LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
a full basket, obtained with difficulty from various sources, he hastened to visit the home of each feathered recluse and furnish it with supplies; after which this good Samaritan sank in exhaustion upon a convenient log, and, fanning himself with his hat, declared that he could have passed through the horrors of the French Revolution with less physical and mental wear and tear than he had suffered with this siege of “settin’ hens.”
I sometimes think Thomas is given to exaggeration, especially when fatigued.
This was only the beginning of trouble. Two obstinate hens were holding the fort in one barrel; neither would give up. With great sagacity, as I thought, I advised putting another barrel there with a nest in it, and the removal of Miss Flite thereto. “You know her brain is a little muddled,” I added, “and she won’t know one barrel from the other.”
“Don’t fool yourself!” was the ominous reply, as my plans were being executed.
The next morning he came in, saying, “Just as I expected! both those hens are again on the same nest.”
After due deliberation, the oracle thought it quite probable that Miss Flite was the original owner of the nest, and was holding it by right of discovery.
“Why not try Mrs. Pardiggle on the others?”
“It’s no use, she won’t stay; but I’ll chuck her in.”
And he was right; she would have none of it, but flounced out in high dudgeon as often as put in. Tom
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