For the rare bird at mighty price is sold,
And lo! What wonders from its tail unfold!
But can these whims a higher gusto raise
Unless you eat the plumage that you praise?
Or do its glories when 'tis boiled remain?
No; 'tis the unequaled beauty of its train,
Deludes your eye and charms you to the feast,
For hens and peacocks are alike in taste.
Then peacocks have been made useful in a medicinal way. The doctors once
prescribed peacock broth for pleurisy, peacocks' tongues for epilepsy,
peacocks' fat for colic, peacocks' galls for weak eyes, peahens' eggs
for gout.
It is always darkest just before dawn, and only a week from that
humiliating Sunday episode I was called by my gardener to look at the
dearest little brown something that was darting about in the poultry
yard. It was a baby peacock, only one day old. He got out of the nest in
some way, and preferred to take care of himself. How independent, how
captivating he was! As not one other egg had hatched, he was lamentably,
desperately alone, with dangers on every side, "homeless and
orphanless." Something on that Sabbath morning recalled Melchizedec, the
priest without father or mother, of royal descent, and of great length
of days. Earnestly hoping for longevity for this feathered mite of
princely birth, I called him "Melchizedec."
I caught him and was in his toils. He was a tiny tyrant; I was but a
slave, an attendant, a nurse, a night-watcher.
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