LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
non-sitters persisted in depositing their eggs with the sitters, which resulted in noisy vituperations, with scratchings from sharp claws and jabbings from vicious beaks. At this the chanticleers, under pretence of stilling the tempest, but secretly glad of the racket and of the chance to show off their oratorical gifts, would begin a terrific harangue, which often terminated in a combat between themselves. The tumult and confusion were like a madhouse.
Meanwhile the demand for eggs grew strenuous. We could not get half enough to supply the emergency call. Everywhere were hens sitting on nothing. One in the woodhouse, with imbecile credulity, was placidly brooding a broken doorknob. I have often heard the remark, “No more sense than a sitting hen;” now I see the force of it. Out of pity for their needs, I urged Tom to “take to the hills” for supplies. Busy with other work, he was not eager for such an outing.
“But, Tom,” I insisted, “my prophetic soul warns me that this is the tide in our affairs, which taken at the flood will lead on to fortune.”
“And my prophetic soul warns me that you are a false Cassandra and a persistent one; but if you will bring me that detestable basket, I’ll go and see what I can do.”
Soon I had the satisfaction of seeing him jog away on his quiet old Rozinante, in quest of the golden nest-eggs of our future fortune. Returning about dark with
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