The Lord proteck the back and neck of honest Mr. Nerli."
Which shows that he was not altogether free from bothers even after reaching his "port o' dreams" in running away from Purgatorial winds, only to be held up by a paint-brush! Also, as most of us when excited fall back upon our early idiom, so Stevenson, in jest or lyric mood, drifted into the dialect of his fathers.
We found, much to our surprise, that Stevenson knew every nook and cranny of the Sanborn estate, and told us of his trespassings—in their absence—in search of fresh eggs for his breakfast, having observed that the hens had formed nomadic habits, laying in the wood-pile and in odd corners all over the grounds. This was during a former visit when he stayed at Wainwright's, a landmark that has since been wiped out by fire.
"One day, as I walked by," said he—meaning the Sanborn place—"I heard a hen cackling in that triumphant way that left no doubt as to her having performed her duty to the species. I vaulted the fence for that particular egg and found it, still warm, with others, on its bed of soft chips. After that, I had an object in my long, solitary walks. New laid eggs for all occasions! And why not," he asked merrily, "seeing there was no other proprietor than Chanticleer Peter, who had been the victim of neglect so long that he would crow me a welcome, and in time became so tame that he would spring on my knee and eat crumbs from my fingers?"
The Sanborns were in Europe that year and, all things considered, is it any wonder that he took the place for being abandoned?
"Nothing but my instinct for the preservation of property kept me from smashing all the windows for exercise," said he.
"I am glad thee was good to Peter, said Mrs. Sanborn. Her extinct brood was a pain still rankling in her bosom. She found Peter frozen stiff on the bough on which he was roosting, after his hens had disappeared by methods too elemental to explain.
They had left no servants in charge, and neighbors there were none to restrain the attacks of marauders, and they were prize leghorns, too. She almost wailed.
What a shame!
Well might all bachelors who are threatened with a wintry solitude take warning by unhappy Peter.