ouse were
left to Nelson for consideration, he promising to give me estimates
within a few days.

CHAPTER XVII

WHAT SHALL WE ASK OF THE HEN?

Sam Jones, the chicken-loving man, was as pleased as a boy with a new
top when I began to talk of a hen plant. He had a lot of practical
knowledge of the business, for he had _failed_ in it twice; and I could
furnish any amount of theory, and enough money to prevent disaster.

In his previous attempts he had invested nearly all his small capital in
a plant that might yield two hundred eggs a day; he had to buy all foods
in small quantities, and therefore at high prices; and he had to give
his whole time to a business which was too small and too much on the
hand-to-mouth order to give him a living profit. My theory of the
business was entirely different. I could plan for results, and, what was
more to the point, I could wait for them. Mistakes, accidents, even
disasters, were disarmed by a bank account; my bread and butter did not
depend upon the temper of a whimsical hen. The food would cost the
minimum. All grains and green food, and most of the animal food, in the
form of skim milk, would be furnished by the farm. I meant also to
develop a plant large enough to warrant the full attention of an
able-bodied man. I felt no hesitation about this venture, for I did not
intend to ask more of my hens than a well-disposed hen ought to be
willing to grant.

I do not ask a hen to lay a double-yolk every day in the year. That is
too much to expect of a creature in whom the mother instinct is
prominent, and who wishes also to have a new dress for herself at least
once in that time. I do not wish a hen to work overtime for me. If she
will furnish me with eight dozen of her finished product per annum, I
will do the rest. Whatever she does more than that shall redound to her
credit. Two-hundred-eggs-a-year hens are scarcer than hens with teeth,
and I was not looking for the unusual. A hen can easily lay one hundred
eggs in three hundred and sixty-five days, and yet find time for
domestic and social affairs. She can feel that she is not a subject for
charity, while at the same time she retains her self-respect as a hen of
leisure.

I have the highest regard for this domestic fowl, and I would not for a
great deal impose a too arduous task upon her. I feel like encouraging
her in her peculiar industry, for which she is so eminently fitted, but
not like forcing her into strenuous