LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
“Have I? I’ve put up so many boxes the barn looks like a post-office.”
“Yes; but the article I read to-day said that hens liked secluded places for nests.”
“All right; I am fully prepared for the cloister-loving sisters. I’ve made nests under the mangers and in old barrels standing in dark corners, one in an old copper boiler, two choice ones in a disabled feed-box; in fact, all that mortal man can do has been done, and now ‘Serene I fold my hands and wait.’”
But this persistent woman wasn’t quite so serene. That night, when the gentleman was about to go through the usual form of looking for eggs, she remarked sagely: “It is more than likely those hens have hidden their nests; the article I read to-day says they often hide them, and I believe I’ll go with you and help search for them.”
“It’s no use, and it’s awfully muddy; but if nothing else will satisfy you, come on; only do leave that confounded basket,—I’m sick of the sight of it.”
Permission being thus graciously tendered, with be coming humility I followed my Chesterfieldian guide into the domains of chickendom. Then the still-hunt began. We searched high and low; inside, outside, and under the barn; looking through all the sheds, in clumps of ferns, and in the low bushes along the fence; peering into hollow logs and stumps as gravely and anxiously as if searching for the treasures of Captain Kidd.
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