I have long wished to record the admirable behavior of a certain Shanghai rooster, once belonging to a relative of ours in the West. This fowl was old, but he was tender; he was ugly, but he was virtuous, as you shall see. One of the hens of his flock died suddenly and mysteriously,—of too many family cares, perhaps, for she left a brood of twelve hearty, clamorous young chickens. One of the children, the poet of the family, said:—
“Grandfather Shanghai
Stood sadly by,
And saw her die,
With a tear in his eye.”
Perhaps he received her last instructions,—her dying bequest. If so, never was a legatee more burdened with responsibilities; for from that hour the good rooster adopted all those chickens, and devoted himself to them. When the fowls were fed, he guarded their portion; he watched over them when hawks were hovering near; he scratched and fought for them and stalked around after them all day, and at night, after leading the other fowls to roost, he would descend from the old pear-tree, gather those poor sleepy little things under him, and do his best to brood them. His legs were so long and stiff that it was a difficult job. First he would droop one wing down to shelter them; then, seeing that they were exposed on the other side, would let down the other. Then, finding that he could not keep both down at once, he would try to crouch lower, and would sometimes tip himself entirely over. It was a laughable sight, I assure you. But somehow he managed to keep them warm, to feed them, and bring them up in the way they should go; and I hope they always loved him, and never made fun of their gaunt, ungainly old guardian, when they grew up, and went among the other young people of the farm-yard, especially when chatting with the foreign fowls, the proud Spanish hens, and the pretty Dorking pullets.
THE GALLANT BANTAM.
I have observed that while the Bantam pullet is a quiet, modest, little pantaletted lady, the Bantam cockerel always makes up in big feeling for what he lacks in size. A gentleman farmer owned a Bantam of this sort, that was always full and bubbling over with fight. He would go at any gentleman-fowl in the yard, with beak and spur. He would defy the fiercest old gander, and challenge the biggest “cock of the walk” to mortal combat. At last he grew so uncomfortably quarrelsome, and presented such a disreputable appearance,—having had the best part of his tail-feathers torn out, and his spurs broken off,—that his master was obliged to put him out to board with a nice old lady who had no fighting fowls for him to contend with. It was hoped that he would be content to tarry in that Jericho until his tail-feathers should be grown; but one day, when his master paid a visit to his good neighbor, he found the little Bantam with his head badly swollen, and with a patch over one eye and across his beak, placed there by the kind old lady. He had gone outside the yard, and picked a quarrel with a strange rooster, only about six times his size, and been pretty badly punished.
A short time after, a big turkey gobbler was added to the feathered community of that farm-yard, the old lady not dreaming of the Bantam cock daring to make hostile demonstrations against such a potentate. But she had done our little hero injustice. As soon as he saw the mighty spread the arrogant old fellow was making, he just gathered himself up, and “went for him,” if I may use a slang expression, which I know boys, at least, will understand only too well.