ndations
rested; they accordingly have to be caught and deposited bodily in the
house, and this requires strategy, as they note our approach from a
considerable distance.

{Of a wandering mind: p35.jpg}

Finally all are housed but two, the little white cock and the black
pullet, who are still impish and of a wandering mind. Though headed off
in every direction, they fly into the hedges and hide in the underbrush.
We beat the hedge on the other side, but with no avail. We dive into the
thicket of wild roses, sweetbrier, and thistles on our hands and knees,
coming out with tangled hair, scratched noses, and no hens. Then, when
all has been done that human ingenuity can suggest, Phoebe goes to her
late supper and I do sentry-work. I stroll to a safe distance, and,
sitting on one of the rat-proof boxes, watch the bushes with an eagle
eye. Five minutes go by, ten, fifteen; and then out steps the white
cock, stealthily tiptoeing toward the home into which he refused to go at
our instigation. In a moment out creeps the obstinate little beast of a
black pullet from the opposite clump. The wayward pair meet at their own
door, which I have left open a few inches. When all is still I walk
gently down the field, and, warned by previous experiences, approach the
house from behind. I draw the door to softly and quickly; but not so
quickly that the evil-minded and suspicious black pullet hasn't time to
spring out, with a make-believe squawk of fright--that induces three
other blameless chickens to fly down from their perches and set the whole
flock in a flutter. Then I fall from grace and call her a Broiler; and
when, after some minutes of hot pursuit, I catch her by falling over her
in the corner by the goose-pen, I address her as a fat, juicy Broiler
with parsley butter and a bit of bacon.

{With tangled hair, scratched noses, and no hens: p36.jpg}

CHAPTER V

July 10th.

At ten thirty or so in the morning the cackling begins. I wonder exactly
what it means! Have the forest-lovers who listen so respectfully to, and
interpret so exquisitely, the notes of birds--have none of them made
psychological investigations of the hen cackle? Can it be simple
elation? One could believe that of the first few eggs, but a hen who has
laid two or three hundred can hardly feel the same exuberant pride and
joy daily. Can it be the excitement incident to successful achievement?
Hardly, because the task is so extremely simp