LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
I am grieved to relate that Mrs. P., with unscrupulous pertinacity, through bribes and blandishments lured all those chickens back except two, which Miss Flite continued “to have and to hold” until they grew into beautiful young pullethood.
If it surprises you that our mania for names is carried into poultrydom, just observe fowls closely for a time, and you will discover that not only are they possessed of marked individuality, but also of many of the characteristics of people you have known. For instance, a dapper glossy-black hen had a topknot like a high silk hat, and grotesquely long wing feathers resembling a frock coat, which gave her such a look of masquerading in male attire that “Dr. Mary Walker” seemed the only possible name for her. “The Doctor” is an impulsive, self-willed creature. Observing her friends going, one by one, “into the silence,” she apparently reasoned that the social whirl was over, that it would probably be dull in the yard for a time, and so concluded to go into the sitting business herself. Looking the quarters over, she found a desirable flat; and though the rooms were all taken, she arrogantly ousted a timid dark-complexioned tenant of Spanish descent, taking immediate possession of her home, her goods and chattels. The evicted one hung about her old home, lamenting bitterly; and though frequent efforts were made to reinstate her, all were futile. No matter how often or how violent “The Doctor’s” removal, an hour
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