“MY DEAR SON,

“We were most glad to hear through daughter Mary of your eminently sensible and frugal plan for passing your summer vacation in the improvement of your land without the expense of travel.

“Wishing to give you some solid mark of our approval, as well as to contribute what must be a material aid to your income, father and I send you to-day, by express, three crates of Hens—­one of White Leghorns, one of Plymouth Rocks, and one of Brown Dorkings, a male companion accompanying each crate, as I am told is usual.  We did not select an incubator, thinking you might have some preference in the matter, but it will be forthcoming when your decision is made.

“Of course I know that you cannot usually spare the time for the care of these fowls, but it will be a good outdoor vocation for Mary, amusing and lucrative, besides being thoroughly feminine, for such poultry raising was considered even in my younger days.

“A book, The Complete Guide to Poultry Farming, which I sent Mary a year ago on her birthday, as a mere suggestion, will tell her all she need know in the beginning, and the responsibility and occupation itself will be a good corrective for giving too much time to the beauties of the flower garden, which are merely pleasurable.

“I need not remind you that the different breeds should be housed separately, but you who always had a gift for carpentry can easily arrange this.  Indeed it was only yesterday that in opening a chest of drawers I came across a small lead saw bought for sixpence, with which you succeeded in quite cutting through the large Wisteria vine on Grandma Bartram’s porch!  I wished to punish you, but she said—­’No, Susanna, rather preserve the tool as a memento of his industry and patience.’

“I wish that I could be near to witness your natural surprise on receiving this token of our approval, but I must trust Mary to write us of it.

“Your mother,
“SUSAN BARTRAM PENROSE.”

With something between a groan and a laugh Bart dropped this letter into my lap, with the others.

“So, after a successful struggle all these five years of our country life against the fatal magnetism of Hens that has run epidemic up and down the population of commuting householders, bringing financial prostration to some and the purely nervous article to others; after avoiding ’The Wars of the Chickens, or Who scratched up those Early Peas,’—­events as celebrated in local history as the Revolution or War of the Rebellion,—­we are to be forced into the chicken business for the good of Bart’s health and pocket, and my mental discipline, and also that a thrifty Pennsylvania air may be thrown about our altogether too delightful and altruistic summer arrangements!  It’s t-o-o bad!” I wailed.