Love Among the Chickens

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Love Among the Chickens, by P. G. Wodehouse

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Title: Love Among the Chickens A Story of the Haps and Mishaps on an English Chicken Farm
Author: P. G. Wodehouse
Illustrator: Armand Both
Release Date: February 6, 2007 [EBook #20532]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Arthur Robinson, Sankar Viswanathan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

[Illustration: "Never mind the ink, old horse. It'll soak in."]
LOVE AMONG THE CHICKENS
A STORY OF THE HAPS AND MISHAPS ON AN ENGLISH CHICKEN FARM

BY P. G. WODEHOUSE

ILLUSTRATED BY
ARMAND BOTH

NEW YORK
THE CIRCLE PUBLISHING COMPANY
1909

Copyright, 1908, by A. E. BAERMAN
* * * * *

CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.
--A LETTER WITH A POSTSCRIPT
II. --UKRIDGE'S SCHEME
III. --WATERLOO, SOME FELLOW-TRAVELERS, AND A GIRL WITH BROWN HAIR
IV. --THE ARRIVAL
V. --BUCKLING TO
VI. --MR. GARNET'S NARRATIVE. HAS TO DO WITH A REUNION
VII. --THE ENTENTE CORDIALE IS SEALED
VIII. --A LITTLE DINNER AT UKRIDGE'S
IX. --DIES IR?
X. --I ENLIST THE SERVICES OF A MINION
XI. --THE BRAVE PRESERVER
XII. --SOME EMOTIONS AND YELLOW LUBIN
XIII. --TEA AND TENNIS
XIV. --A COUNCIL OF WAR
XV. --THE ARRIVAL OF NEMESIS
XVI. --A CHANCE MEETING
XVII. --OF A SENTIMENTAL NATURE
XVIII. --UKRIDGE GIVES ME ADVICE
XIX. --I ASK PAPA
XX. --SCIENTIFIC GOLF
XXI. --THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
XXII. --THE STORM BREAKS
XXIII. --AFTER THE STORM
EPILOGUE
* * * * *

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Never mind the ink, old horse. It'll soak in" Frontispiece
They had a momentary vision of an excited dog, framed in the doorway
"I've only bin and drove 'im further up," said Mrs. Beale
Things were not going very well on our model chicken farm
"Mr. Garnet," he said, "we parted recently in anger. I hope that bygones will be bygones"
"I did think Mr. Garnet would have fainted when the best man said, 'I can't find it, old horse'"
* * * * *

A LETTER with a POSTSCRIPT
I
Mr. Jeremy Garnet stood with his back to the empty grate--for the time was summer--watching with a jaundiced eye the removal of his breakfast things.
"Mrs. Medley," he said.
"Sir?"
"Would it bore you if I became auto-biographical?"
"Sir?"
"Never mind. I merely wish to sketch for your benefit a portion of my life's history. At eleven o'clock last night I went to bed, and at once sank into a dreamless sleep. About four hours later there was a clattering on the stairs which shook the house like a jelly. It was the gentleman in the top room--I forget his name--returning to roost. He was humming a patriotic song. A little while later there were a couple of loud crashes. He had removed his boots. All this while snatches of the patriotic song came to me through the ceiling of my bedroom. At about four-thirty there was a lull, and I managed to get to sleep again. I wish when you see that gentleman, Mrs. Medley, you would give him my compliments, and ask him if he could shorten his program another night. He might cut out the song, for a start."
"He's a very young gentleman, sir," said Mrs. Medley, in vague defense of her top room.
"And it's highly improbable," said Garnet, "that he will ever grow old, if he repeats his last night's performance. I have no wish to shed blood wantonly, but there are moments when one must lay aside one's personal prejudices, and act for the good of the race. A man who hums patriotic songs at four o'clock in the morning doesn't seem to me to fit into the scheme of universal happiness. So you will mention it to him, won't you?"
"Very well, sir," said Mrs. Medley, placidly.
On the strength of the fact that he wrote for the newspapers and had published two novels, Mrs. Medley regarded Mr. Garnet as an eccentric individual who had to be humored. Whatever he did or said filled her with a mild amusement. She received his daily harangues in the same spirit as that in which a nurse listens to the outpourings of the family baby. She was surprised when he said anything sensible enough for her to understand.
His table being clear of breakfast and his room free from disturbing influences, the exhilaration caused by his chat with his landlady left Mr. Garnet. Life seemed very gray to him. He was a conscientious young man, and he knew that he ought to sit down and do some work. On the other hand, his brain felt like a cauliflower, and he could not think what to write about. This is one of the things which sour the young author even more than do those long envelopes which so tastefully decorate his table of a