[LIX.—Bantams]
During the Christmas season a friend sent the littlest boy a pair of bantams, and there is now more spunk on the farm than there has been since my boyhood days, when I used to own a sassy little hen that bore the Gaelic name of "Prabbach." I don't know exactly what the name meant, but it seemed to fit her exactly. These modern bantams appear to be of aristocratic descent, with feathers down to their toes, and the rooster has a haughty bearing that makes me take liberties with "Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue," in order to describe him properly:—
"The Cock was of a prouder egg
Than modern poultry drop,
Stept forward on a firmer leg,
And crammed a plumper crop.
Upon an ampler dunghill trod,
Crowed lustier late and early,
Sipped wine from silver, praising God,
And raked in golden barley."
The little bantam can crow quicker, oftener and with more ginger than any other rooster on the place. He has so much steam that I imagine he must have the spirit of a full-sized Brahma or Cochin compressed into the size of a pigeon. He is so cocky that his very appearance seems a challenge. The first time he stepped out into the barnyard the turkey gobbler challenged him to mortal combat and unlimbered for action without waiting for his challenge to be accepted. But, try as he would, the gobbler could not land on the brisk bantam. The little fellow sidestepped every swipe that was made at him, and went on picking up grain as if it were only a fly that was bothering him. And when he scratches in the straw for grain he does it with a vim that seems to say to all the world, "When I scratch gravel mind your eye." But if I could speak hen language I would feel it my duty to warn him about his little mate. She looks so demure that I suspect her of being a flirt.
[LX.—A Little Tragedy]
Of all the youngsters in the barnyard the chickens are the most attractive. They are fluffy little balls of down of most engaging appearance, and I don't blame Beatrice very much because she shows a longing to eat them. She is allowed out for a run with "her nine farrow" every day, and she has to be watched carefully to keep her away from the chicken coops. Yesterday she went over beside the road to pasture, and the boy who was watching her thought she was safe, but as soon as he took his eye off her, she made off to a neighbour's barnyard, attacked a chicken coop and got a couple of chickens. I haven't faced the music about that yet, but Beatrice will get me into trouble unless we hurry and make a proper pig run, where she and her greedy little wretches can get around without getting into trouble. The little pigs are now beginning to eat out of the trough with their mother, and sometimes she chases them off with a howl of rage that hasn't a trace of maternal tenderness in it. In a few weeks she will rob her own children of their feed unless she is restrained, for "pigs is certainly pigs." As soon as her flock is weaned she will be an outcast with none so poor to do her reverence. No one will have any compunctions about putting her in a pen and fattening her for bacon. But as long as swill and chop-feed are plentiful she will not mind the lack of affection. She will grunt contentedly when she is full and complain bitterly when she is hungry, and she won't care a hoot whether she is loved or not.
