Lippincotts Magazine, August 1873 | Page 6

keeping to general considerations of honor,
nobility, glory, and the politics of Beloochistan; on which points we all
could agree, and where Mr. Berkley's witty eloquence was a wonder.
[Illustration: ON WITH THE DANCE!]
It is to my uneasy period, when I was sick with private griefs and giddy
with striving to reconcile incompatibilities, that the episode of the
Chickens belongs. I was looking dissatisfied out of one of my windows.
Hohenfels, disappointed of a promenade by an afternoon shower, was
looking dissatisfied out of the other. Two or three people, waiting for
four o'clock lunch, were lounging about. I had just remarked, I believe,
that I was a melancholy man, for ever drinking "the sweet wormwood
of my sorrows." A dark phantom, like that of Adamastor, stood up
between me and the stars.
"Nonsense, you ingrate!" responded the baron from his niche, "you are
only too happy. You are now in the precise position to define my old
conception of the Lucky Dog. The Lucky Dog, you know, in my
vocabulary, is he who, free from all domestic cares, saunters up and
down his room in gown and slippers, drums on the window of a rainy
afternoon, and, as he stirs his evening fire, snaps his fingers at the
world, saying, 'I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide
for.'"
[Illustration: ENDYMION.]
I replied that I did not willingly give way to grief, but that the

main-spring of my life was broken.
"Did you ever try," spoke up a buxom lady from a sofa--it was the Frau
Kranich, widow of the Frankfort banker, the same who used to give
balls while her husband was drugged to sleep with opium, and now for
a long time in Paris for some interminable settlement with Nathan
Rothschild--"Did you ever try the tonic of a good action? I never did,
but they actually say it rejuvenates one considerably."
I avowed that I had more faith in the study of Geography. Nevertheless,
to oblige her, I would follow any suggestion.
[Illustration: HOW THE MODERN DOG TREATS LAZARUS.]
"Benefit the next person who applies to you."
"Madame, I will obey."
At this moment a wagon of singular appearance drew up before my
windows. I knew it well enough: it was the vehicle of a handy,
convenient man who came along every other morning to pick up odd
jobs from me and my neighbors. He could tinker, carpenter, mend
harness: his wife, seated in the wagon by his side, was good at a button,
or could descend and help Josephine with her ironing. A visit at this
hour, however, was unprecedented.
As Charles was beginning a conversation under the hood of the wagon,
I opened the window. "Come into the room," I said.
Hohenfels maliciously opened his. "Come in," he added "Monsieur
Flemming is especially anxious to do you a benefit."
The man, uncovering, was now standing in the little garden before the
house--a man with a face at once intelligent and candid, which is
unfortunately rare among the poor rascals of his grade. Although still
young, he was growing gray: his blouse, patched and re-sewed at all the
seams, was clean and whole. Poverty had tested him, but had as yet
picked no flaws in him. By this time my windows were alive with
faces.
The man, humble but not awkward, made two or three respectful bows.
"Monsieur," he said to me, "I hope you are fond of chickens. I am
desirous to sell you a fine pair."
[Illustration: THE LAUGHING LACKEY.]
Chickens for me! and what was it supposed I should do with them? At
this point the voice of the Frau Kranich was heard, clear and malicious:
"It is a bargain: bring them in."

At the same time the canvas cover of the wagon puffed outward, giving
issue to a heavy sigh.
The man went to a sort of great cage in lattice-work occupying the back
of the vehicle. Then he backed his wagon up to the sidewalk, and we
saw, sitting on the cage and framed by the oval of the wagon-cover, a
young woman of excellent features, but sadly pale. She now held the
two chickens in her lap, caressing them, laying their heads against her
cheek, and enwreathing them in the folds of her great shawl. I could
only close the bargain with the utmost speed, to be safe from ridicule.
"Your price?" I asked.
"Fix it yourself, sir," said the man, determined to confuse me. "You are
doubtless thoroughly acquainted with poultry."
"The nankeen--colored one," spoke up again the bell-like and
inexorable voice from the other window, "is a yellow Crèvecoeur, very
well formed and lively-looking: the slate-colored one is a
Cochin-China, with only a few of the white feathers lacking from the
head. They are chef-d'oeuvres, and