The Diary of a Goose Girl | Page 8

ages. This small coop was one in which they lodged for
a fortnight when they were younger, and when those absolutely
indelible impressions are formed of which we read in educational
maxims. It was taken away long since, but the nine loyal (or stupid)
Casabiancas cling to the sacred spot where its foundations 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 simple. Eggs are more or less alike; a
little larger or smaller, a trifle whiter or browner; and almost sure to be
quite right as to details; that is, the big end never gets confused with the
little end, they are always ovoid and never spherical, and the yolk is
always inside of the white. As for a soft-shelled egg, it is so rare an
occurrence that the fear of laying one could not set the whole race of
hens in a panic; so there really cannot be any intellectual or emotional
agitation in producing a thing that might be made by a machine. Can it
be simply "fussiness"; since the people who have the least to do
commonly make the most flutter about doing it?
Perhaps it is merely conversation. "Cut-cut-cut-cut-cut-DAHcut! . . . I
have finished my strictly fresh egg, have you laid yours? Make haste,
then, for the cock has found a gap in the wire-fence and wants us to
wander in the strawberry-bed. . . . Cut-cut-cut-cut-cut-DAHcut . . .
Every moment is precious, for the Goose Girl will find us, when she
gathers the strawberries for her luncheon . . . Cut-cut-cut-cut! On the
way out we can find sweet places to steal nests . . . Cut-cut-cut! . . . I
am so glad I am not sitting this heavenly morning; it is a dull life."
A Lancashire poultryman drifted into Barbury Green yesterday. He is
an old acquaintance of Mr. Heaven, and spent the night and part of the
next day at Thornycroft Farm. He possessed a deal of fowl philosophy,
and tells many a good hen story, which, like fish stories, draw rather

largely on the credulity of the audience. We were sitting in the rickyard
talking comfortably about laying and cackling and kindred matters
when he took his pipe from his mouth and told us the following
tale--not