And what happened? Why, those roosters wouldn't be exposed to the pernicious influence of city life for more than a month before they would be staying up all night, crowing at the electric lights, and keeping the hens up, too. What becomes of family life under these conditions? What sort of future is there before a hennery where the rooster sleeps all day and the hens sit around and hold mothers' meetings without an egg or a chick in the place?
There is a rooster in our block just now, who has gone absolutely to the demnition bow-wows. We first knew him as a kindly young cockerel from one of the small provincial towns, good humored, honest, and orderly. But you ought to see him now—especially you ought to hear him. The brute crows his head off every time in the night that an automobile goes by; and he spends his afternoons sitting on the side fence watching the girls in the tight skirts—with the nastiest leer in his eye! We often hear the hens calling to him; but what does he care about his family responsibilities?—not a kluck!
The neighbors are all talking about that rooster. They are also shying things at him whenever he gets within range. This brings up another unpleasant feature of keeping hens in town. The neighbors are very apt to be cross about it. They never seem able to take the same idyllic view of chickens that the owner does—very narrow-minded people, neighbors, as a rule.
Even the best-behaved fowl are likely to fly over the fence occasionally into a neighbor's yard and dig worms out of the gravel walk or make impromptu salad of his geraniums and young onions. And you have no idea how annoyed the neighbor gets over these little outbreaks of playfulness. Think, too, of the eggs that must result from it. Just imagine, friend reader, an egg with a geranium shell and a flavor of young onion!—or heliotrope and carrot tops!—or burdock and tomato can! The possibilities are unlimited.
This reminds us of a man we knew once who lived back of a brewery. We didn't seek out his acquaintance and make ourself a friend of his just because he lived back of a brewery—it happened that way, that's all. We couldn't very well cut a man just because he lived back of a brewery, could we?
He also kept chickens. We didn't let this interfere with our friendship either. But he had certainly the gosh-darndest time with his chickens of anyone we ever knew. There were about fifty of them—four roosters—and they had a nice, roomy hen-house with separate beds and great big perches to sit around and talk on, every comfort in fact.
But did those chickens stay at home and lay eggs and rear large families and attend to the other duties of their station in life? No, they did not. They took to drink. We can hear the reader snort in disgust as he reads this—if he does. The reader no doubt thinks we are lying. Not knowing the sterling honesty of our nature, the reader doubts our word. But fortunately we have court records to back us up, for our friend sued the brewery for damages.
You see, the brewers used to throw out their used malt and the lees of the beer-vats in a huge pile just back of our friend's fence. One day an enterprising young rooster, whose moral upbringing had been neglected, hopped over the fence and tried some of the malt. It tasted good. Little did he know, poor bird, that he was getting into the clutches of the Demon Rum. He ate fermented malt till he couldn't jam down another grain.
Did it go to his head? Did it?—dear reader, that young rooster accumulated the loveliest load of lush, the most beauteous and bountiful "bun" ever seen in that district—and it is a district rather famous for its "buns."
It was long after dark when the young rooster got home—trying to find the key-hole, no doubt—and he aroused the whole hennery. He staggered around crowing comic songs, insulted all the most respectable hens in the place, started out to whip the other roosters, and put the whole place on the blink generally.