which Phoebe calls the broilers. I cannot endure the term, and will not
use it. "Now for the April chicks," I say every evening.

"Do you mean the broilers?" asks Phoebe.

"I mean the big April chicks," say I.

"Yes, them are the broilers," says she.

But is it not disagreeable enough to be a broiler when one's time comes,
without having the gridiron waved in one's face for weeks beforehand?

The April chicks are all lively and desirous of seeing the world as
thoroughly as possible before going to roost or broil. As a general
thing, we find in the large house sixteen young fowls of the
contemplative, flavourless, resigned-to-the-inevitable variety; three
more (the same three every night) perch on the roof and are driven down;
four (always the same four) cling to the edge of the open door, waiting
to fly off, but not in, when you attempt to close it; nine huddle
together on a place in the grass about forty feet distant, where a small
coop formerly stood in the prehistoric ages. This small coop was one in
which they lodged for a fortnight when they were younger, and when those
absolutely indelible impressions are formed of which we read in
educational maxims. It was taken away long since, but the nine loyal (or
stupid) Casabiancas cling to the sacred spot where its foundations
rested; they accordingly have to be caught and deposited bodily in the
house, and this requires strategy, as they note our approach from a
considerable distance.

Finally all are housed but two, the little white cock and the black