I fully understand the recent excitement of the
Australians over the rabbit scourge which threatened to devastate their
land.
The relations were strained between my cows; mother and daughter of a
noble line; they always fed at opposite corners of the field, indulging
in serious fights when they met.
My doves! I am almost ready to say that they were more annoying than
all the rest of my motley collection, picked all seeds out of the ground
faster than they could be put in, so large spaces sowed with rye lay
bare all summer, and ate most of the corn and grain that was intended to
fatten and stimulate my fowls.
Doves are poetical and pleasing, pigeons ditto--in literature, and at a
safe distance from one's own barn. It's a pretty sight at sunset on a
summer's eve to see them poising, wheeling, swirling, round a neighbor's
barn. Their rainbow hues gleam brightly in the sun as they preen their
feathers or gently "coo-oo, I love oo," on the ridge pole. I always
longed to own some, but now the illusion is past. They have been admired
and petted for ages, consecrated as emblems of innocence and peace and
sanctity, regarded as almost sacred from the earliest antiquity. They
have been idealized and praised from Noah to Anacreon, both inclined to
inebriety! But in reality they are a dirty, destructive, greedy lot, and
though fanciers sell them at high prices, they only command twenty-five
cents per pair when sold for the market!
The hens lost half their feathers, often an eye, occasionally a life, in
deadly feuds.
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