came out of the pond badly the other night and went waddling and tumbling
and hissing all over creation, did not approve of my sending them back
into the pond to start afresh.

"I consider it a great waste of time, of good time, miss," she said;
"and, after all, do you consider that educated poultry will be any better
eating, or that it will lay more than one egg a day, miss?"

I have given the matter some attention, and I fear Mrs. Heaven is right.
A duck, a goose, or a hen in which I have developed a larger brain,
implanted a sense of duty, or instilled an idea of self-government, is
likely, on the whole, to be leaner, not fatter. There is nothing like
obeying the voice of conscience for taking the flesh off one's bones;
and, speaking of conscience, Phoebe, whose metaphysics are of the farm
farmy, says that hers "felt like a hunlaid hegg for dyes" after she had
jilted the postman.

As to the eggs, I am sure the birds will go on laying one a day for 'tis
their nature to. Whether the product of the intelligent, conscious,
logical fowl, will be as rich in quality as that of the uneducated and
barbaric bird, I cannot say; but it ought at least to be equal to the
Denmark egg eaten now by all Londoners; and if, perchance, left uneaten,
it is certain to be a very superior wife and mother.

While we are discussing the subject of educating poultry, I confess that
the case of Cannibal Ann gives me much anxiety. Twice in her short
career has she been under suspicion of eating her own eggs, but Phoebe
has never succeeded in catching her _in flagrante delicto_. That eminent
detective service was reserved for me, and I have been haunted by the
picture ever since. It is an awful sight to witness a hen gulp her own