the entire community. In short, I dislike him; his swagger, his
autocratic strut, his greed, his irritating self-consciousness, his
endless parading of himself up and down in a procession of one.

Of course his character is largely the result of polygamy. His
weaknesses are only what might be expected; and as for the hens, I have
considerable respect for the patience, sobriety, and dignity with which
they endure an institution particularly offensive to all women. In their
case they do not even have the sustaining thought of its being an article
of religion, so they are to be complimented the more.

There is nothing on earth so feminine as a hen--not womanly, simply
feminine. Those men of insight who write the Woman's Page in the Sunday
newspapers study hens more than women, I sometimes think; at any rate,
their favourite types are all present on this poultry farm.

Some families of White Leghorns spend most of their time in the rickyard,
where they look extremely pretty, their slender white shapes and red
combs and wattles well set off by the background of golden hayricks.
There is a great oak-tree in one corner, with a tall ladder leaning
against its trunk, and a capital roosting-place on a long branch running
at right angles with the ladder. I try to spend a quarter of an hour
there every night before supper, just for the pleasure of seeing the
feathered "women-folks" mount that ladder.

A dozen of them surround the foot, waiting restlessly for their turn. One
little white lady flutters up on the lowest round and perches there until
she reviews the past, faces the present, and forecasts the future; during
which time she is gathering courage for the next jump. She cackles,
takes up one foot and then the other, tilts back and forth, holds up her