Perhaps the true method of expelling Satan from the land and of reforming the corruption which afflicts the country is to place the cock upon our standards and to offer him inducements to crow perpetually.  There should be something to that effect in the political platforms.  A goose saved Rome; why should not a rooster rescue America?  Let the patriot who curses the noisy bird which crows him from his drowsy couch at an unseemly hour think of these things and allay his wrath with reflections upon the well-deserved glories of the matutinal rooster.

I have one neighbor who does not regard the crowing cock with proper enthusiasm—­who is indeed inclined to look upon it with disgust; but as he has been a victim of the bird’s vociferousness, perhaps his sentiments of dislike for the proud bird may be excused.

The agricultural society of our county held a poultry show last fall, and Mr. Butterwick, who is a member of the society, was invited to deliver the address at the commencement of the fair.  Mr. Butterwick prepared what he considered a very learned paper upon the culture of domestic fowls; and when the time arrived, he was on the platform ready to enlighten the audience.  The birds were arranged around the hall in cages; and when the exhibition had been formally opened by the chairman, the orator came forward with his manuscript in his hand.  Just as he began to read it a black Poland rooster close to the stage uttered a loud and defiant crow.  There were about two hundred roosters in the hall, and every one of them instantly began to crow in the most vehement manner, and the noise excited the hens so much that they all cackled as loudly they could.

Of course the speaker’s voice could not be heard, and he came to a dead halt, while the audience laughed.  After waiting for ten minutes silence was again obtained, and Butterwick began a second time.

As soon as he had uttered the words “Ladies and gentlemen,” the Poland rooster, which seemed to have a grudge against the speaker, emitted another preposterous crow, and all the other fowls in the room joined in the deafening chorus.  The audience roared, and Butterwick grew red in the face with passion.  But when the noise subsided, he went at it again, and got as far as “Ladies and gentlemen, the domestic barn-yard fowl affords a subject of the highest interest to the—­” when the Poland rooster became engaged in a contest with an overgrown Shanghai chicken, and this set the hens of the combatants to cackling, and in a moment the entire collection was in another uproar.  This was too much.  Mr. Butterwick was beside himself with rage.  He flung down his manuscript, rushed to the cage, and shaking his fist at the Poland chicken exclaimed,

“You diabolical fiend, I’ve half a mind to murder you!”

Then he kicked the cage to pieces with his foot, and seizing the rooster twisted its neck and flung it on the floor.  Then he fled from the hall, followed by peals of laughter from the audience and more terrific clatter from the fowls.  The exhibition was opened without further ceremony, and the dissertation on the domestic barn-yard fowl was ordered to be printed in the annual report of the proceedings of the society.