, windows washed, and screens removed. By night the returning wanderers find all in order.
But this has been only one day; we know more glorious ones will follow. As the days go by we work more slowly, for we must not spend these golden hours too freely.
Then all is ready. There must be a dry, warm day with just a breath of wind. Pails are brought and we mix the magic brew: pure white lime, bubbling and steaming. The cauldrons simmer; we stir and mumble strange enchantments, old magic words of bygone ages; we croon strange songs, and stir, and stir. It is finished—whiter than anything imagined, smooth as velvet; there is nothing like it.
Inside we go. We put it on in lavish manner. It drops; it spots; it spatters; and it willburn if you are unwary. We emerge exultant. For once we have had enough of something, and how we have reveled in it! A general appraisal of our clothes is made, and bad as they are, we are sure they are not so bad as they were last year.
Happy in the completion of this undertaking, we rest awhile. For days we glory in the matchless product of our skill, but we know this leisure must not last. That is the great fact at the bottom of man’s devotion to the hen. She is an insistent creature and goads you on to activity. She demands an industry equal to her own. There are only brief, infrequent periods of contemplative pleasure in your association with a hen. No hours of easy talk, no placid silences, no moments of tender abstraction. A hen does not sentimentalize, she acts, and she insists that your relationship be that of a working partner; but how richly she rewards the conscientious performance of your duty to her!
Already there are signs in the Field Marshal’s household that new duties will soonconfront us. Some of the ladies are becoming querulous. With ruffled feathers, they scold the hours away. They even lose their appetites and refuse to go outdoors. They are watched, and many consultations held. Some evening the great news comes. Already a place has been prepared, and so at dusk with lighted lantern three conspirators creep abroad. Thirteen chosen eggs are borne to a secluded retreat, and there we find her, spread to an incredible breadth, with head drawn in, beady eyes snapping, and a vicious beak ready to strike if you make an unguarded motion. The lantern is held aloft and one by one the eggs are laid before her. With gentle pressure she takes them and stows them away in the recesses of the feathers. Food and water are placed near, and we tiptoe away, awed by this mystery of life.
Tiny new abodes must be prepared, and long hours are spent sitting in the sun, mending, painting, renewing homes for the expected offspring. What hours they are! The talk is good: it ranges through theheights and depths of life, its magic and its mystery. Serious discussion of practical details of construction follows close on the heels of myth and fable. So the twenty-one days pass. The last are feverish. It is hard not to interfere, we feel that we could do so much to help, but bitter experience has taught us that the stupidest hen, even Mrs. Cuttle, knows more about the matter in hand than we do. We are humbled.
On the twenty-first day at twilight we again seek her out. There she is, immovable, spread deeper and wider than ever. Worn with her long vigil, pale and wan, she resolutely waits. Presently there is the faintest shadow of a movement under the protecting feathers. The watchers exchange excited whispers; then slowly, one after the other, we lean down and listen close to the maternal breast. A feeble sound is heard, and eyes are wide with wonder.
Then follow days of unremitting toil, not unmixed with anxiety and cruel disappointments. Tragedies come which spoil a day for us, but it is part of the game, partof the great game we are trying to learn to play with poise and patience.
I sit on the paddock fence and smoke my pipe. I watch the sun sink low behind the woodland to the west. Up from the ploughed land comes the Field Marshal with his host. When I first see him he has them in extended order; as he comes to more difficult terrain, he skillfully manœuvres them into a column of fours and passes me in perfect array. I drop to my feet and come to a rigid salute. He passes the reviewing stand with glittering eye and haughty step. I notice that on the return into familiar country he is at the head of the column. And what a picture he makes! Here is a bird, methinks, who never has had and never will have an “inferiority complex.†And, after all, he is acting his little part well. What more can man or bird do? Play your part in the drama—and what a drama it is!
Lights glimmer in the little house. I must go. I thrust my pipe deep into my pocket without knocking the heel out—ahabit I practise, but deplore; it has grown on me of late years. I walk toward the house. At the lilacs by the hedge I stop.
The soft air is full of myriads of little voices; small rustling things disturb the grass; the soft sod yields beneath my step, and pungent odors float down the wind. Life, imperious life is singing in the night its message of growth. Grow and multiply, grow, grow for to-morrow the harvest. And the very stars in the heavens swing low to listen.
A shrill cry of distress reaches my dreaming ears. I start, but I know from whence it comes. It is Mrs. Cuttle, late as usual, blundering homeward in the dark.
Rooster crowing