Tales of a Poultry Farm Part 8

"They can't stop," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, sadly. "They have the gapes."

"What is that?" cried all the four Chickens together, while three of them looked badly scared.

"That is a kind of illness," answered their mother. "I have been expecting it all along."

"What did you let us be sick for then?" asked Older Brother. "Why didn't you tell us to eat more gravel or something? I don't think it is taking very good care of us to let us get sick."

"Now," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, and she spoke very firmly, "you are not to speak again until you can speak properly. On the day you ran away you played with Chickens who had the gapes, and you went with them into a closed hen-yard and ate Angleworms. That is what gave you the gapes. There were tiny Gapeworms in the Angleworms, and you swallowed them. Now the Gapeworms are living in your throats and you cannot get them out. The Farmer had shut the poultry out of that yard because he knew that they would become ill if they fed in there. Now you are ill and I can't help you."

Older Brother looked scared. "How did she know what we did over there?" he whispered to Younger Brother.

"I don't know," answered Younger Brother, while he watched his mother to be sure that she did not overhear. "Mothers always seem to find out what a Chicken is doing, anyhow."

Little Sister began to cry. "I'm afraid we are going to die," she sobbed. "I feel so very, very badly."

"Shall we die?" asked the sick brothers, and they were so scared that their bills chattered. Their teeth would have chattered, you know, if they had had teeth, but none of their family ever do have them.

"Yes," answered their mother, sadly. "You will die unless something is done to get the Gapeworms out of your throat. I cannot help you, for they cannot be taken out by creatures who have only wings and feet.

There are times when hands would be handy. The only thing for you to do is to find the Man and keep near him until he sees that you are ill and does something to cure you. I will go with you."

You can imagine how sad the whole brood felt when they heard the news.

The brother who had not wanted to play with them was much ashamed of himself, and kept scratching up fine Worms for the sick Chickens to eat. He thought that a good way of showing how sorry he felt.

"I tell you what," said Older Brother to Younger Brother. "If I ever get well again, I'll mind my mother every time, even if I just hate to!"

"So will I," said Younger Brother. "I wish we hadn't coaxed Little Sister to go along."

By this time they had reached the place where the Man was working. It seemed a long while before he noticed that three of them were sick.

When he did, he put his hat on the back of his head and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. His handkerchief was white. The Farmer had always carried red ones, and the Gobbler was much pleased when he found that the Man did not.

"I wonder what is the matter with those Chickens," said the Man. "They must be sick in some way. I will look it up in one of my books."

That was why, soon after this, the Man came from the house with a small book and seated himself on the wheel-barrow to read. He would look at the page for a few minutes, then put his finger on a certain part of it and watch the sick Chickens. At last he arose and put the book in his pocket. Then he got a box and a piece of burlap. He also had a pan with some white powder in it. He set these down close together and threw grain to the Chickens. When they came to pick it up he caught the sick ones and put them into the box. "Oh! Oh!" they cried. "Mother! Mother! The Man has caught us! The Man has caught us!"

"Keep still! Keep still!" clucked the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen. "The Man has to catch you before he can cure you." She spoke as though she was not in the least frightened, but the truth is that she was very badly scared. She could not stand still, and kept walking to and fro, clucking as fast as she could. She had never seen anybody use a box and powder for Chickens that had the gapes. The Farmer had always made loops of Horse-hair and put them down the Chickens' throats to catch and draw out the tiny Worms. That was bad enough, and always hurt the Chickens, but she had never told them beforehand that it would hurt.

You can see that she was a very brave Hen, for she made her children stand the hard times that would make them better, and a Hen needs to be very brave for that.

Now the Man covered the open top of the box with burlap and began to sift the white powder through it.

"Ow!" said Older Brother, coughing as though he would never stop. "Ow!

Ow! I can't breathe! I am stifling!"

"Ow!" said Younger Brother. "Ow! Ow! I can't stop coughing!"

"Ow!" said Little Sister. "Ow! Ow! Isn't this dreadful!"

The three Chicks staggered around in the box, coughing just as hard as they could. The dust which came down through the burlap seemed to bite and sting their throats, and very soon they were coughing so hard that they could not speak at all. The Man was coughing too, but he did not stop for that. The Chickens who were well could not understand what the Man was doing to the sick ones, and it was a very sad time for the whole family. At last the Man uncovered the box and lifted the Chickens out. They could not stop coughing all at once, yet they managed to get over to where their mother was. Then she spread her wings and tried to cover them, as she had done when they were first hatched. She could not do it, because they were so big; still, it comforted them to have her try, and after a while they were able to speak.

"Why," said Older Brother. "I must have coughed up some of the Gapeworms! I can breathe with my mouth shut."

"So can I," said Younger Brother.

"So can I," said Little Sister.

"Then come down to the meadow for the rest of the day," said their mother. "We can find good feeding there."

"We will come," answered the three, and they were hardly away from their mother's side during the rest of that day. Once they got near the fence that separated the meadow from the road, and a couple of Chickens from the other farm called to them to come across. "Uh-uh!"

they answered. "Our mother doesn't want us to."

They did not even ask their mother what she thought about their going, and there was no reason why they should, for they knew perfectly well that they ought not to go. When they had walked so far away that they were sure of not being overheard, they looked each other in the eye and said solemnly, "You don't catch us going where our mother thinks we should not!"

THE YOUNG c.o.c.k AND THE EAGLE

This is a sad story. It is not pleasant to tell sad stories, but if they were not told once in a while, people would never know what really happens in the world. And surely you would not wish to miss hearing of what was really the most exciting happening of all, during that first summer after the Man bought the farm.

You remember having heard something about the Young c.o.c.k. Before the coming of the White Plymouth Rocks, there had been only three c.o.c.ks on the farm. The Shanghai c.o.c.k was the oldest, and a very grumpy fowl, but quite sensible in spite of that. The White c.o.c.k was somewhat younger than the Shanghai, and was not a very strong fellow. He was always unhappy about something, and it was said that he did not eat enough gravel. If that was true, he should not have expected to be well, since his stomach would then have no way of grinding up his food and getting the strength out of it. The Young c.o.c.k was a strong and exceedingly conceited fellow. You probably know what conceited people are. They are the people who think themselves very clever, but who are not really so.

This last one was always called the Young c.o.c.k, because the other two were so much older than he, although by this time he was old enough to be over such foolishness as bragging and picking quarrels with others.

He had feathers of many colors in his coat, and thought that one of his great-great-great-grandfathers had been a Game c.o.c.k. Game c.o.c.ks, you know, are often very beautiful to look at, and are great fighters.

He was not really sure about any of his family except his mother, who had died the year before, and was a very common-looking Hen of no particular breed. However, he had thought and talked so much about Game c.o.c.ks that he had come really to believe in this great-great-great-grandfather. It is good to have fine grandparents, and it is good to remember them and try to be the right sort of grandchildren for their sakes, but having fine grandparents does not always make people themselves equally fine, and it is not wise to talk too much about what they have been. It is better to pay more attention to being what one should.

All summer the Young c.o.c.k had been growing more and more annoying in his ways. He made fun of everybody whom he did not like, and sometimes even of those whom he did. He crowed and strutted and strutted and crowed. He called the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen "an old fogy," and the Brown Hen "an old fuss." The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen was not an old fogy, but a middle-aged and very sensible fowl, and although the Brown Hen was quite fussy, she was older than the Young c.o.c.k, and he should not have spoken of her in that way.

He did not always go to roost quite as soon as the other fowls and, if he found one of them in the place which he wanted, he often pushed and shoved until he had the place and the other fowl landed on the floor. "Get off of there," the Young c.o.c.k would say. "I want that place. Move along or get off!"

When he was really very young, the older fowls had hoped that he would outgrow his rude and quarrelsome ways, so they stood it much longer than they should. Now he was older and there was not a single excuse to be found for him. He might better have been punished for it when young, because then he would have been well-behaved when grown up.

One morning he fluttered down from his perch in a very bad temper.

Some of the Pullets, or young Hens, had been making fun of him the night before and comparing him with the White Plymouth Rock c.o.c.k. They meant only to tease him, but it had made him cross, and he awakened even more cross after his night's sleep. He decided to show those Pullets that he was not to be laughed at. He was thinking of this when he stalked out into the yard. Some of the White Plymouth Rock Chickens ran along on the other side of the wire fence, peeping prettily and wanting to talk with him.

"Go back to your mother," he said. "What business have you to be tagging me around like this? I don't want to talk to you. Chickens should not speak until they are spoken to. Run!"

Of course they ran. You would if you were a Chicken and a c.o.c.k should speak to you in that way. They ran to their mother, and it took her a long time to comfort them.

Next the Young c.o.c.k stepped directly across the path of the Shanghai c.o.c.k, stopping him in his morning walk. The Hens who saw it done expected the Shanghai c.o.c.k to fight him on the spot, but they saw nothing of the sort. The Shanghai c.o.c.k did not think it worth while.

The saucy Pullets were eating in a corner of the yard and chattering over their corn.

"Wouldn't it be fun to see the Young c.o.c.k get punished by the Shanghai?" one of them said.

"Why don't you like him?" asked another.

"I do like him," answered the first. "I like him very much, but he is conceited and brags so that I wish somebody would teach him a lesson."

"Look!" cried another. "He is picking a quarrel with the White c.o.c.k."