“Ain't goin' to have a chicken run out here in the garden, be ye?”
“I should hope not! The chickens on this place will never mix with the garden trucks, if I have any say about it,” declared Hiram, laughing.
“By Jo!” exclaimed Henry. “Dad says Maw's dratted hens eat up a couple hundred dollars' worth of corn and clover every year for him-runnin' loose as they do.”
“Why doesn't he build your mother proper runs, then, plant green stuff in several yards, and change the flock over, from yard to yard?” “Oh, hens won't do well shut up; Maw says so,” said Henry, repeating the lazy farmer's unfounded declaration-probably originated ages ago, when poultry was first domesticated.
“I'll show you, next year, if we are around here,” said Hiram, “whether poultry will do well enclosed in yards.”
“I told mother you didn't let your chickens run free, and had no hens with them,” said Henry, thoughtfully.
“No. I do not believe in letting anything on a farm get into lazy habits. A hen is primarily intended to lay eggs. I send them back to work when they have hatched out their brood.
“Those home-made brooders of ours keep the chicks quite as warm, and never peck the little fellows, or step upon them, as the old hen often does.”
“That's right, I allow,” admitted Henry, grinning broadly.
“And some hens will traipse chicks through the grass and weeds as far as turkeys. No, sir! Send the hens back to business, and let the chicks shift for themselves. They'll do better.”