A CAPITAL OUTLAY.

It was, in a sense, mutual. We had chickens; the chickens had us. On
the other hand, they had the best of the bargain. We kept them; and
they did not keep us.

My aunt insisted that we _must_ keep chickens, and you know my aunt.

Pardon! You don't know my aunt. She is an elderly maiden lady who
"keeps house" for me. She is eminently practical--theoretically
speaking.

She insisted. "With eggs at eightpence it's a sin and a shame not to
keep hens in war-time."

I urged that the food would cost a good many eightpences--in war-time.

Her reply was "Pshaw!" (She really does say "Pshaw"--and means it.)
"Pshaw! they will live on kitchen scraps."

We consulted Nibletts. He has a local reputation as a chicken expert,
mainly, I believe, because he's a butcher. He recommended a breed
called Wild Oats (by which he meant, I discovered, Wyandottes).

"You take my tip, Sir," he said, "and buy Wild Oats. If you'll excuse
the word--" (Nibletts is always apologising for some term he is about
to use, which promises to be inexpressibly shocking to polite ears,
and never is)--"they're clinkers."