LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
never at ease unless it could find a crevice of the kitchen floor and insert its bill in it; then with closed eyes it would stand very still for many minutes, a painful and gruesome-looking object. Very often the professional gaze turned thoughtfully toward it, and I well knew the gentleman was wondering whether or not the malady could be reached by lard and pepper. I was glad when kindly death interposed and saved the poor little sufferer from Graham’s Great Elixir.
During the summer Tom, not being quite satisfied with “scrubs,” bought some better chickens. Among them was one which caused him great trouble for a time. It was a fine thoroughbred Plymouth Rock, called by his former owner “Captain Jack.” The Captain, for some reason known only to himself, objected to the early hours kept by our mountain flock, and firmly refused to enter the dormitory with them at sunset. It may have been that he had an affair of honor arranged with some hostile member of an outlying camp; or, being town-bred, he may have been waiting for curfew to ring. Of course we could only guess at the motives which prompted his erratic conduct. But we did know that if he were left at large he would surely fall a victim to some lynx-eyed assassin of the hills; consequently Tom had to stay with him until he voluntarily walked into the chicken-house.
“Let him go in when he gets ready,” I suggested, “and close the door later.”
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