At ten thirty or so in the morning the cackling begins. I wonder exactly
what it means! Have the forest-lovers who listen so respectfully to, and
interpret so exquisitely, the notes of birds--have none of them made
psychological investigations of the hen cackle? Can it be simple
elation? One could believe that of the first few eggs, but a hen who has
laid two or three hundred can hardly feel the same exuberant pride and
joy daily. Can it be the excitement incident to successful achievement?
Hardly, because the task is so extremely simple. Eggs are more or less
alike; a little larger or smaller, a trifle whiter or browner; and almost
sure to be quite right as to details; that is, the big end never gets
confused with the little end, they are always ovoid and never spherical,
and the yolk is always inside of the white. As for a soft-shelled egg,
it is so rare an occurrence that the fear of laying one could not set the
whole race of hens in a panic; so there really cannot be any intellectual
or emotional agitation in producing a thing that might be made by a
machine. Can it be simply "fussiness"; since the people who have the
least to do commonly make the most flutter about doing it?

Perhaps it is merely conversation. "_Cut-cut-cut-cut-cut_-DAH_cut_! . .
. I have finished my strictly fresh egg, have you laid yours? Make
haste, then, for the cock has found a gap in the wire-fence and wants us
to wander in the strawberry-bed. . . . Cut-cut-cut-cut-cut-DAH_cut_ . . .
Every moment is precious, for the Goose Girl will find us, when she
gathers the strawberries for her luncheon . . . Cut-cut-cut-cut! On the
way out we can find sweet places to steal nests . . . Cut-cut-cut! . . .
I am so glad I am not sitting this heavenly morning; it _is_ a dull life.

A Lancashire poultryman drifted into Barbury Green yesterday. He is an
old acquaintance of Mr. Heaven, and spent the night and part of the next