A SHORT STORY.

Marlborough Express, Volume XLIV, Issue 57, 12 March 1910, Page 2

A SHORT STORY.

THE HONK-HONK BREED.

It was Sunday at the ranch. Windy Bill's history of the faithful ibull snake aroused to reminiscences the grizzled stranger, who thereupon held forth as follows: Wall, I've seen things and I've Jieerd things, some of them ornery, and some you'd love to believe, they was that gorgeous and improbable. INai'ral history was always my .hobby and sportin' events my special pleasure—and this yarn of Wind's reminds me of the only chanst I ever liad to ring in business and pleasure and hobby all in one grand merry-go-round of joy. It come about like this:

One day I was sittin' on the beach at Santa Barbara watchin' the sky stay up and wonderin' what to do -with my year's wages, when a little squinch-eye, round-face with big bow spectacles plumped down beside me. "Did you ever stop to think," says he, shovin' back his hat, "that if the horse-power delivered by them waves -on this beach in one single hour could be concentrated behind washin' machines, it would wash all the shirts for a city of four hundred and fiftyone thousand, one hundred and thirty-six people?" "Can't say I ever did," say's I, squintin' at him sideways. "Fact," says he, "and did it ever -occur to you that if the food a man eats in a natural life could be gathered together at one time, it would fill a train twelve miles long?

"You make me hungry," says I. "And ain't it interestin' to re-

fleet," he goes on, "that if all the finger-nail parin's of the human race for one year was subjected to hydraulic pressure it would equal in size the pyramid of Cheops?" "Look yere," says I, sittin' up. "Did you ever pause to excogitate that it all the hot air you're dispensin' was to be collected, it would fill a, balloon big enough to waft you and me over to yonder gin mill?" He didn't say nothin' to that—just yanked me to ray feet, faced me toivard the gin mill, and exerted considerable pressure on my arm in urgin' of me forward. ■ "You ain't so much of a dreamer, after all," thinks I. "In important matters you are plumb decisive." j My friend ordered a beer and a chicken sandwich. "Chickens," says he, gazin' at the sandwich, "is a dollar apie.ee in this country, and plumb scarce. Did you ever pause to ponder over the return chickens would give on a small investment? Say you start with ten hens. Each hatches out thirteen aigs, of which allow a loss of say six for childish accidents. At the «nd of the year you has eighty chickens. At the end of two years that flock has increased to six hundred and twenty. At the end of the third year " He had the medicine tongue! Ten days later him and me _was occupin' of an old ranch fifty mile from anywhere, . raisin' chickens. My para's name was Tuscarora Maxillary. Well, these chickens was of two kinds The first was low-set heavyweight propositions with feathers on their laigs, and not much laigs at that, called Cochin Chinys. The -other was a tall, rdiculous outfit made up entire of bulgin' breast and gangle laig. They stood about two feet and a half tall, and when they went to peck the ground their tail feathers stuck straight up to the sky. Tusky called 'em Japanese games.

"Which the chief advantage of them chickens is," says he, "that in weight about ninety per cent, of 'em is breast meat. Now my idee is, that' if we can cross 'em with these Cochin Chiny fowls, we'll ha7e a low-hung, heavy-weight chicken runnin' strong on breast meat. These Jap games is too small, but if we -«an bring 'em up in size and shorten ther laigs, we'll shore have a, winner." ' '• - '. . ' i

That looked good; so we started in.. The theery was bully; but didn't work out. The first broods we hatched growed up with big husky Cochin Chiny bodies and little short necks, perched up on laigs three foot long. Them chickens couldn't reach ground nohow. We had to build a table for 'em to eat off, and when they went out rustlin' for themselves they had to confine themselves to hill-sides or flyin' insects. Their breasts was all right, though—"And think of them drumsticks for the boardin'-house trade!" says Tusky.

So far things wasn't so bad. Tusky and me used to feed them chickens, and then set around watchin' the playful critters chase grasshoppers, while Tusky fingered out what'd happen if somebody was dumfool enough "to gather up all the grasshoppers in the world, and find out how many baskets they'll fill. That's about as near's we come to solving the chicken problem. One day I hitched up, rustled a dozen of the younsters into coops and druv over the railroad to make our first sale. I couldn't fold them chickens up into coops at first, but I stuck the coops on aidge and they worked all right, though I will admit they was a' comical sight. At the railroad one of them towerist trains had just come up, and the towerists was paradin' up and down, allowin' they were enjoyin' of the Californy sunshine. One old terrapin with gray chin whiskers projected ■over with his wife and took a peek through the slats of my coop. He straightened up like some one had touched him off with a red-hot poker. "Stranger," said he, in a scared Irin dof whisper, "what's them?" "Them's chickens," says I.

He took another long look. "Marthy," says he to the old woman, "this will be about all! We come out from loway to see the Wonders of Californy, but I can't go nothin' stronger than this. If these is chickens, I don't want to see no Big Trees.'

Well, I sold them chickens all right foi\a dollar and two bits, and got an ord%r for more. About ten days later I got a letter from the commission house.

"We is returnin' a sample of your Arts and Crafts chickens with the lovin' marks of the teeth still onto them. Dan't send any more till they stops pursuin' of the nimble grasshopper. Dentist bill will foller."

With the letter came the remains of one of the chickens. Tusky and I very indignant, cooked her for supper. She was tough, all right. We thought she might do better biled, so we put her in the pot over-night. Nary bit. Well, then we got interested. Tusky kep' the fire goin' and I rustled greasewood. We cooked her three days and three nights. At the end of that time she was sort of pale and frazzled, but still givin' points ofthree-year od jerky^ on cohesion and other uncompromisin' forces

of Nature. We buried her then, and went out back to recuperate.

There wa coud gaze on the smilin' landscape dotted by about four hundred long-laigged chickens swoopin' here and there after grasshoppers.

"We got to stop that," says I

"We can't," murmered Tusky, inspired. It's born in 'em; it's a primal instinct like the love of a mother for her young. Them chickens is constructed by a divine Providence for the express purpose of chasm' grasshoppers, just as the cowpuncher is made for whisky and farogames. We can't keep 'em from it. If we was to shut 'em in a dark cellar, they'd flop after imaginary grasshoppers and die emaciated in the midst of plenty. Jimmy, we're up again the Cosmos, the oversoul—" Oh, he had the medicine tongue, Tusky had, and risin' on the wings of eloquence that way he had me faded in ten minutes. In fifteen I was wedded solid to the notion that the bottom had dropped out of the chicken business.

"Tuscarora Maxillary," says I, 'did you ever stop to entertain that beautiful thought that if all thedumfoolishness possessed now by the human race could be gathered together and lined up alongside of us, the first feller to come along would say to it, 'Why, hello Solomon!' " We quit the notion of chickens for profit right then and there; but we couldn't quit the place. So we stayed on, and kept a-raisin' these longlaigs for the fun of it.

Early in the year one of them automobeels went past. It was the first Tusky and me had seen, so we run out to view her. Owin' to high spots on the road she looked like a movin' picter as to blur; sounded like a cyclone migled with cuss-words; and smelt like hell on house-cleanin' day. "Which them folks don't seem to be enjoyin' of the scenery," says I to Tusky. "Do you reckon that there blue trail is smoke from the machine or remarks from the inhabibitants thereof?"

"It's langwidge," says he. "Did you never stop to think that all the words in the dictionary hitched end to end would reach "

But at that minute I catched sight of somethin' brass lyin' in the road. It proved to be a curled-up sort of horn with a rubber bulb on the end. I squose the bulb, and jumped twenty foot over the remark she made.

"Jarred off the machine," says Tusky.

"Oh, did it?" says I, my nerves still wrong. "I thought maybe, it had growed up from the soil like a toadstool."

About this time me hollerin' for

the chicks used to tickle Tusky almost to death. He used to come out reg-lar, just to enjoy me. Finally I got mad and opened up to him.

I "Oh," he explains, "it amuses me to see dumfool childish workk. Why don't you teach 'em to come to that brass horn, and save your voice?" i "Tusky," says I, with feelin', i "sometimes you do seem to get a glimmer of real sense." Well, first off them chickens used to throw back-somersets over that horn. You have no idee how slow chickens is to learn things. But, after two months I had them longlaigs so they'd come kitin' at the honk-honk of that horn. It was a purty sight to see 'em, salin' in from all directions twenty foot at a stride. I was proud of 'em, and named 'em the Honk-Honk Breed. We didn't have no others, for the coyotes and cats had nailed the straight-breeds. There wasn't no wild cat or coyote could teach one of my Honk-honks; no sir!

Then the supervisors decided to fix our road; and what's more, they done it I That's the only part of this yarn that's hard to believe; but, you'll have to take it on faith. They made it the fanciest highway in the State of Californy.

The day they finished the job Tusky and I sat smokin' our pipes as per usual, when, 'way over the hills we seen a cloud of dust and to our ears was bore a whizzin sound. The chickens was gathered under the cottonwood for the heat of the heat, but didn't, pay no attention. The faint but clear we heerd another of them brass horns:

"Honk! honk!" says it, and every chicken stood at attention.

"Honk! honk!" it hollered clearer and nearer.. Then over the hill come an automobeel, blowin' vigorous.

"Great blazes!" I yells to Tusky, kicken' over my chair as I springs to hi-" feet. "Stop-em! stop 'em!"

But it was too late. Out the gate sprinted them chickens, and up the road they trailed in vain pursuit. The last we seen of 'em was a minglin' of dust and dim -Aggers goin' forty mile an hour after a disappearin' automobeel.

About three o'clock the first straggler came limperin' in, his wings hangin', his mouth open, his eyes glazed with the heat. By sundown fourteen had returned. All the rest had- disappeared utter;, we never seen -em again. I reckon they just naturally run themselves into a sunstroke and died on the road.

After that two or three of these autbmobeels went by every day, all a-blowin' of their horns, all kickin' up a hell of a dust; and every time them fourteen Honk-honks took along after 'em, just as I'd taught 'em to do, layin' to get their feed when they caught up. No more of 'em died, but that fourteen did get into elegant trainin.V After a while they got to plumb enjoyin' it. When you come right down to it, a chicken don't have many amusements in this life. Scratchin' for. worms, chasm' grasshoppers and wallerin' in the dust is about the limits of joys for chickens.

It was sure a fine sight to see 'em after they got well into the game. Every mornin' they would saunter down the road where they would wait patient until a machine came along. With cackles of joy they'd trail in, their wings out, their eyes beamin' with delight. At the lower turn they'd quit. The after talkin' it over excited-like, they'd calm down and wait for another.

At this sort of trainin' they got purty -good at it. One two-year-old rooster made .fifty-four mile an hour behind one of, those sixty-horse power Panhandles.

Our ranch got to be purty well known among automobeelists. The strength of their engines was hosspower, but they got to ratin' speed of machines by chicken-power. Some came from Los Angeles just to try out a new car along the road with the Honk-honks for peacemakers. We charged them a little somethin', and then, too, we opened up a saloon bar, so we did purty well. Evenin's we sat around outside and swoped yarns. The chickens liked to hear their praises sung. The only reason a chicken or any other critter isn't intelligent is because he hasn't no chance to expand. Why, we used to run races with 'em. Some of us would hold chickens back of a chalk line, and the starter'd blow the horn from a hundred yards to a mile away, dependin' on whether it was a sprint or for distance. We had pools on the results, gave odds, made books, and kept records. After the thing was got knowed, we made money hand over fist.

The stranger broke off abruptly and began to roll a cigarette. "What did you quit it for?" ventured Charley out of the hushed silence.

"Pride," replied the stranger solemnly. 'Haughtiness of spirit. Them chickens stood around listenin' to me a-baggin' of what superior fowls they was until they got all puffed up. They ,wouldn't have nothin' to do with ordinary chickens brought in for e'atin' purposes, but stood around lookin' bored when there wasn't no sport doin'. They got to be just like that aristocratic Four Hundred you read about. It was one continual round of grasshopper balls, race-meets, and afternoon hen-parties. They got idle and haughty, just like folks. Then came race suicide. They got to feelin' so aristocratic the hens wouldn't have no eggs."

Nobody dared say a word. "Windy Bill's snake—" began the narrator genially. "Stranger," broke in Windy Bill withe great emphasis, 'as to that snake, I want you to understand this: yereaf'ter in my estimation

that siiake is nothin' but an ornery angleworm!" -—"Everybody's."