Eve Avenged

“You do yet taste
Some subtleties o’ the isle that will let not you
Believe things certain.”

Once upon a time—­not so very long ago either—­an unpretentious poultry farm was started.  The idea of making, if not a rapid and bulky fortune, at least “a comfortable living” (and that phrase embodies much) out of poultry farming has been conceived, possibly, many times and oft.  There was nothing novel, therefore, in the hatching out of this particular scheme.  But for a paltry detail it would never have attained notoriety.  We never blazon our failures—­why should we?  The one spark of original thought that enlightened the prosaic plans of the undertaking was this:  The promoters wanted quality in the eggs of their hens as well as quantity.  Quantity rests with the hen, but quality—­like the “sluttishness” of Touchstone’s sweetheart—­may come hereafter.  In order that there might be no excuse for and no degeneracy on the part of the hens, shops were ransacked for nest eggs of proper proportions.  These were placed in spots conspicuous to the hens, who, of course, understood that they were expected to lay up to them.  In other words, these were patterns for the hens to lay by.  No self-respecting, conscientious fowl likes to be beaten by a nest egg.  She goes one, or, it may be, a dozen or two better; but the stony-hearted egg is never to be bluffed.  It is there as a standard of size, and in accordance with its dimensions so will the credit of the fowl yard be.

In this particular yard all went well for many months.  Why, the hens beat the nest eggs with scarcely an effort, and then started making records.  It was a fierce and clamorous competition, and the enterprise flourished.  A good beginning had been made, and the high-minded hens chuckled with pride and satisfaction.  In the course of two or three months, however, a gradual deterioration in the size of the eggs took place.  There was just the same amount of fuss and feathers, showing the artfulness of the hens, but the eggs soon dwindled down below plans and specifications, and then an investigation took place.  Not a single nest egg was to be found.  Vainly was search made.  The hens sniggered.  They had fulfilled their duty, and finding it tiresome and wearing to produce abnormal eggs, had secreted those set apart for them to measure by, and had thereupon levelled their enterprise and skill down.  Such sinfulness and such burglarious conduct on the part of respectable hens that had the most discreet upbringing, that had never been allowed to play in anybody else’s yard, and that had never been permitted to wander from the paths of virtue, was a sore affliction.

But one day a nest egg was found far away in the bush, and then another a quarter of mile from the yard in the creek.  Again another was discovered underneath a hollow log.  Being restored to accustomed places with due ceremony, and in sight of all the hens in convention assembled, a gratifying change in the size of eggs produced resulted in a few days, but again a slump set in.  The nest eggs had disappeared, and the hens were fulfilling their contract anyhow.