LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
of the sitting hen. We spoke of her illogical persistence and her general absurdities. Especially did we deplore her combativeness, Bert holding up a pair of battle-scarred hands as proof that his recent triumphs had not been wholly free from sanguinary features. Presently he went out and gathered a hatful of his “brand-new chicks,” fluffy, velvety little balls of yellow and black, soft grays, and creamy browns. The exhibitor remarked boastfully: “This is only a small line of samples. I have in stock twenty-five of these valuable birds.”
“And they are all right for a starter,” said Tom, patronizingly, “but if you will drop in at the Pointed Fir Hatchery in a couple of weeks, we will show you about twenty-five hundred of them.”
I grieve to note the habit of exaggeration growing upon Thomas. Possibly two hundred were hatched, but to raise them after hatching,—ay, there’s the rub. Watchful sparrow-hawks swooped down upon them by day; at night bloodthirsty prowlers of the forest crept stealthily forth to claim their share; of the survivors, many suffered from disease, not only the newly fledged, but quite a number of the older ones, which were what Tom called a lot of “scrubs.” These were bought, during the rainy season, of accessible and accommodating ranchmen, who naturally did not part with their best.
Finding Tom one day gravely stirring some sort of
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