POULTRY KEEPING FOR PROFIT.

Press, Volume LIII, Issue 9305, 4 January 1896, Page 9

POULTRY KEEPING FOR PROFIT.

Cicely contemplated the yard with all tha unruffled dignity of possession. "I call this a boginning now," she was good enough to explain. " Fowls and ducks and geese and turkeys. Afterwords we'll get rabbits and pigeons, and pheasants, and hares, and things?' " They will take a deal of management," said I thoughtfully. " Pooh !" said Cicely, " they only want the scraps from the house ; tho book* says bo —and some maize for the fowls, and some grain for the turkeys —and sonio ' middlings,' and to see that they don't catch cold. And they must have water fresh every day. You'll have to fill the pond every morning. And you'll have to look them up at night and nee that they're all right." " It seems rather a lot," I objected mildly. " But then, of course, we shall have eggs." " Eggs and chickens and geese and all kinds of poultry on our own premises," she added enthusiastically, " Think how much nicer and cheaper than buying from poulterers." "Some one will have"to kill them," said I. Cicely looked at mc. " You will " she began, and then, I am thankful to say, the words died on her lips. "I suppose so," she said, with less confidence. "Never mind," said I cheerfully, "that can be considered." " Oh, yes, there's no difficulty," she responded lightly. But the next morning she came into my study after breakfast, "Do you know," she began, "I don't think we'll kill the turkeys." "Why?" I asked. "Oh, well," eaid Cicely, " I don't know. They're rather nice you know." " Yes, I'm very fond of turkey," said I. "I don't mean that." returned Cicely disdainfully, " I mean they're nice alive. Why, what do you | think," she continued eagerly, "when I was feeding them just now, two ran up and tried to bite my ring off. They are funny creatures." "Yes," said I absently. "1 I don't like the ducks, though," she resumed 'dispassionately. " They're silly." "No," said I. "We'll just keep the turkeys," j concluded Cicely. " Very well." I agreed. [ " How are your fowls ? " I asked of Cicely a few days later. "Any eggs yet?" She shook her head. " Not yet," said she. " Oh, come," said I, " we can't stand this. We shall have to make them pay for their keep somehow. We must kill a chicken." Cicely fired up. " You shan't kill the chickens," said she, flushing red. " I'm not going to have the dear littlo things killed. You can take the horrid ducks and geese if you like." " Why," said I, sitting down, "what's the matter? Wo agreed to use them for the table as we required." " I—l know," said Cicely hesitating. "But, you see—Oh, Jack, they are such a pretty colour, and you should see the confiding way in which they run to mc when I open the gate! I've named one Jenny, and another Betty, and " "Yes, yes," I interposed hastily; "I see. Of course they're very nice, but it isn't business." " I believe you simply bought them with all sorts of horrid ideas," returned Cicely angrily. " You think of nothing but eating." This was not true, but I did not argue with her. "At any rate, Cicely," said I, " don't make friends with tho geese, and don't christen the ducks. It's too expensive." "Of course," said Cicely, pensively, a week later at lunch, " a duck iB a very good bird for the table. I used to be very fond of duck. But, do you know, I rather like ducks' eggs." "Cicely!" I cried, "how ( can you ? Why, you always declared they were horrible." " Oh, I don't think I quite said that," said Cicely persuasively. * •'Besides, tastes change, you know. Do you know, Jack, I think I'd keep the ducks to breed from. Yes," she continued, " little ducklings are such sweet little things, and the big ducks are not bad." "Cicely," said I sternly, "what have you been doing?" She looked at mo rather guiltily, I thought. "I only walk round the yard when I feed them," she murmured apologetically. " You've not been naming them?" I asked suspiciously. Cicely hesitated. " No—not—at least I call one of them 'Quackles,' but that's not a name, you know." "Oh no," said I with a groan, "of course not. Well, we'll have ' Quaokles' killed to-morrow, just to put you out of temptation." . Cicely's face hardened. "You will do nothing of the kind," she said sharply. ! { You are horrid. Besides, he isn't old enough." "He'll be all the more tender," I rejoined. Cicely rose, and I knew I had offended her. "Where are you going?" I asked. "I am going to' write to mother at once," said she firmly, "and ask her if she will take care of something for mc," I sighed. "Very well dear," said I with resignation. " First turkoyß, then ohickens, and now ducks. I shouldn't so much mind if they'd lay eggs, even if we couldn't eat them. It would show a certain sense of gratitude. But mind, Cicely," I said resolutely, "you don't go near those geese. I will at least have a goose for Christmas." " Oh, you silly fellow," laughed Cicely, "of course you can have your goose. Fancy caring about geese I Why they won't come within four yards of mc, and they hiss abominably. I'm sure they hate mc, and I dislike them. You may have them all killed to-morrow if you like. They're not like darling little ducks." " I've a good mind to do so," I said. "Why not?" asked Cecily, indifferently. I eyed her carefully and decided to trust her.

When I went out into the yard two days subsequently Cicely was feeding the inhabitants. She was letting a handful of corn slip softly through her fingers, and the rapacious tenantry were scrabbling at her feet. There was a goose very close to her, a good deal nearer than ten yards. "I wonder," she said, meditatively, "why geese are so frightened of people. They're not so timid to-day, though, particularly Mowgli." " Cicely !"' I said, in a warning voice. She started. "Oh, I waß only wondering," she explained. "Of course, I. don't really take any interest in them. They're so very greedy. But don't you think that white one is rather pretty—for a goose?" she hastened to add. "Not at all," said I, grimly, " but he'd look well upon a table." Cicely was silent. "I think," said I, gravely, "that I will feed them myself in future." Cicely looked at mc. "Oh, but," she said, "you can't—think of your work. I'm sure it would take up too much of your time." "I shall have to," I answered moodily, "if I'm to get that goose at Christinas." "Oh, .well, if you have no confidence in mc " began Cicely indignantly. " No, no," I interposed hastily, for I did not wish to wound her by my doubts. "But if I were you, dear, I should not go too hear the geese. They're ugly, spiteful creatures, I wouldn't trust them." It was then that Cicely betrayed herself. "They're not a bit," she declared vehemently; "they wouldn't harm a fly. Why, look, they'l? come up and feed almost out of my 'hand, 9 ' and.stooping, she presented a palm full -of maize to the horrid wretches.

I watcned the transaction in grim silence, and then I said slowly, *' Cicely, I want you to choose. Which of these geese do you like best?" "Oh, Mowgli, of course," said she, brightly, and withoutany suspicion. •' Very well," said I brutally. "We _ dino off Mowgli on Thursday." Cicely's jaw fell. I think she felt like a murderess. But I was resolved not to give way, and I left her at once. I think she knew from my attitude that I was determined, for she made only some very faint efforts to approach the subject. Next morning there was a great commotion in the yard, and Cicely locked herself in her bedroom. She read books all day, and I.found it rather dulL There was a cold politeness in her demeanour. Thursday's dinner was not a success. Cicely took some soup, absently refused fish and meat, and when Mowgli appeared she burst into tears and left the table.

And now I have fifteen fowls, ten turkeys, eight geese, and eleven ducks; hone of them lay, and I daren't kill them. What, am I to do ? And when their children and_grandchildren arrive, still more what am I to do 1 I don't consider poultry-keeping a success for amateurs.