They had more "sand" than was
good for them. They were raised on "Cat Hill," and five were captured by
felines, and when the remnant was brought to me they disappeared day by
day in the most puzzling manner until we caught our mischievous pug,
"Tiny Tim," holding down a beautiful young Leghorn with his cruel paw
and biting a piece out of her neck.
So they left me, one by one, like the illusions of youth, until there
was no "survival of the fittest."
In a ragged old barn opposite, a hen had stolen her nest and brought
out seventeen vigorous chicks. I paid a large bill for the care of what
might have been a splendid collection, and meekly bought that faithful
old hen with her large family. It is now a wonder to me that any
chickens arrive at maturity. Fowls are afflicted with parasitic
wrigglers in their poor little throats. The disease is called "gapes,"
because they try to open their bills for more air until a red worm in
the trachea causes suffocation. This horrid red worm, called
scientifically
Scelorostoma syngamus, destroys annually
half a
million of chickens.
Dr. Crisp, of England, says it would be of truly national importance to
find the means of preventing its invasion.
The unpleasant results of hens and garden contiguous, Warner has
described. They are incompatible if not antagonistic. One man wisely
advises: "Fence the garden in and let the chickens run, as the man
divided the house with his quarrelsome wife, by taking the inside
himself and giving her the outside, that she might have room according
to her strength.
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