all birds were game to him, and for his purpose were always in season. To
Emerson's line,

"Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?"

he could not reply in the affirmative, and yet to kill as many as
possible had never been his object. From earliest childhood he had
developed a taste for ornithology, and the study of the fauna of the
region had been almost his sole recreation for years. He too was a
frequent visitor at the Cliffords', where he ever found ready listeners
and questioners.

"I don't know what is the matter with my poultry," Squire Bartley
remarked, after the weather, politics, and harmless phases of local
gossip had been discussed; "they are getting as poor as crows. My boys
say that they are fed as well as usual. What's more, I've had them throw
down for 'em a warm mixture of meal and potatoes before they go to roost,
but we don't get an egg. What luck are you having, Leonard?"

"Well, I don't know that I'm having much luck in the matter," Leonard
replied, with his humorous smile; "but I can't complain. Until this very
cold weather set in we had eggs in plenty, and still have a fair supply.
I'm inclined to think that if your hens are the right kind, and are
properly cared for, they can't help producing eggs. That has usually been
my experience. I don't believe much in luck, but there are a few simple
things that are essential to success with poultry in winter. By the way,
do you give them well or spring water to drink?"

"Well, no, I don't believe we do, at this time of year. I've so arranged
it that the drippings from the eaves of the barn fall into a trough, and