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-DAH_cut_! . . . 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-DAH_cut_ . . .  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 a bad one if you can translate the dialect:—­

‘Aw were once towd as, if yo’ could only get th’ hen’s egg away afooar she hed sin it, th’ hen ‘ud think it hed med a mistek an’ sit deawn ageean an’ lay another.

“An’ it seemed to me it were a varra sensible way o’ lukkin’ at it.  Sooa aw set to wark to mek a nest as ‘ud tek a rise eawt o’ th’ hens.  An’ aw dud it too.  Aw med a nest wi’ a fause bottom, th’ idea bein’ as when a hen hed laid, th’ egg ’ud drop through into a box underneyth.

“Aw felt varra preawd o’ that nest, too, aw con tell yo’, an’ aw remember aw felt quite excited when aw see an awd black Minorca, th’ best layer as aw hed, gooa an’ settle hersel deawn i’ th’ nest an’ get ready for wark.  Th’ hen seemed quite comfortable enough, aw were glad to see, an’ geet through th’ operation beawt ony seemin’ trouble.