Phœbe was distinctly nervous when I rose to say a few words on poultry breeding, announcing as my topic “Mothers, Stepmothers, Foster-Mothers, and Incubators.” Protected by the consciousness that no one in the assemblage could possibly know me, I made a distinct success in my maiden speech; indeed, I somewhat overshot the mark, for the Countess in the chair sent me a note asking me to dine with her that evening. I suppressed the note and took Phœbe away before the proceedings were finished, vanishing from the scene of my triumphs like a veiled prophet.
Just as we were passing out the door we paused to hear the report of a special committee whose chairman read the following resolutions:—
Whereas,—It has pleased the Almighty to remove from our midst our greatest Rose Comb Buff Orpington fancier and esteemed friend, Albert Edward Sheridain; therefore be it
Resolved,—That the next edition of our catalogue contain an illustrated memorial page in his honour and
Resolved,—That the Rose Comb Buff Orpington Club extend to the bereaved family their heartfelt sympathy.
The handsome young farmer followed us out to our trap, invited us to attend the next meeting of the R. C. B. O. Club, of which he was the secretary, and asked if I were intending to “show.” I introduced Phœbe as the senior partner, and she concealed the fact that we possessed but one Buff Orpington, and he was a sad “invaleed” not suitable for exhibition. The farmer’s expression as he looked at me was almost lover-like, and when he pressed a bit of paper into my hand I was sure it must be an offer of marriage. It was in fact only a circular describing the Banner Bone Breaker. It closed with an appeal to Buff Orpington breeders to raise and ever raise the standard, bidding them remember, in the midst of a low-minded and sordid civilisation, that the rose comb should be small and neat, firmly set on, with good working, a nice spike at the back lying well down to head, and never, under any circumstances, never sticking up. This adjuration somewhat alarmed us as Phœbe and I had been giving our Buff Orpington cockerel the most drastic remedies for his languid and prostrate comb.
Coming home we alighted from the trap to gather hogweed for the rabbits. I sat by the wayside lazily and let Phœbe gather the appetising weed, which grows along the thorniest hedges in close proximity to nettles and thistles.