When we drove in at our Farmer Ames’s place, he said that Nat and I could select any chickens we liked for a dollar each. The rooster would be half a dollar more. We went to the yard and looked over all the chickens there, but a variegated cock that strutted around like an emperor in his palace gardens caught my eye. I drew Natalie’s attention to him, and we decided to buy him. He has a marvelous tail of long coque feathers, and a pair of red bibs hanging from his beak. I suppose they are called bibs, because that seems to be the only use they can be put to.
After deciding upon that rooster, we began looking for the largest and fattest hens we could find. This was Natalie’s suggestion. She is becoming a splendid business woman since coming to the farm to live. She whispered to me so Farmer Ames need not overhear her: “He said we could choose any chicken we wanted as they are all the same price. So let’s take those great big ones for they must weigh at least a pound more than the smaller brown ones.”
Farmer Ames tried to dissuade us from taking the gorgeous chanticler, and the big Plymouth Rock hens—that is what he called them—but we knew it was because he hated to lose the beautiful cock and those fine big hens. So we insisted upon having the ones we chose, or none.
Ames begged us to take Rhode Island Reds and a few speckled guinea-hens because he said they were better laying hens. But we could see that his worry and concern was because we chose the most picturesque of all his fowl. Natalie is shrewd, so she said, as Ames went in to catch the little chicks for us: “Doesn’t it stand to reason that those small brown hens will lay small eggs? Our lovely big hens will lay great big fat eggs!” I hadn’t given that a thought until Nat spoke of it, but it sounds plausible.
Mr. Ames took the setting hen we wanted, and put her in a feed-bag so we could take her home, but he said he could not catch the other chickens until night when they went to roost. He promised to bring them over in the morning. Then we started home. On the way, he said: “Remember! I warned you not to choose that fancy rooster and them ancient hens, but you would have it your own way. So now I wash my hands of the consequences. Don’t blame me if they don’t lay golden eggs for you!”
Natalie and I laughed, for we felt sorry for poor Ames; that cock was the only handsome bird he had, and now he is ours. The piglets, safe in a crate in the back of the wagon, squealed too cunningly for anything when we bumped over a rut in the road. As soon as we arrived at the house, Farmer Ames left the crate on the back stoop, and Nat helped me carry the bag with the hen in it to the barn where a chicken coop was waiting for her. On the way out of the yard, Mr. Ames called to Jimmy and said: “Them cherries oughta be picked today or tomorrow, sure. They’ll rot if you don’t gather them.”
Rachel hurried out to the stoop at that, and suggested that the girl scouts pick the fruit on shares. That sounded great, so Natalie and I offered to run down and ask the scouts if they wanted to help pick the cherries. Of course they did!
Monday, 6 P. M. Just finished picking cherries. Rachel is preparing supper for all of us; the scouts did such good work that Jimmy said they must have a meal included with their wages. Their pay was half of all the cherries they picked. My, there were a lot! And we ate so many, besides, that it is doubtful if we can eat a bit of supper.
A dreadful thing happened to Natalie while we were up in the cherry trees. A hornet stung her on the neck and she let go of the bough. Down she came, but a friendly limb caught her and held her until we rescued her. When Rachel heard her scream, she ran out to see what had happened. It only took her a second to rush across the grass and catch hold of a high step-ladder that stood under a neighboring tree. But Rachel did not see the girl standing on top of the ladder, so it was whirled away from under her, and she was left hanging high and dry. Rachel stood the ladder under Natalie’s bough and then began to hastily ascend it. But the ladder was not securely placed and when it began to sway, Rachel got dizzy. Down came her two hundred pounds right in a bushel of ripe ox-hearts. I could have wept at the wholesale loss of such fruit! Rachel said she might be able to reclaim the cherries by canning them.
Monday night, 8 P. M. My troubles have begun. I forgot about those pigs in the crate while the scouts were here to supper. As we all went out on the side porch to say good night to the girls of Solomon’s Seal Camp, the porkers began squealing dreadfully. The scouts said I was cruel to forget to give them their supper, so I got Rachel to help me fix up a dish of corn meal and milk for them. This done, I remembered the setting hen in the barn. I had not fed her, either.