LETTERS FROM A POULTRY FARMER TO HER CHUM.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLI, Issue 12740, 17 December 1904, Page 1 (Supplement)

LETTERS FROM A POULTRY FARMER TO HER CHUM.

No. IV. [by chic] Eglantine, North Auckland, New Zealand. -My Dear Helena,— Do not take it amiss.,if long gaps yawn between my letters, for yon must remember that I am in continuous process of evolution from a frail, one-lunged inetropolitaine to a robust, full-chested poultiy-fanngirl. And. in the adjustment of my new machinery, J am almost conscious of. feeling "the wheels go round!" Fresh air is my motive power; ozone my unboltled ionic, of which 1 imbibe gallons, gallons. 1 ant a fresh-air fiend. I breathe deeply and am reborn. . . . That dilapidated left fung of mine sickened and atrophied .simply became 1 did not give it work to do. . . . We moderns, in our eagerness for civilisation, have lost the primitive gift of proper breathing. We should go back to (he savage to learn the ABC of respiration; to throw out chin and chest, cany the crown of the head high, till the lungs to the utmost, and walk, like Alexander Selkirk. " monarch of all we survey."

That- is what. I'm —learning anew to breathe and to live. All out of doors calls to me: "Gome out, come out this lovely morn," all the invisible voices of Nature carol. 1 drink the wine of fresh air (than which there is no older vintage and no more exquisite, bouquet). 1 bathe in the balm of quickening sunshine. . . . " Light, more light"—the last- mortal words of the great Goethe, significant of life. Air, light', work, the three sovereign remedies in Nature's pharmacopoeia, a tangible trinity for this workaday v woild. And the greatest of these is work—congenial occupation in which to put one's whole heart and find complete outlet for all the' forces .that are within.

We must not have too much time to think of ourselves, for then the ego suffers from'fatty degeneration and the fabric of the soul is enfeebled. . . . Too much thought of the past oppresses: too much thought of the present dissipates ; too much thought of the future bewilders. And, to find one's work among young, growing things, as I have among my fowls and ducks, is to touch the very mainspring of life itself. It is rejuvenating. Ino longer sleep within doors now that the semi-tropical summer is here. Down the lower paddock, in amongst a tangle of tall tree ferns and trailing passion vines, I one day came upon the husk of an old Maori "whan?." It. had but three sides and a roof, knit strongly together of dried grass and tea-tree bush and supplejack, in the unique manner of Maori hut (whore) builderspicturesque and , useful. The roof slanted up to a flat triangle and was wind and weather proof. This, with Delilah's help, I enthusiastically converted into an open-air bedroom, manufacturing of canvas and perforated screen stuff (you know the sort with which we ventilate meat-safes at Home?) a front fourth wall for the " whare"—a huge sort of movable blind that I can regulate by crude cords and pulleys. It is perfect. Maori mats decorate the floor: rugs, cushions and eiderdown (downy as my young ducklings), cover the bed.conch, and there is yet space for my table, writing-desk, and book-lockers. No chairs not one—for I sit so much out-of-doors on the soft turfthe lap of dear old Mother —that .indoors, I have outgrown chairs and naturally reverted to primitive habits-. . . . Chairs stand for conventional decoruma formality I left in London. But mnet I confess?— there iu a corner, facing the light, stands a microscopic dress-ing-case and mirror, last remnant of worldly, womanish vanity, that dies hard. Really, though, I have tried to emulate that handsome youth, Narcissus, but the pools here about are muddy and dim, just lit for ducks to swim in, and, after all, lam no nymph, but a mere woman ruralised. And it does my eyes good and buoys the soul within me to behold my rosy reflection in the'mirror : the hue of health, bright cyes-»-beaux yeus —beckon me, and I flirt with my own reflection. Surely, it is pardonable vanity to rejoice in the possession of ph.l: cheeks that once looked hopelessly pallid and doomed. It is not vanity it is thanksgiving. So much for meand now '"my muttons."'

At present Delilah is deeply engaged in the study of poultry food». Would you believe it,' my dear, that as much scientific thought, experiment, and demonstration are brought to bear upon the proper, profitable food for fowls as is expended by the world's medical faculty upon the chemistry of human diet? It astounds me. Here is Delilah, far from being a genius, studying and applying hygienic food mixtures with a- zeal and brain concentration far greater than that bestowed on many a youngster! I help her grind bone and flint, shell and gravel, in the machine to make the grit necessary for proper egg-production. Sometimes we give pollard, .sometimes maize; and you must know, as part- of a liberal education, that bullocks' livers scalded are warranted to produce more eggs to the square hen than any other known food! Then Delilah classifies foods according to the remit desired. There are two objects to-be obtained in this classification: Will this sort of food be a growth-assister and give good table-fowl flesh?—and will t'other sort produce eggs early and often? Do you tee?

It reminds me somewhat of an animated " peuny-in-the-slot" machine. Put in food to the value of this, and you get a. fat fowl for your dinner; put in food to the valtm ot that, and an egg falls in your palm! 1 Jolly game, is it not? Delilah and I are the arbiters of fowlfates. We assemble our innocent young pullets, and, like L-achesis and Atropos, determine whether their destiny shall be that of a meal or a mother! Yesterday I went into the matter most scientifically. Delilah lacks initiative—but her hen-knowledge is deep, fathomlessly deep. '•Leghorns," said she from the depths of thi*i knowledge. " Leghorns make eggs ; they ain't no good for eating, but they're top." of the roosts for producing eggs. "ileies them Houdans," she continued. " They're non-setters you know, miss (us 1 look "wisely receptive) ; them Houdans, foreigner.- 'though they be, are the best allround birds we've got. The pullets are good layers ,and the cockerels fin?, table birds. . . . Now, just look at them crossbred Dorkings, ain't they pretty? They're, hatched from eggs of mixed breed* of hens and a dandy Dorking daddy, ami you see they takes aftei the purebred cock, hi spite of the mongrel hens !" • I noted their distinctive appearance urn! murmured, "The dominant male again." And the cock crowed. Four or live of the young chick.-, look sick and shaky on their legs/ These are. my especial care. Delilah leans towards Spar tame treatment with the test of the survival of the fittest- by heroic exposure ; but J surreptitiously nurse them in my bedroomwhare in a comer which looks like a hencrcchc. . . . Delilah warns me that too much coddling of chicks gives them cramp in the legs and stunts their growth. Thus I find myself confronted by the same problems that in the up-bringing of her children beset a wise mother who endeavours to maintain the golden mean that, like truth. lies between two. extremes.