overnment, is
likely, on the whole, to be leaner, not fatter. There is nothing like
obeying the voice of conscience for taking the flesh off one's bones;
and, speaking of conscience, Phoebe, whose metaphysics are of the farm
farmy, says that hers "felt like a hunlaid hegg for dyes" after she had
jilted the postman.

As to the eggs, I am sure the birds will go on laying one a day for 'tis
their nature to. Whether the product of the intelligent, conscious,
logical fowl, will be as rich in quality as that of the uneducated and
barbaric bird, I cannot say; but it ought at least to be equal to the
Denmark egg eaten now by all Londoners; and if, perchance, left uneaten,
it is certain to be a very superior wife and mother.

While we are discussing the subject of educating poultry, I confess that
the case of Cannibal Ann gives me much anxiety. Twice in her short
career has she been under suspicion of eating her own eggs, but Phoebe
has never succeeded in catching her _in flagrante delicto_. That eminent
detective service was reserved for me, and I have been haunted by the
picture ever since. It is an awful sight to witness a hen gulp her own
newly-laid fresh egg, yolk, white, shell, and all; to realise that you
have fed, sheltered, chased, and occasionally run in, a being possessed
of no moral sense, a being likely to set a bad example, inculcate vicious
habits among her innocent sisters, and lower the standard of an entire
poultry-yard. _The Young Poultry Keeper's Friend_ gives us no advice on
this topic, and we do not know whether to treat Cannibal Ann as the
victim of a disease, or as a confirmed criminal; whether to administer
remedies or cut her off in the flower of her youth.

{Poor little chap, . . . 'e never was a fyvorite: p56.jpg}

We have had a sad scene to-night. A chick has been ailing all day, and
when we shut up the brood we found him dead in a corner.

Phoebe put him on the ground while she busied herself about the coop. The
other chicks came out and walked about the dead one again and again,
eyeing him curiously.

"Poor little chap!" said Phoebe. "'E's never 'ad a mother! 'E was an
incubytor chicken, and wherever I took 'im 'e was picked at. There was
somethink wrong with 'im; 'e never was a fyvorite!"

I put the fluffy body into a hole in the turf, and strewed a handful of
grass over him. "Sad little epitaph!" I thought. "He never was a
fyvorite!"

CHAPTER VIII

July 13th.

I