The April chicks are all lively and desirous of seeing the world as thoroughly as possible before going to roost or broil.  As a general thing, we find in the large house sixteen young fowls of the contemplative, flavourless, resigned-to-the-inevitable variety; three more (the same three every night) perch on the roof and are driven down; four (always the same four) cling to the edge of the open door, waiting to fly off, but not in, when you attempt to close it; nine huddle together on a place in the grass about forty feet distant, where a small coop formerly stood in the prehistoric 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.

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.

CHAPTER V

July 10th.