CHAPTER XX.
PRESENT TO QUEEN VICTORIA.

The Queen's Letter.

{	"Buckingham Palace,
	March 15, 1853.

"Dear Sir: I have received the commands of Her Majesty the Queen, to assure you of Her Majesty's high appreciation for the kind motives which prompted you to forward for her acceptance the magnificent 'Grey Shanghae' fowls which have been so much admired at Her Majesty's aviary at Windsor.

"Her Majesty has accepted, with great pleasure, such a mark of respect and regard, from a citizen of the United States.

"I have, by Her Majesty's command, shipped in the 'George Carl,' to your address, a case containing a portrait of Her Majesty,[10] of which the Queen has directed me to request your acceptance.

"I have the honor to be,

"Sir, your ob't and humble servant,

"C.B. Phipps.

"To Geo. P. Burnham, Esq.,

Boston, U.S.A."

I caused a copy to be taken from this portrait of the Queen, and have had it engraved for this book; it appears as the frontispiece.

Immediately after this paragraph appeared, a new zest appeared to have been given to the Grey Shanghae trade. Orders came from Canada and from Nova Scotia to a very considerable amount; and during this season my sales were again very large. During the year 1853, I started and raised over sixteen hundred chickens of all kinds; but this did not supply my orders. I bought largely, and paid high prices, too, generally. But few persons were now doing any business in the fowl-trade, except myself, however.

The N.Y. Spirit of the Times published portraits of the birds sent to the Queen, and remarked that "the engraving represented six of the nine beautiful Grey Shanghae fowls lately presented to Her Majesty Victoria, Queen of Great Britain, by George P. Burnham, Esq., of Boston, Mass.

"These birds were forwarded by one of the last month's Collins steamers, in charge of Adams & Co.'s Express, and passed through this city on the 24th ult. Their extraordinary size and fine plumage were the admiration of all who examined them. The picture is from life, engraved by Brown, and is a faithful representation of the birds, which are very closely bred.

"The color of this variety of the China fowl is a light silver-grey, approximating to white; the body is a light downy white, sparsely spotted and pencilled with metallic black in the tail and wing tips; the legs are feathered to the toes, and the form is unexceptionable for a large fowl; this variety having proved the biggest of all the 'Shanghaes' yet imported into this State.

"The two cocks above delineated weighed between ten and eleven pounds each at six months old; the pullets drew seven and a half to nine pounds each at seven to eight months old; the original imported pair of old ones now weigh upwards of twenty-three pounds, together. In the existing rage for weighty birds, this variety will naturally satisfy the ambition of those who go for the 'biggest kind' of fowls!

"The group represents this variety with accuracy, and are, without doubt, for their kind, rare specimens of the genuine gallus giganteus of modern ornithologists. As Her Majesty has long been known among the foremost patrons of that agreeable branch of rural pursuits, poultry-raising, we do not doubt but that this splendid present from Mr. Burnham will prove highly gratifying to her tastes in this particular."

Portraits of these fowls appeared in Gleason's Pictorial for January, 1853, and the editor spoke as follows of them:

"The Grey Shanghae Fowls lately presented to Her Majesty Queen Victoria, of Great Britain, by George P. Burnham, Esq., of Boston, were extraordinary specimens of domestic poultry, and were bred the past season by Mr. Burnham from stock imported by him direct from China. They were universally admitted, by the thousands who saw them before they left, to be the largest and choicest-bred lot of chickens ever seen together in this vicinity. These fowls were from the same broods as those lately sent to Northby, of Aldborough, by Mr. Burnham, who is, perhaps, the most successful poultry-raiser in America; and while these beautiful birds are creditable to him as a breeder, they are a present really 'fit for a queen.'"

The New York journals alluded to them in flattering terms, during their transit through that city on the way to their destination; and the numerous orders that crowded in upon me was the best evidence of the estimation in which this variety of domestic fowls was then held, as well as of the determined disposition of "the people" to be supplied from my "pure-bred stock."

By one of the British steamers, in the summer of 1853, the express of Edwards, Sanford & Co., took out to Europe from my stock, for Messrs. Bakers, of Chelsea, Baily, of London, Floyd, of Huddersfield, Deming, of Brighton, Simons, of Birmingham, and Miss Watts, Hampstead, six cages of these "extraordinary" birds. The best of the hens weighed nine to nine and a half pounds each, and three of the cocks drew over twelve pounds each! There were forty-two birds in all, which, together, could not be equalled, probably, at that time, in America or England, for size, beauty and uniformity of color. The sum paid me for this lot of Greys was eight hundred and seventy dollars.

Of the three fowls sent to Mr. John Baily (above mentioned), and which he exhibited in the fall of that year in England, the following account reached me, subsequently:

"Mr. Geo. P. Burnham, of Melrose, sent out to England, last fall, to Mr. John Baily, of London, a cage of his fine 'Grey Shanghaes,' which were exhibited at the late Birmingham Show. The London Field of Dec. 24th says that 'one pair of these fowls, from Mr. Burnham, of the United States, the property of Mr. Baily, of Mount-street, were shown among the extra stock, and were purchased from him, during the exhibition, by Mr. Taylor, of Shepherd's Bush, at one hundred guineas' ($500)!"

This was the biggest figure ever paid for two fowls, I imagine! Mr. Baily paid me twenty pounds sterling for the trio, and I thought that fair pay, I remember. The following brief account of my trade for the year of our Lord 1853, I published on the last day of December of that year, for the gratification of my numerous friends, and for the information of "the people" who felt an interest in this still exciting and (to me) very agreeable subject:

"Eds. Boston Daily Times: In a late number of your journal you were pleased to allude to the sales of live-stock made by me latterly. At the close of the present year, I find upon my books the following aggregate of sales for 1853, which—to show how much has been done by one dealer—may be interesting to some of your readers who 'love pigs and chickens.'

"I have sent into the Southern and Western States, through Adams & Co.'s Express alone, from Jan. 1st to Dec. 27th, 1853, a little rising $17,000 worth of Chinese fowls and fancy pigs. By Edwards, Sanford & Co.'s Transatlantic Express, in the same period, I have sent to England and the continent about $2000 worth of my 'Grey Shanghaes.' By Thompson and Co. and the American Western Express Co., I have sent west and south-west, in the same time, over $1200 worth; and my minor cash sales (directly at my yards in Melrose) have been over $1000; making the entire sales from my establishment for the past year nearly or quite twenty-two thousand dollars in value. Of this amount, $7300 worth has been sold since the 10th of Sept last.

"By the first steamer that leaves New York in January, '54, I shall send to New Orleans (to a single customer) between five and six hundred dollars' worth, ordered a few days since. I have also now in hand three large orders to fill for Liverpool and London, immediately; and the present prospect is that the poultry-trade will be considerably better next year than we have ever yet known it in New England. Wishing you and my competitors in the trade a 'Happy New Year,' I am theirs and yours, truly,

"Geo. P. Burnham.

"Melrose, Dec. 30, 1853."

I have offered these statistics and facts to give some idea of the amount of trade that must have been current, in the aggregate, when these isolated instances are considered, and for the purpose of affording the reader an opportunity to judge measurably to what an extent this fever really raged.

Thousands and tens of thousands of "the people" were now (or had been) engaged in this extraordinary excitement, who were continuously humbugging themselves and each other, at round cost. And when these thousands are multiplied by the fives or tens, twenties or fifties, one hundreds or five hundreds of dollars, that they invested in this mania, the "prime cost" of this hum can be fancied, though it can never be known with accuracy.

CHAPTER XXI.
EXPERIMENTS OF AMATEURS.

The amount of sales of live and dead poultry in Quincy Market, Boston, for the year 1848, said another paper, was six hundred seventy-four thousand four hundred and twenty-three dollars: the average sales of one dealer alone amounting to twelve hundred dollars per week for the whole year. The amount of sales for the whole city of Boston, for the same year, was over one million of dollars. The amount of sales of eggs in and around the Quincy Market for 1848 was one million one hundred and twenty-nine thousand seven hundred and thirty-five dozen, which, at eighteen cents per dozen, makes the amount paid for eggs to be two hundred three thousand three hundred and fifty-two dollars and thirty cents; while the amount of sales of eggs for the whole city of Boston, for the same year, was a fraction short of one million of dollars; the daily consumption of eggs at one of its hotels being seventy-five dozen daily, and on Saturday one hundred and fifty dozen.

At this time, a single dealer in the egg-trade, at Philadelphia, sent to the New York market, daily, one hundred barrels of eggs; while the value of eggs shipped from Dublin to Liverpool and London was more than five millions of dollars for the year 1848.

In addition to these facts, frequent allusions were made to the enormous quantities required for other markets, in the interior, to supply which the number of laying hens must be kept good, and increased, as the demand for the eggs was constantly augmenting, and the business, "if skilfully and judiciously managed" (said the agricultural papers), must prove immensely profitable to those who engage in it.

If "skilfully and judiciously managed"! This was good advice. But no one could inform "the people" how this management was to be effected. In the mean time, every sort of experiment was resorted to, by amateurs and fanciers and humbugs (who had been humbugged), to "improve" the breeds of poultry, and to produce new fowls that would lay two or three or four eggs for one, as compared with the old-fashioned birds.

We knew one beginner who had purchased a pretty little place a few miles from the city, who contracted the fever, and "suffered" badly, but who was cured by the following curious result of his early experiments. Eggs were scarce (genuine ones), and, after considerable searching, he finally procured of some one in Boston a clutch of "fancy" eggs, for which he paid big figures, but which did not turn out exactly what he anticipated; and so he concluded, after a time, that the hen fever was a rascally hum. (He didn't procure these eggs of me, be it understood. I never had any but genuine ones!)

He purchased what he was assured were pure "Cochin-China" eggs. (Perhaps they were—who knows?) And after waiting patiently for six long weeks for the "curious" eggs to hatch, he found six young ducks in his coop, one morning!—So much for his knowledge of eggs!

But this was not so bad as was the case of one of his neighbors, however, who paid a round price for half a dozen choice eggs, queer-looking speckled eggs—small, round, "outlandish" eggs—which he felt certain would produce rare chicks, and which he was very cautious in setting under his very best hen.

At the end of a few days he was startled, at the breakfast-table, to hear his favorite hen screaming "bloody murder" from within the coop! He rushed to the rescue, raised the box-lid, and found her still on the nest, but in a frightful perturbation—struggling, yelling and cackling, most vociferously.

He spoke to her kindly and softly; he would fain, appease and quiet her; for there was great danger lest, in her excitement and struggles, she would destroy the favorite eggs—those rare eggs, which had cost him so much money and trouble. But soft words were vain. His "best" hen continued to scream lustily, and he raised her from the nest to look into the cause of the trouble more critically. His astonishment was instantaneous, but immense; and his surprise found vent in the brief but expressive exclamation, "Turkles—by thunder!"

Such was the fact. This poor, innocent poultry-"fancier" was the victim of misplaced confidence. The party who sold him them eggs had sold the buyer shockingly! And instead of a brood of pure Cochin-Chinas, he found that his favorite hen had hatched half a dozen pure mud-turtles, all of which, upon breaking from the shells, seized upon the flesh of the poor fowl, and had well-nigh taken her life before they could be "choked off." He has given up the chicken-trade, and has since gone into the dwarf-pear business. Poor devil!

A youthful lawyer of my acquaintance, away Down East, who was proverbial for his "sharp practice" at the bar, met with a young doctor, who was a great bird-fancier, and with whom he subsequently formed an intimate acquaintance. Our medicinal friend owned a pretty little estate; distant a few miles from the city of P——, where he kept up a very neat establishment, which was thoroughly appointed. Among his out-of-door appurtenances, he maintained a modern bee-house, a choice dove-cot, and a well-selected aviary; in the latter he had some choice poultry, and into this the doctor invited his legal associate, one day, to examine his specimens of cacklers and crowers.

There was a super-excellent "Bother'em" fowl among this collection,—a rare hen, the many good qualities of which the doctor dilated on (as he always did before his visitors), and the lawyer took a fancy to the beauty, instanter; but this fowl was a great favorite, and the doctor would neither sell, lend, or give her away; and then the visitor begged some of her eggs, as a last favor. But the doctor was selfish in regard to this particular bird—he wanted the breed exclusively to himself. It was of no avail, however, and his friend promised to embrace the first opportunity to steal the hen, and all the eggs he could find, if his request were not complied with; whereupon the doctor at length reluctantly promised to send him a dozen within a week, provided he said nothing about it. He would do it for him, as a particular favor—and so he was as good as his word.

The young lawyer had his poultry-yard, also; and, selecting a fine hen, he quickly set her upon the choice Bother'em eggs, resolved to have as good a show as his neighbor. But three weeks passed—four, and upwards—but no chickens appeared! He broke up the nest, at last, and then called upon the doctor at once.

"What luck, Tom?"

"Not a chick!"

"No!"

"Not a one. The eggs weren't good."

"No? That is queer," continued the doctor, "when I took so much extra pains with 'em."

"Extra pains—how?"

"Why, I boiled every one of 'em, the last thing before I sent 'em down to you!"

And so he did. Tom grinned, squirmed, and went home,—but that wasn't the last of this joke.

Six months afterwards, the keen-witted doctor visited the lawyer's little place, where he saw a magnificent large Bucks County rooster stalking about in the latter's yard.

"By Jove, Tom! That's a rouser," exclaimed the doctor, enthusiastically, "'pon my word! Where d'you get him?"

"Pennsylvania—Buxton's; a fine fellow that. Only eight months old."

"Will you sell him?"

"Yes—no; I reckon not, on the whole."

"I'll give you an X for him."

"Well, take him. He's worth twenty dollars; but you shall have him for ten dollars, being an old friend."

The doctor placed the huge crower in his gig immediately, went home, killed off two of the finest Dorking roosters in the county, and put the new comer into his nice poultry-house; congratulating himself upon having at last secured a "tip-top breeder," and nothing else.

At the end of the season, however, he complained to his friend the lawyer that he had had but very few eggs latterly; he could raise no chickens from them—not a one; and he didn't think much of the ten-dollar bird he purchased of him, any way.

"He's a rouser, Bill, surely," said the lawyer, with a knowing smirk, repeating the doctor's exclamation on first beholding the rooster.

"Well, yes—large, large—but—"

"And a finer capon I never sold to anybody in my life!"

"A what!" screamed the doctor, springing towards his horse, which stood near by.

"What's the price of b'iled eggs, Bill?" roared the lawyer, in reply.

"Ten dollars a dozen, by thunder!" was the answer, as the doctor drove his rowels into the sides of his nag, and dashed away from his friend's gate a wiser if not a better man.

Many amateur poultry-raisers resorted to the most ridiculous and injurious shifts for remedies against the ills that hen-flesh is heir to. I have known certain friends who passed two or three hours every morning in running about their fowl-premises with pill-box and pepper-cup in hand, zealously dosing their drooping chickens, to their certain destruction. And some of the "doctors" went into jalap, in cases of colds, fevers, &c., in their fowls. We should as soon think of using arsenic, or any other poison, under such circumstances. The internal formation of a hen is scarcely believed to resemble that of a human being, surely; and why such medicinal applications, pray? This reminds us of a private joke, by the way, that was "let out" by a young fancier (out West) a little while ago.

He had a bad cold himself, and had mixed "summat hot" to swallow, one evening. His servant informed him that his favorite Cochin-China crower had been ill for a day or two; and he ordered twenty grains of jalap to be prepared for his fine bird. By some mistake his toddy was given to the crower, and he swallowed the hen-medicine himself, and retired to bed.

He slept soundly for a time, but was visited with shocking dreams. He fancied himself to be a huge rooster—one of the biggest kind; that he had taken all the premiums at all the shows, and that he had finally been set to hatch over a bushel of Shanghae eggs. It was the twentieth day, at last, and the chickens commenced to come forth from their shells beneath him. He dare not move,—his fowl-cure was at work,—and his critical position, for the time being, can be better imagined than portrayed. With a desperate effort, and a shrieking crow, he at length sprang from his couch, dashed out of doors, and, since the day afterwards, has resolved to eschew the use of jalap among his poultry,—a determination which, in all candor, we recommend earnestly to the hen-Galens who imagine that a hen is "a human."

It had now become an every-day occurrence to hear of black chickens emerging from what were "warranted" pure white fowls' eggs; top-knot birds peeped forth from the eggs of pure-bred anti-crested hens; and all colors and shapes and varieties of chickens, except those that they were purchased for, made their appearance about the time of hatching the eggs so bought.

All the old-fashioned fowls were utterly discarded. Cochin-Chinaism, Shanghae-ism, Bother'em Pootrumism, was rampant. The fancy egg-trade had begun to fall off sensibly. "The people" had had enough of this part of the enterprise, which was destined to prove so "immensely profitable," if "judiciously and skilfully managed;" and the price was reduced to the miserable sum of three to five dollars a dozen, only, as customers chanced to turn up.

From the commencement of the trade, in 1849, down to the month of August, 1853, I had a continued and certain sale, however, for every egg deposited upon my premises, at my price.

But this, though an exception, was not to be wondered at. I kept and raised only the "genuine" article.

CHAPTER XXII.
TRUE HISTORY OF "FANNY FERN."

I drew up my horse, and watched this curiosity for a few minutes, with a fowl-admirer's wonder. It was evidently a hen, though the variety was new to me, and its deportment was very remarkable. Her plumage was a shiny coal-black, and she loitered upon a bright-green bank in the sunshine, at the southerly side of a pretty house that stood a few yards back from the road. She was rather long-legged, and "spindle-shanked," but she moved about skippingly and briskly, as if she were treading upon thin egg-shells. Her feet were very delicate and very narrow, and her body was thin and trim; but her plumage—that glossy, jet-black, brilliant feathery habit—was "too much" for my then excited "fancy" for beautiful birds; and I thought I had never seen a tip-top fowl before.

As I gazed and wondered, this bird observed me coquettishly, and, raising herself slightly a tip-toe, she flapped her bright wings ludicrously, opened her pretty mouth, and sent forth a crow so clear and sharp, and so utterly defiant and plucky, that I laughed outright in her face. I did. I couldn't help it.

She noticed my merriment, and instantly flap went those glittering wings again, and another shout—a very shriek of a crow, a termagant yell of a crow—rang forth piercingly from the lungs of my sable but beautiful inamorata.

This second crow was full of fire, and daring, and challenge, and percussion. It seemed to say, as plainly as words could have uttered it, "Who are you? What you after? Wouldn't you like to cage me up—s-a-y?"

I laughed again, wondered more, stared, and shouted "Bravo! Milady, you are a rum 'un, to be sure!" And again she hopped up and crowed bravely, sharply, maliciously, wildly, marvellously.

I was puzzled. I had heard of such animals before. I had read in the newspapers about Woman's Rights conventions. I had seen it stated that hens occasionally were found that "crowed like a cock." But I had never seen one before. This was an extraordinary bird, evidently.

There it went again! That same shrill; crashing, challenging crow, from the gullet of the ebon beauty before me. O, what a crow was that, my countrymen! I resolved to possess this bird, at any cost. And I was soon in communication with the gentleman who then had her.

"Is this your hen, sir?" I inquired. And I think the gentleman suspected me, instanter.

"Yes," he answered. "That is, I support her."

"Will you sell her?"

"No—no, sir."

"I will give you ten dollars for her."

Crack! Crash! Whew! went that crow, again. I was electrified.

"I'll give you fifteen——"

"No, sir."

"Twenty dollars, then."

"No."

"What will you take for her?"

"Hark!" he replied. "Isn't that music? Isn't that heavenly?"

"What is that?" I asked, eagerly.

"My hen."

"What is she doing?"

"Singing," said the gentleman.

"Beautiful!" I responded. "I will give you forty dollars for her."

"Take her," replied her keeper. "She is yours."

"What breed is it?" I inquired.

"Spanker," said the gentleman, "but rare. It is one of Ellett's importation—genuine."

"Remarkable pullet!" I ventured.

"Hen, sir, hen," insisted the stranger.

I paid him forty dollars down, and seized my prize, though she proved hard to catch.

"She's much like the Frenchman's flea, sir," said her previous possessor. "Put your finger on her, and she's never there. Feed her well, however, keep her in good quarters, let her do as she pleases, and she'll always crow—always, sir. Hear that? You can't stop her, unless you stop her breath. She always crows and sings. There it is again! Isn't that a crow, for a hen—eh?"

It was, indeed.

"Good-day," said the Brookline gentleman, quietly pocketing his money. "Fanny will please you, I've no doubt."

"Fanny?" I queried.

"Yes; I call her 'Fanny Fern,'" said the stranger to me, as I entered my wagon; and, half an hour afterwards, my forty-dollar cock-hen, "Fanny Fern," was crowing again furiously, lustily, magnificently, on the bright-green lawn beneath my own parlor-windows.

"Fanny" proved a thorough trump. Bantams, Games, Cochins, Dorkings, Shanghaes, Bother'ems, were nowhere when "Fanny" was round. She could outcrow the lustiest feathered orchestra ever collected together in Christendom. She was a wonder, that redoubtable but frisky, flashy, sprightly, sputtery, spunky "Fanny Fern."

And didn't the boys run after her? Well, they did! And didn't they want to buy her? Didn't they bid high for her, at last? Didn't everybody flock to see her, and to hear "Fanny" crow? And didn't she continue to crow, too? Ah! it was heaven, indeed (and sometimes the other thing), to listen to "Fanny's" voice.

When "Fanny" opened her mouth, everybody held their breath and listened. "Fanny" crowed to some purpose, verily! She crowed lustily against oppression, and vice, and wrong, and injustice; and she crowed aloud (with her best strength) in behalf of injured innocence, and virtue, and merit, exalted or humble.

And, finally, "Fanny" hatched a brace of chickens; and didn't she crow for and over them? She now cackled and scratched, and crowed harder and louder and shriller than ever. The people stopped in the street to listen to her; old men heard her; young men sought after her; all the women began to "swear" by her; the children thronged to see her; the newspapers all talked about her; and thousands of books were printed about my charming, astonishing, remarkable, crowing "Fanny Fern."

I sent her to the fowl-shows, where she "took 'em all down" clean, and invariably carried away the first premium in her class. Never was such a hen seen, before or since. I was offered a hundred, two hundred, five hundred dollars for her. I was poor; but didn't I own this hen "Fanny,"—the extraordinary, wonderful, magnificent, coal-black, blustering, but inapproachable and world-defying "Fanny"?

"I will give you eight hundred dollars for her," said a publisher to me, one day. "I want to put her in a book. She's a wonder! a star of the first magnitude! a diamond without blemish! a God-send to the world in 1854!"

At this moment "Fanny" crowed.

"Will you take eight hundred?" screamed the publisher, jumping nearly to the ceiling.

"No, sir."

"A thousand?"

"No."

"Two thousand?"

"No, sir."

"Five thousand?"

"No! I will keep her."

And I did. What was five thousand dollars to me? Bah! I had the hen-cock "Fanny Fern." I didn't want money. My pocket-book was full to bursting, and so was my head with the excitement of the hen fever. And "Fanny" crowed again. Ah! what a crow was Fanny's!

"Fanny" couldn't be bought, and so my competitors clanned together to destroy her. The old fogies didn't like this breed, and they resolved to annihilate all chance of its perpetuation. I placed her in better quarters, where she would be more secure from intrusion or surprise. I told her of my fears,—and didn't she crow? She flapped her bright black wings, and crowed all over. "Cock-a-doodle-doo—oo—oo!" shouted "Fanny," while her sharp eyes twinkled, her fair throat trembled, and the exhilarating tone of defiance seemed to reach to the very tips of her shining toe-nails. "Cock-a-too—roo—oo!" she shrieked; "let 'em come, too! See what they'll do—oo! I'll take care of you—oo! Don't get in a stoo—oo! Pooh—pooh—poo—poo!"

Maybe "Fanny" didn't crow! And I learned to crow. It was beautiful! She crowed, and I crowed. We crowed together. She in her way,—I in mine. The duet was mellifluous, cheering, soul-stirring, life-invigorating, profitable.

"Fanny" went into New York State, crowing when she left, crowing as she went, and continuing to crow until she crowed the community there clear through the next fourth o' July, out into the fabled millennium. She crowed Messrs. Derby & Miller into a handsome fortune, and Mason & Brothers into ditto. She crowed one Hyacinth into the shreds of a cocked hat and battered knee-buckles. She crowed the Hall breed of old hens so far out of sight that the "search for Sir John Franklin" would be a fool to the journey requisite to overtake that family. And still she crowed.

The more they bade her stop, the more she wouldn't. "Cock-a-tootle—too!" "I-know-what-I-shall—doo!" "What-do-I-care-for—yoo?" "This-world-is-all—foo—foo." "Leave-me-and-I'll-leave—you." "If-not-I'll-lamm—you—too—oo!"

And "Fanny" crowed herself at last into the good graces of two long brothers in Gotham, where she is now crowing with all her might and main. Let her crow!

She was a remarkable "bird," that rollicking, joyous, inexplicable, flirting, funny, furious "Fanny Fern." I hear her now again!

"Cock-a-doodle—doo—oo!" "Young 'Un,—you-will-do!!" "Et—tu—Brute—o-o-o!!!"

CHAPTER XXIII.
CONVALESCENCE.

There came into my office, one morning late in 1853, a Boston physician (whom I had never seen before), who introduced himself civilly, and invited me to ride a short distance with him up town. I was busy; but he insisted, and his manner was peculiarly urgent and determined.

"My carriage is at the door," he said; "and I will bring you back here in twenty minutes. I have some pure-blood stock I desire to dispose of."

"What is it, doctor?" I asked.

"Chickens, chickens!" replied the doctor, briefly.

I assured the gentleman that I had near a thousand fowls on hand at this time, and had no possible wish to increase the number.

"They are pure-bred—cost me high," he continued; "are very fine, but I must part with them—come!"

I joined him, and we rode a mile or more, when he halted before a fine, large house; his servant in waiting took his horse, and he ushered me into his well-appointed poultry-house, at the rear of his dwelling.

The buildings were glazed in front and upon the roofs; the yards were spacious and cleanly, and appropriately divided; the laying and hatching rooms were roomy and convenient; the roosting-house was airy and pleasant, and everything was, seemingly, in excellent order, and arranged with good taste throughout.

"That cock cost me twenty dollars," said the doctor, calmly. "Those two hens I paid eighteen dollars for. That bird, yonder, twelve dollars. These five pullets stand me in about forty-five dollars. I have never yet been able to hatch but one brood of chickens. The rats carried them off by the third morning after they came into this world. The hens sometimes lay, I believe; at least, my man says so. I have never seen any eggs from them myself, however. I have no doubt this species of fowls (these Changays) do lay eggs, though. There are twenty-two of them. Buy them, Mr. B——," continued the doctor, urgently.

I said no; I really did not want them.

"I had nigh forty of them," continued the doctor, "two months ago. But they have disappeared. Disease, roup, vermin, night-thieves, sir. Will you buy them? John——drive them out!"

The fowls were driven into the main yard. There were but sixteen in all.

"Where are the rest, John?" inquired the doctor, anxiously. "There were twenty-two here yesterday."

"I dunno, sir," said John.

"Drive 'em back, and box them up, John. Mr. B——, will you make an offer for the remainder? To-morrow I shall probably have none to sell! Will you give anything for them?"

I declined to buy.

"Will you permit me to send them to you as a present, sir?" he continued.

I did not want them, any way. I had a full supply.

"What will you charge me, Mr. B——, to allow them to be sent to you?" continued the fancier, desperately, and resolutely, at last.

I saw he was determined, and I took his fowls (fifteen of them), and gave him ten dollars.

He smiled.

"I have had the hen fever," he added, "badly—but I am better of it. I am convalescent, now," said the doctor. "You see what I have here for houses; cost me over seven hundred dollars; my birds over four hundred more; grain and care for a year, a hundred more. I am satisfied! Your money, here, is the first dollar I ever received in return for my investment. You see what I have left out of my venture of twelve or thirteen hundred dollars; the manure, and—and—the lice!"

Such were the exact facts! His stock was selected from the Marsh and Forbes importations, and the birds were good; but, by the time he got ready to believe that it wasn't all gold that glittered, the sale of this variety of fowl had passed by. A chance purchaser happened to come along soon after, however, who "hadn't read the papers" so attentively as some of us had, and who wanted these very fowls. I sold them to him, "cheap as a broom," because the fever for this kind of bird was rapidly declining. He paid me only $150 for this lot; which was a bargain, of a truth. The buyer was satisfied, however, and so was I.

These were but isolated instances. Scores and hundreds of gentlemen and amateur fanciers found themselves in a similar predicament, at the end of one or two or three years. Without possessing a single particle of knowledge requisite to the successful accomplishment of their purpose,—utterly ignorant of the first rudiments of the business,—they jumped into it, without reason, forgetting the wholesome advice contained in the musty adage, "look before you leap." And, after sinking tens and hundreds or (in some cases) thousands of dollars in experiments, they woke up to find that they had had the fever badly, but, fortunately, were at last convalescent!

I was busy, all this time, in supplying my friends with "pure-bred" stock, however, and had very little leisure to tarry to sympathize with these "poor creeturs." The demand for my stock continued, and the best year's business I ever enjoyed, was from the spring of 1853 to May and June, 1854; when it commenced to fall off very sensibly, and the prospect became dubious, for future operations, even with me.

CHAPTER XXIV.
AN EXPENSIVE BUSINESS.

To the fanciers—those who purchased, as many did at first, simply for their amusement, or for the mere satisfaction of having good, or, perhaps, the best birds—this fever proved an expensive matter. I have known amateurs who willingly paid twenty, fifty, or a hundred dollars, and even more, for a pair, or a trio, of what were considered very choice Shanghaes. These fowls, after the first few weeks or months of the purchaser's excitement had passed by, could be bought of him for five or ten dollars a pair! Yet, his next-door neighbor, who would not now take these identical birds for a gift, scarcely, would pay to a stranger a similarly extravagant amount to that which had a hundred times been paid by others before him, for something, perhaps, inferior in quality, but which chanced to be called by the most popular name current at the moment.

Thus, for a time, bubble number one, the Cochin-Chinas, prevailed. The eggs of these fowls sold at a dollar each, for a long period. Then came the Shanghaes, of different colors,—as the yellow, the white, the buff, or the black,—and took their turn. Many thousands of these were disposed of, at round rates. The smooth-legged birds at first commanded the best price; then the feathered-legged. And, finally, came the Grey Shanghaes, or "Chittagongs," or "Brahmas," as they were differently termed; and this proved bubble number two, in earnest.

Everybody wanted them, and everybody had to pay for them, too! They were large, heavy fowls, of China blood, plainly, but, with some few exceptions, were indifferent birds. They were leggy, however, and stood up showy and tall, and, to look at, appeared advantageously to the fancy, at this period. In the maw of this bubble, thousands of good dollars were thrown; and no race of poultry ever had the run that did these Greys, under various names, both in this country and in England.

A most excellent Southern trade had sprung up, and large shipments of fowls went forward to the West, from Massachusetts, and to Charleston, Augusta, Mobile, New Orleans, etc., where the fever broke out furiously, and continued, without abatement, for three years or more.

No buyers were so liberal, generally, and no men in the world, known to Northern breeders, bought so extensively, as did these fanciers in New Orleans and vicinity. They purchased largely, from the very start; and the trade was kept up with a singular vigor and enterprise, from the beginning to the end. Orders, varying in value from $500 to $1200 and $1500, were of almost weekly occurrence from that region; and in one instance, I sent forward to a gentleman in Louisiana, a single shipment for which he paid me $2230! This occurred in September, 1853.

In this same year, I sent, from January to December, to another gentleman (at New Orleans), over ten thousand dollars' worth of stock.

The prices for chickens ranged from $12 or $15 a pair, to $25 or $30, and often $40 to $50, a pair. These rates were always willingly and freely paid, and the stock was, after a while, disseminated throughout the entire valley of the Mississippi; where the China fowls always did better than in our own climate.

It proved an expensive business to some of these gentlemen, most emphatically. But they always paid cheerfully, promptly, and liberally; and knew the Yankees they were dealing with, a good deal better than many of the sharpers supposed they did. For myself, I shall not permit this opportunity to pass without expressing my thanks to my numerous and generous Southern patrons, to whom I sent a great many hundred pairs of what were deemed "good birds," and to whom I am indebted, largely, for the trade I enjoyed for upwards of five years. I sincerely hope they made more money out of all this than I did; and I trust that their substance, as well as "their shadows, may never be less."

During this year, and far into 1854, the current of trade turned towards Great Britain; and John Bull was not very slow to appreciate the rare qualities of my "magnificent" and "extraordinary" birds; "the like of which," said a London journal, when the Queen's fowls first arrived, "was never before seen in England."

For upwards of a year, I had all this trade in my own way. Subsequently, some of the smaller dealers sent out a few pairs to London, but "the people" there could never be brought to believe those fowls were anything but mongrels; and, while these interlopers contrived to murder the trade there, they at the same time "cut off their own noses," for the future, with those who knew what poultry was, upon the other side of the Atlantic.

I had my shy at the Britons, seasonably!

But, a few months afterwards (as I shall show in a future chapter), through the mismanagement of an ambitious dealer in other fancy live-stock, the trade with England, from this side of the water, was completely ruined. Over two hundred American fowls were thrown suddenly upon the London market, and were finally sold there, at auction, for a very small sum; and we were subsequently unable (with all our chicken-eloquence) to make John Bull believe that even the Grey Shanghaes were any longer "scarce" with us, here!

CHAPTER XXV.
THE GREAT PAGODA HEN.

"Mr. Sap Green retired from business, and took possession of his country 'villa,' just about the time the 'hen fever' was at its height; and he soon gave evidence of having that malignant disorder in its most aggravated form. He tolerated no birds in his yard that weighed less than ten pounds at six months, and he allowed no eggs upon his table that were not of a dark mahogany color, and of the flavor of pine shavings. He supplied his own table with poultry, and the said poultry consisted of elongated drum-sticks, attached by gutta-percha muscles and catgut sinews to ponderous breast-bones. He frequently purchased a 'crower' for a figure that could have bought a good Morgan horse; but then, as the said crower consumed as much grain as a Morgan horse, he could not help being perfectly satisfied with the bargain. His wife complained that he was 'making ducks and drakes' of his property; but, as that involved a high compliment to his ornithological tastes, he attempted no retort. He satisfied himself that it 'would pay in the end.' His calculations of profits were 'clear as mud.' He would have a thousand hens. The improved breeds were warranted to lay five eggs apiece a week; and eggs were worth—that is, he was paying—six dollars a dozen. His thousand hens would lay twenty thousand eight hundred and thirty-three dozen eggs per annum, which, at six dollars per dozen, would amount to the sum of one hundred and twenty-four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight dollars. Even deducting therefrom the original cost of the hens and their keep,—say thirty-six thousand dollars,—the very pretty trifle of eighty-eight thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight was the remainder—clear profit. Eggs—even dark mahogany eggs—went down to a shilling a dozen! But we will not anticipate.

"To facilitate the multiplication of the feathered species; Mr. Green imported a French Eccaleobion, or egg-hatching machine, that worked by steam, and was warranted to throw off a thousand chicks a month.

"One day an 'ancient mariner' arrived at the villa, with a small basket on his arm, and inquired for the master of the house. Sap was just then engaged in important business,—teaching a young chicken to crow,—but he left his occupation, and received the stranger.

"'Want to buy an egg?' asked the mariner.

"'One egg? Why, where did it come from?' asked the hen-fancier.

"'E Stingies,' replied the mariner.

"'Domestic fowl's egg?'

"'Domestic.'

"'Let's see it.'

"The sailor produced an enormous egg, weighing about a pound. Sap 'hefted' it carefully.

"'Did you ever see the birds that lay such eggs?' he asked.

"'Lots on 'em,' replied the sailor. 'They're big as all out-doors. They calls 'em the Gigantic Pagoda Hen. I'm afeared to tell you how big they are; you won't believe me. But jest you hatch out that 'ere, and you'll see wot'll come of it.'

"'But they must eat a great deal?' said Sap.

"'Scarcely anything,' replied the mariner; 'that's the beauty on 'em. Don't eat as much as Bantams.'

"'Are they good layers?'

"'You can't help 'em laying,' replied the seaman, enthusiastically. 'They lay one egg every week-day, and two Sundays.'

"'But when do they set?' queried Green.

"'They don't set at all. They lays their eggs in damp, hot places, and natur' does the rest. The chicks take keer of themselves as soon as they're out of the shell.'

"'Damp, hot place!' said Sap. 'My Eccaleobion is the very thing, and my artificial sheep-skin mother will bring 'em up to a charm. My friend, what will you take for your egg?'

"'Cap'n,' said the mariner, solemnly, 'if I was going to stay ashore, I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for it; but, as I've shipped ag'in, and sail directly, you shall have it for forty.'

"The forty dollars were instantly paid, and the hen-fancier retired with his prize, his conscience smiting him for having robbed a poor, hard-working sailor.

"O, how he watched the egg-hatching machine while that extraordinary egg was undergoing the steaming process! He begrudged the time exacted by eating and sleeping; but his vigils were rewarded by the appearance, in due time, of a stout young chick, with the long legs that are a proof of Eastern blood. The bird grew apace; indeed, almost as rapidly as Jack's bean-stalk, or the prophet's gourd. But the sailor was mistaken in one thing; it ate voraciously. Moreover, as it increased in size and strength, the Pagoda exhibited extraordinary pugnacity. It kicked a dozen comrades to death in one night. It even bit the hand of the feeder. Soon it was necessary to confine it in a separate apartment. Its head soon touched the ceiling. What a pity it had no mate! Sap wrote to a correspondent at Calcutta to ship him two pairs of the Great Pagoda birds, without regard to cost. Meanwhile he watched the enormous growth of his single specimen. He kept its existence a profound secret. It was under lock and key, in a separate apartment, lighted by a large window in the roof. Sap's man-of-all-work wheeled daily two bushels of corn and a barrel of water to the door of the apartment, and Green fed them out when no one was looking. Even this supply was scanty; but, out of justice to his family, Sap was compelled to put the monster bird on allowance.

"'Poor thing!' he would say, when he saw the creature devouring broken glass, and even bolting stray nails and gravel-stones, 'it cuts me to the soul to see it reduced to such extremity. But it's eating me out of house and home. Decidedly, that sailor-man must have been deceived about their being moderate feeders.'

"When the bird had attained to the enormous altitude of six feet, the proud proprietor sent for the celebrated Dr. Ludwig Hydrarchos, of Cambridge, to inspect him, and furnish him with a scientific description, wherewith he might astonish his brethren of the Poultry Association. The doctor came, and was carefully admitted by Green to the presence of the Great Pagoda Hen. The bird was not accustomed to the sight of strangers, and began to manifest uneasiness and displeasure at seeing the man of science. It lifted first one foot and then the other, as if it were treading on hot plates.

"'Hi! hi!' said Green, soothingly. 'Pagy! Pagy! come, now, be quiet!—will you?'

"'Let me out!' cried Hydrarchos, in great alarm. The huge bird was polking up to him. 'Let me out, I say!'

"'I never knew it to act so before,' said Green, fumbling at the lock.

"A whirr, a rush, a whizzing of the wings, and the bird was down on the doctor, treading on his heels, and pecking at the nape of his neck.

"'Pagy! Pagy!' supplicated the owner.

"But the angry bird would not listen to reason, and Sap received a thump on the head for his pains. And now both rushed for the opening door, stumbling and falling prostrate in their eagerness to escape. The monster bird danced a moment on their prostrate bodies, and then darted forth from its late prison-house.

"It rushed through a couple of grape-houses, carrying destruction in its progress. It scoured through the flower-beds, ruining the bright parterres. Mrs. Green, who was walking in the garden with her child, saw the horrid apparition, and stood paralyzed with terror. In an instant she was thrown down and trampled under foot, shrieking and clasping her infant in her arms.

"Mr. Green beheld this last atrocity, and his conjugal affection overcame his love of birds. He caught up his fowling-piece and fired at the ungrateful monster; the shot ripped up some of its tail-feathers, but failed to inflict a mortal wound,—nothing short of a field-piece could produce an impression on that living mass. Away sped the fowl to the railroad-track, down which it rushed with headlong speed. But its career was brief; an express train, coming up in an opposite direction, struck it full in front, and rushed on, scattering feathers, wings and drum-sticks, wildly in the air.

"'Tell me, doctor,' gasped Green, 'what do you think of my Great Pagoda?'

"'Great Pagoda!' said the professor, in indignant disdain. 'That was a Struthio,—Greek, Strothous,—in other words, an ostrich. If you hadn't belonged to the genus Asinus, you'd have known that, without asking me. Good-morning, Mr. Green.'

"'Where is the monster?' cried Mrs. Green. 'I believe the poor child is killed. O, Sap, I didn't expect this of you!'

"'Be quiet, my dear,' said Green; 'it was only an experiment.'

"'An experiment, Mr. Green!' retorted the lady, sharply; 'your wife and child nearly killed, and you call it an experiment! Nurturing ostriches to devour your off-spring! I wonder you don't take to raising elephants.'

"'No danger of that, Maria,' replied her husband, meekly. 'I have "seen the elephant." And to-morrow I shall send my entire stock to the auction-room,—Shanghaes, Chittagongs, Brahma Pootras, Cochins, Warhens and Warhoos. They're nice birds, great layers, small eaters, but they—don't pay.'"

Mr. Green was cured, of course; and though his anticipations were great, yet he had his predecessors and his successors in the hen traffic, who were almost as sanguine as he, and who not only "paid through the nose" for their experience, but who came off, in the end, really, with quite as little success. Mr. Green was but one of many. Mr. Green was one of "the people."

It will be remembered that my correspondents allude to the fowls they "see in the noospapers."

I had seen these birds, in the same way, before they did. And a London dealer wrote me that he could send me a lot of Egleton's "famous" stock, "which took the three first premiums at a metropolitan show, and two descendants of which, at the close of the late exhibition, were sold at auction for forty-eight guineas ($262)."

I immediately sent out for a few of these monsters. They were described to me as being of enormous size, and feathered upon the legs; and I was now somewhat surprised to note that several of the English societies decided that the true "Cochin-China" fowl (as they term this variety) come only with feathered legs. The very stock above alluded to, however, came direct from the city of Shanghae; and duplicate birds of the same blood were delineated in the London Illustrated News. The metropolitan associations required that all Cochin-China fowls put in competition for premiums must be feathered-legged. This was a new decision, as it is well known that every importation of domestic fowl yet brought out from China direct come more or less clean-legged; and that fully one half of their progeny are so, with the most careful breeding, both in England and in this country. This was immaterial, however; and I repeated the story to my correspondents in good faith, and sent them copies of the portraits of these new, "extraordinary," "splendid" and "astonishing" hens, precisely as their history and pictures came to me. The result can be fancied. Here is the "original" portrait of one of 'em.