manufacturing jars for it. Of course all the bald
people bought it. Everyone expected it to work miracles. The women
with tow-coloured rat-tails expected to grow luxuriant black
tresses and others with coarse scrubby black hair dreamed of
having fine soft golden braids.

A very rich land-owner, who did not care how much he spent, rubbed
with it the back of his mangy dog, and his horse's tail, which was
growing somewhat thin.

The mayor even, they tell me, put a thick layer of it onto his
wig, which was beginning to wear out. The district was steeped in
it, the air seemed to smell of musk.

Alas! everything has its bad side. The good side of this was for
the merchant alone, who, though he guaranteed his wares for human
beings, refused any further responsibility. The bad side was
for the hens and ducks. (I believe even the geese suffered
occasionally.) I can't tell you how many people, knowing all about
the effect it had had on Yollande and the resultant fortune, tried
to duplicate the famous Curly-Haired Hen, bought by Sir Booum.

In the poultry-yards around, the hens for several months had a
pretty bad time. They were nearly all plucked and rubbed with the
ointment. It was a craze, a rage with the farmers, and those hens
who could retain a vestige of their plumage esteemed themselves
fortunate.

It was a sad sight to see all the feathered creatures fly at the
sight of a human being. They knew by bitter experience what to
expect. Alas! with all these attempts with roosters, chickens,
ducks, and turkeys, none had the desired effect. They long
remained scented and devoid of plumage, that was all. We must take
it that no subject as good as Yollande presented itself. Nature
makes these queer incomprehensible distinctions, you know, which
we just can't understand. There was _one_ Curly-Haired Hen,
there was to be no other! For, since her metamorphosis, for a
reason unknown to this day, the Curly-Haired Hen absolutely
refused to lay eggs. This was, I must confess, a great
disappointment to Sir Booum. Like the good American he was, he
would have liked to continue the race.

He had perforce to content himself with portraits of her from the
pen of M. Vimar. One of these was sent, affectionately dedicated
by Yollande, to her good Mother Etienne, who regards it as her
greatest treasure, and keeps it, elegantly framed, above the
mantelpiece in her bedroom. Never a day passes but the good woman
looks at it with tender, mot