or
recurring to the subject of crowing hens? It may possibly be remembered
that in a late number of this magazine I hazarded a doubt as to the
existence of any such _lusus naturae_. Since that time proof has
accumulated upon me from different quarters that crowing hens do exist.
But let it be noted that the gist of my remarks was the inconsistency of
the tyrant man. Now let us see whether an admission of the disputed fact
relieves him from the guilt charged upon him.

Observe once more the couplet,

"A whistling girl and a crowing hen
Always come to some bad end,"--

a couplet which, I affirm without fear of contradiction, endeavors to
affix a stigma upon the character of crowing hens: for what sinister and
ulterior purpose I scornfully refrain from designating. Fourteen crowing
hens have reported themselves to me: one from Maine, two from New
Hampshire, three from Massachusetts, one each from Connecticut, New
York, New Jersey, and North Carolina, and four from Pennsylvania. Of
these fourteen,

Number One is "Bobby, an excellent Biddy. Lays nice, large eggs, and
brings up her families well."

Number Two, named Queen Mab. Always crows to the music of a sweet-voiced
Steinway. Is in all other respects an amiable and exemplary hen.

Number Three is a black hen, now three years old. Has laid eggs.

Number Four crowed regularly every morning, when the cock did. When she
was a little over a year old, she and her seven babes were stolen from a
wild cherry-tree, where they went to bed, by a fox, who came up on an
old log.

Number Five crowed irregularly. Raised several broods of chicks. Lived
to be four or five years old.

Number Six crowed chiefly in the fall, when the young chicks were
practising (no doubt to encourage them). Lived to the remarkable age of
nine years, and was then decapitated.

Number Seven raised a large brood of chickens. Their papa was killed at
about the time for them to begin to crow, and one morning she flew up on
the fence and crowed with all her might. Continued it until they had
learned, and stopped. Was called Old Sam. Her end was the soup-pot.

Number Eight, an old speckled hen. Took to crowing after a raid on the
poultry-yard had deprived it of every rooster. Crowed as well as
anybody.

Number Nine lived twenty-five years ago. Witness has forgotten whether
she ever did anything but crow. Had a wicked name, which I shall not
give.

Number Ten laid eggs.

Number Eleven cro